Seven days had passed since the night at the school, and the marks were still there.
Scarlett stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom, lifting the hem of her shirt just enough to study the thin, jagged lines that crossed her abdomen. They had faded from angry black to a darkened red, almost human in appearance now, like scars that had healed badly instead of something supernatural that should have vanished in hours. If she had fed properly—if she had allowed herself human blood—it would have taken half of the time to close. And if she had taken Peter's offered wrist that night, it would have sealed even faster. And yet she didn't.
Instead, she had survived on pig's blood.
Months ago, she would have laughed at the idea. After she had been left alone—truly alone—the rage and the grief had swallowed her whole. She had let herself become something sharper, colder, and when she had told Peter about it after they reunited, he had looked at her with something close to pride. She still remembered the warmth of that approval, how it had filled a hollow she hadn't even realized was there.
"I knew you'd be amazing," she remembered he had said to her. Peter and Talia had never truely agreed on whether Scarlett should have embraced her vampire side. And she remembered how much she stived for Peter's approval... but now that she knew he had killed Laura, that memory curdled.
The idea of being ruthless no longer tasted as sweet, recently. The thought of cornering a human in the dark, seeing them as nothing but food didn't came as easy as she did once anymore. The first time it had happened had been with the man in the video store... she couldn't kill him even if she had every right to... but she couldn't. Her observing humans around her did not feel quite as the same.
And she knew why.
It was complicated by a face. By brown eyes and nervous rambling and hands that always hovered like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch.
Everytime the thought of feeding on a human just to hunt, it was impossible not to think of Stiles.
She didn't want anyone hurting him. She didn't want to hurt him. And somehow that reluctance was spreading outward, touching other humans too, dulling the edge she had once sharpened so carefully. It had been thrilling to live without rules, to not answer to anyone.
But would the girl she had become have approved of Laura's death? She had once seriously considered killing Stiles and the others if it had served her purpose. The memory felt almost absurd now. Embarrassing even...
A knock echoed through the house.
Scarlett's head lifted instantly, and before she even moved, she smiled. She recognized his scent through the wood, warm and familiar. She smoothed her hair out of instinct more than necessity and walked to the door, opening it without hesitation.
"Hey!" Stiles greeted, a little out of breath.
Her smile widened automatically. "Hi," she replied, then blinked, suddenly uncertain. "God, did you tell me you were coming?"
"No, no," he said quickly, almost tripping over the words. "I wanted to bring you something."
She stepped aside to let him in, her grin impossible to suppress as she noticed the bag in his hands. "Bring me something?" she echoed, moving closer.
"Yesterday I noticed you were almost out of blood and so…" He lifted the bag slightly, revealing sealed packets of pig's blood inside.
Her eyes widened. He had gone out of his way to buy her food.
"Stiles… you didn't have to," she said softly, genuinely touched.
"Yeah, I know," he shrugged, like it was nothing, though his ears were slightly red. "And I'll be honest, the butcher looked at me very strangely for the amount of it. But aside from the judgment, I really wanted to bring it to you." He hesitated, then added, "I didn't want you to get tired."
The sincerity in his voice made something inside her tighten in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.
"You're sweet," she said, a teasing smile curving her lips. "Maybe I should've pretended not to be healed so you could do something like this again."
He brightened instantly. "You're healed?"
She nodded, and he moved as if to hug her before catching himself mid-motion, hands awkwardly hovering before dropping back to his sides. The restraint was almost unbearably adorable.
"I… I hope I didn't, like, intrude," he added. "You know, since I didn't call--"
"Not at all," she assured him quickly. "To be totally honest, I was feeling kinda lonely. Do you have time? Do you wanna sit?"
His answering smile was immediate. "Yeah. Yeah, I've got time."
He slipped off his jacket and draped it over a chair before sitting on the couch like he had done several times already this week, as if this had quietly become routine. Scarlett felt a nervous flutter under her ribs, the pleasant kind, the kind she imagined would have made her heart race if it still beat.
She put the blood in the fridge, then grabbed a glass, filling it with ice before pouring water over it. When she brought it back to him, she gave an apologetic half-smile. "I'm sorry, water is all I have in here. But look—I've made ice."
He smiled at her like she had offered him something far more impressive. "I love water with ice."
She knew he was being kind, but that only made it better.
Seeing him this often had turned into something she anticipated. She liked listening to him talk about movies, about obscure trivia, about theories that spiraled into increasingly improbable territory. She liked the way his whole face animated when he was excited, how his hands moved as if he were conducting his own enthusiasm.
It was strange.
Since waking into this new existence, conversations like these hadn't existed in her life. The early years had been about control—learning to master instinct the way Talia had wanted, learning to sharpen it the way Peter had preferred. After the fire, there had been nothing but movement and survival and the absence of anything resembling routine.
