10

I woke up with a jolt, like I'd just been caught doing something I wasn't supposed to. The morning light sliced through my blinds like accusation. My room looked the same, cluttered, still smelling faintly like the bookstore and sleep, but something in me felt... off.

Wrong.

I stared at the ceiling, letting the events of the night before crawl back into my brain like shame on cold feet. I remembered the warmth, the flush in my skin, the way I whispered his name like a prayer. Max.

What the hell was that?

Why did I do that?

My stomach twisted.

I groaned and dragged a hand over my face. "Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me?"

But even asking that felt pointless, because I knew. Or I was starting to.

It wasn't just the grief anymore. Or the loneliness. It was him, the way he looked at me, like I was already something his. The things he said. The blood. The danger. The... want. It was like something inside me had been cracked open, and he was just walking around in there now, like he had a key.

I sat up slowly and looked down at my hand, the same one that had hovered in the dark, pulled at shadows like they might respond.

Last night... I saw something.

Felt something.

And I didn't want to admit how much it thrilled me.

No. Nope. I wasn't doing this. I shoved the thoughts down like dirty laundry under the bed and pulled on a hoodie. I wasn't thinking about him. I wasn't thinking about anything.

Just school.

Just a normal day.

The drive to campus felt like a blur. My usual coffee tasted wrong. Too bitter. Too hot. People brushed past me in the halls, laughing, talking, living, but I wasn't really there. My body was, sure, in a chair, in a classroom, blinking at a whiteboard I wasn't reading.

But my mind was somewhere else entirely.

Someone else.

Max.

His name kept circling like a shark just beneath the surface of my thoughts. I remembered the way he stood too close, the way he smiled like he knew things I hadn't even said out loud. The way he looked at me, like I was something to unwrap slowly.

I caught myself doodling a spiral on my notebook, just dark loops, endless and tight, until I tore through the paper.

What was happening to me?

Why couldn't I stop thinking about him?

Even when I tried to focus , on the professor, on the lecture, on anything remotely tethering me to reality, it felt like Max's presence was curled around my spine, whispering without words.

Maybe he was in my head.

Maybe I let him in.

I was still thinking about him.

I hated how much real estate Max had taken in my head since last night or maybe since the first time he laughed in that bookstore, all sharp teeth and soft charm. My thoughts kept circling him, like my brain was orbiting something dangerous and pretending it wasn't on fire.

I was halfway across the college parking lot, fumbling for my keys, still running a mental loop of Max's smirk and the way he said boyfriends shouldn't lie to each other, when I bumped straight into someone.

"Shit, sorry," I muttered, not even looking up at first.

"Stiles?"

I froze. That voice. That tone. It was too familiar and way too tentative. When I looked up, Scott was standing there like he didn't know whether to hug me or back away. Puppy eyes. Nervous stance. Hands fidgeting at his sides like he forgot how they worked.

"Can we talk?" he asked.

I stared at him for a second. He looked sincere. Nervous. But after everything... I wasn't sure what to do with that.

"About what?" I asked, flat.

"About us. About everything."

I sighed, tired all the way down to my bones. "Fine. Let's talk."

We ended up at my house, sitting in the living room that still felt too big since Dad died. I sat on the couch, arms crossed. Scott stood for a minute like he was waiting for permission to sit down. Eventually, he did.

The silence between us stretched uncomfortably until he finally spoke.

"Stiles... I'm sorry," he said, voice low. "I realized I haven't been a good friend. I left you alone when you needed me the most. I got caught up with Alpha stuff and Allison and just... everything. But that's not an excuse."

I looked at him. Really looked at him.

Scott McCall. My best friend since forever. The guy I used to trust with my life. The guy who used to show up before I even asked. The guy who disappeared the moment everything fell apart.

"I can forgive you," I said slowly, "but I don't think we'll ever be like we were before."

Scott gave me this soft, sad little smile. "That's okay. That's a start, I guess."

There was a beat. Something almost warm in the silence.

And then, like clockwork, he ruined it.

"So... now that we're good. We are good, right?"

I shrugged. "I guess."

Scott leaned forward. "Then can you help me with the bodies?"

My expression didn't even have time to shift before he kept going.

"I think it's vampires. I don't know how many. Or what kind. Or how to find them. But people are dying and I need your help."

I blinked at him. Then laughed.

"Are you serious right now?"

"Stiles—"

"Is that why you came? Just to make me help you?"

"No! I came to—"

"To what? Patch things up so you could feel better about asking me to do your research again? Was anything you just said even real?"

"Of course it was."

"Okay," I said, standing up. "Then I'm not going to help you. And everything will be fine, right? You said you just wanted to fix things, not get something out of it. So prove it. Show me you actually meant it."

Scott opened his mouth. Closed it again. "But—"

"It was good talking to you, Scott," I said, grabbing my bag. "But I've got to go to work."

I didn't wait for him to follow. I didn't look back.

Because honestly? I didn't want to see the disappointment on his face or the guilt on mine.