But sitting here with Stiles, in a house too quiet and too normal, sharing water with ice and soft laughter, felt almost… human.
And for someone who had once despised normalcy, she had to admit she had never laughed as freely as she did when he was around.
They talked about Scott for a while, about how shaken he still was, and about Derek, who no one had seen. Scarlett had felt a strange, quiet relief when she learned he had healed, of course she could not help but being surprised about how quickly he managed to do so. She and Stiles had already discussed it the day after their night at the school.
"You're surprised?" he had asked observing her.
"Most definitely," she had replied still winching in pain. It had been very strange to her ears that Derek had went to Evelyn for help, and that she had managed to help him, again. She remembered how she hed helped Derek with the bullet wound, but the scratch of an Alpha was much different. How did she managed to help him?
"What do you think she is?"
"Human," he had said, but she knew he's mind was already at work to understand more about Evelyn. "For as much as all of that seem strange, she must be human, or you and Scott would have sensed something." Stiles had said letting out a little breath. "Why what else could she be?"
"I think… I don't know," Scarlett had answered, thinking carefully. She had really no idea what Evelyn could be. "There's a lot of weird stuff out there, Stiles."
Evelyn had promised to help Scott and Stiles find the Alpha. That unsettled Scarlett more than she let on. All those unanswered questions made Evelyn very hard to read, and unpredictability was dangerous.
"Hey, you okay?" Stiles' voice reached her bringing her attention back to him, he must have noticed the way she had gone quiet.
"Yeah," she said quickly, offering a small smile. "Just… worried about Derek, I guess."
He studied her for a second. "You care about him, don't you?"
Her eyes widened as if he had suggested something obscene. "God, don't ever say that."
He looked amused, clearly enjoying her reaction, but she could see he didn't believe her. "I'm serious."
"So am I," she insisted in honesty, "Derek is not exactly my favorite person in the world."
He let out a little chuckle, "And believe me, I also feel that very closely," he said. "But I'm not convinced."
She tilted her head at him, half smiling. Was a little spark of jelousy the one that she felt from him?
"Don't jump to conclusions." She said looking at him in the eyes. "He's just… family. That's it."
That seemed to quiet him. He was observing her for a moment. Then he asked more gently, "Can I ask you something?"
Scarlett nodded, with a curious frown.
He took a little breath, "What was your life like before… you know."
Oh, yeah...
Scarlett knew exactly what he meant. He always stepped carefully around the word turned, like saying it too plainly might hurt her.
For a moment she doesn't answer. Not because she doesn't want to — but because she hasn't really looked at that part of her life in a very long time. She had sealed it off. It had been easier that way.
"It wasn't…" She exhales softly. "It wasn't good."
Her fingers curl slightly against the fabric of the couch, and she keeps her eyes on them instead of on him.
"My dad drank," she says, from her lips a deep sigh exited before she could stop it. "
"Not the kind where you laugh and fall asleep on the couch. The kind where you wait to hear how heavy his steps are before you decide whether to stay in your room." Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "He wasn't… gentle."
She pauses, and for a second it's like she can hear doors slamming, glass breaking, her own heartbeat in a house that never felt safe.
"My mom left," she continues more quietly. "I don't even blame her anymore. I used to. But I don't." She swallows. "After that it got worse. A neighbor reported something eventually. I remember the police lights outside more clearly than anything else. I remember thinking I was in trouble."
She lets out a breath that trembles just slightly.
"Foster care wasn't the miracle people think it is," she says, and there's no bitterness in her voice — just tired honesty. "You learn quickly that being quiet keeps you safer. That not being noticed is better than being noticed for the wrong reasons. I wasn't… like this." She gestures vaguely to herself, to the strength, the sharpness. "I was small. I was scared of everything. I didn't trust anyone."
Her eyes finally lift to his, feeling exposed, but for some reason she kept talking.
"When I turned seventeen, I ran," she admits. "I didn't even have a plan. I just needed to be somewhere that didn't know me." A faint, almost incredulous smile touches her lips. "Beacon Hills wasn't supposed to mean anything. It was just a place on a map."
Her gaze drifts for a second, unfocused.
"I was turned two months later."
She doesn't dramatize that part. She doesn't need to. The weight of it lingers in the silence.
She hadn't realized until this moment that she had never said it out loud like this before — never let the before and after sit next to each other without armor around them.
When she looks back at Stiles, there's something fragile in her expression, as if she's waiting to see if he looks at her differently now.
"I'm sorry," he says softly, like he's afraid he's opened something he shouldn't have. "I didn't mean to—"
"It's alright," she interrupts gently, and this time the reassurance costs her something. "It's past."
But it isn't entirely past. Not really. It still lives somewhere under her ribs.
"The Hales…" She hesitates, searching for the right way to explain something that feels bigger than words. "They were the first people who cared about me without a second end." She lets out a faint breath. "
"So even if Derek isn't exactly my favorite person in the world, he's still family."
The word settles between them with weight.
"It must've been hard," Stiles says softly. "After the fire."
She lowers her gaze, not because she doesn't trust him — but because there are parts of that grief tangled with things she cannot let him see. Not yet. Not ever.
Before she can answer, he continues, almost as if the silence nudges him forward.
"I've lost my mom too."
Her head lifts immediately.
She hadn't known. Had never asked. The realization stings in a quiet way.
"It's been a while," he says, and there's a flicker in his eyes — something he tries to blink away before it shows too clearly. "She got sick. And…" He swallows, his usual restless energy gone. "It was hard. It still is, sometimes."
Scarlett feels it like a physical thing. Just that honest, aching space people carry when they've loved someone who isn't there anymore. The grief. The way it never fully leaves, just changes shape.
And what breaks her a little is not just that he hurts — it's that he hurts and still shows up in the world the way he does. Still kind. Still bright. Still making stupid jokes and buying pig blood without being asked.
She reaches for him before she can think too much about it, her hand covering his. Her touch is cool, against his warm skin.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly. Not out of obligation. Not as a reflex. "For what happened to you too."
Their eyes meet, and this time neither of them looks away immediately. There's something unspoken there — recognition, maybe. The strange intimacy of two people who have survived something that reshaped them.
For a few seconds, the room feels smaller. Quieter. Like the world has narrowed to that shared space between their hands.
Then Stiles clears his throat, the moment becoming just a little too heavy, and reaches for his backpack — not to escape, but to breathe again.
"Oh!" He leaned forward to tug his backpack closer, unzipping it with exaggerated urgency. Scarlett watched him with curiosity, the earlier heaviness still lingering softly in the room, until he pulled out a DVD case and held it up with almost ceremonial pride.
"I brought this too."
She glanced down at the cover.
Star Wars: A New Hope.
She blinked once. Then twice. Then a little frown appeared.
"You've seen this right?" he said immediately, scandal already forming in his expression before she could even react. "Like— You must have seen it."
"I haven't," she admitted, a small smile tugging at her lips.
He stared at her as if she had just confessed to never having seen the sky. "You're joking." She raised his shoulders, and he's eyes grew larger.
"You've never seen Star Wars?"
She folded her arms, pretending to consider it. "Is that the one with the green puppet?"
His mouth fell open. "The green—" He pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. "That is Yoda. Show some respect."
She laughed then, and it wasn't polite or restrained; it was warm and bright and unguarded, the kind of laugh that lifted her shoulders and softened her entire face. "I'm sorry," she said between breaths.
"I can't believe you right now," he said dramatically.
She tilted her head, amused. "You're taking this very personally."
"Because I am personally offended," he replied, pointing at the DVD. "This is foundational. This is culture. This is John Williams scoring your emotional development."
She couldn't stop smiling at the way he grew animated, the way his hands moved when he spoke, the way his eyes lit up like he was defending something sacred. It did something strange to her chest — something almost human.
"Okay," she said finally, raising her hands in surrender. "Fine. I'll watch it then."
He narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
"No, I mean it." She leaned back slightly, studying him for a moment before adding, more softly, "Next week. Pick a night."
He froze. "Wait," he said carefully. "Are you—"
"Yes," she interrupted, though her voice held a playful edge to hide the flicker of nerves beneath it. "Next week. You, me, your sacred space opera."
"For real?" he asked again, as if afraid the universe might retract the offer.
"For real," she confirmed, and this time there was no teasing in it. "We'll watch it together."
His face changed in an instant, the mock offense dissolving into something unfiltered and boyish and radiant.
He grinned so widely she thought it might actually hurt his cheeks, clutching the DVD to his chest like he had just won something far greater than a movie night.
"Okay," he said, nodding to himself as if sealing a contract. "Okay."
"Okay," repeated her, studying every part of his face. "But I'll need the DVD player too."
"I'll bring mine," he assured with an enthusiastic nod.
I'm making popcorn. And you are not allowed to judge the special effects."
"I would never," she said solemnly.
"You absolutely would."
"Only a little," she said, pressing her lips together in mock innocence.
He pointed at her accusingly. "I see it already. You're going to sit there judging 1977 special effects like you weren't born into the era of CGI privilege."
"I don't even know what CGI stands for," she replied.
He gasped. "Computer— you know what, that's it. We're doing an educational marathon."
She laughed again, softer this time, and he joined her, the sound of it overlapping until the room felt warmer, brighter, almost weightless. For a moment there were no Alphas, no wounds, no secrets stitched under skin—just two teenagers arguing about space wizards in a living room that smelled faintly of cold blood and detergent.
When he finally stood to leave, slinging his backpack over one shoulder and promising dramatic commentary for every iconic scene, she walked him to the door. They lingered there for a beat too long, neither of them quite sure what to do with the softness that had settled between them.
"See you tomorrow a school," he reminded her.
"Next week," she echoed.
He gave her one last grin before stepping back onto the porch, and she closed the door slowly, still watching him through the window as he made his way down the path. She didn't move until he disappeared from view.
And even then, she couldn't stop smiling.
It felt ridiculous. Silly. Like she was seventeen again in the most painfully normal way possible. The thought of having a movie night with Stiles—of sitting beside him on this very couch, of listening to him whisper trivia into her ear—sent a warmth through her that had nothing to do with hunger. If her heart still beat, she was certain it would have been racing.
She spent the rest of the afternoon suspended in that feeling, lighter than she had been in weeks, moving through the house with an absentminded hum under her breath. The scars on her abdomen tugged faintly when she stretched, but even that seemed distant, manageable.
It was nearly evening when her phone vibrated on the kitchen counter.
She glanced at it lazily at first—then went still.
Peter.
The name alone tightened something in her chest. They hadn't spoken since the last time they had seen each other, since the words that had cracked something open between them. For a second—a real, heavy second—she considered letting it ring. Pretending she hadn't seen it. Pretending she didn't care.
But she answered.
"What?" she said, more guarded than angry.
"Straight to hostility," Peter's voice purred lightly through the line. "I've missed you too."
She closed her eyes briefly. "What do you want?"
"I've found another one of our targets," he replied smoothly. "Thought you'd like to know."
Her fingers tightened around the phone. "Is it Kate?"
He pause for what seemed an endless moment, but then he finally spoke. "No."
She took the words in, she could not deny that she was a bit disappointed for that.
"Then I don't care," she said flatly. "I told you, I only care about Kate Argent."
A faint sigh on the other end. "How long are you going to keep sulking?"
"I'm not sulking, I'm angry," she snapped quietly, her hand trembling slightly and she hated that. Then she took a breath to calm herself. "I want Kate. I'm tired of the games, Peter."
There was a shift in his tone then, something sharper beneath the velvet. "You used to enjoy my games."
She ended the call before he could reply.
The silence that followed was heavier than she expected. It hurt, in a way she hadn't prepared for. Peter had been there when she had nothing. He had trained her, sharpened her, believed in her when she had been little more than fury and teeth. He had been a point of gravity in a life that had never had one.
But that gravity had begun to feel like a pull backward.
The ache of it stayed with her as she moved to the fridge and took one of the thermoses she had filled with the blood Stiles had brought. A little smile crept on her lips just thinking about him.
She poured the blood into a mug and warmed it slowly in the microwave, watching the slow rotation through the glass as if it were something fragile instead of sustenance. When it was ready, she carried it upstairs and settled against her headboard, sipping from it in small, steady mouthfuls.
It wasn't satisfying in the way human blood would have been. It was thinner, duller. But it was enough.
Enough to take the edge off. Enough to let her body relax.
She set the empty mug on her bedside table and slid beneath the covers, the house quiet around her. For the first time in days, the wound in her abdomen didn't pulse with pain. Her muscles didn't ache. The hunger was quiet. And the world felt… still.
Her last conscious thought before sleep took her was of next week. Of a couch. Of a boy defending space operas like they were sacred texts.
She fell asleep smiling.
Morning came faster than she expected.
When she opened her eyes, sunlight was already stretching across the ceiling, and for a split second she lay there disoriented—until memory clicked into place.
Fuck, the school, she thought with a groan.
The first day back since what happened that night.
She pushed herself upright slowly, testing the pull of her healing skin. The scars had faded another shade overnight. Not gone—but closer.
After dressing, she stepped outside into the cool morning air and swung her leg over her bike. The engine roared to life beneath her, familiar and grounding, and as she pulled onto the road toward Beacon Hills High, the wind tugged at her hair and jacket.
When Scarlett pulled into the school parking lot, the first thing she noticed wasn't the students.
It was the patrol cars.
Two of them idling near the entrance, another parked crookedly near the curb, uniformed officers standing with their arms folded as if Beacon Hills High had suddenly become a crime scene instead of a building full of half-awake teenagers. Their eyes scanned faces, movements, cars, searching for Derek.
Scarlett cut the engine and swung her leg off the bike slowly. Then she slipped her helmet off and walked toward the entrance, noticing as a red car pulled into a spot nearby. The door opened and Allison stepped out, adjusting the strap of her bag. Scarlett was about to look away when—
"Scarlett!"
She turned.
Allison was already walking toward her.
They had spoken a few days after the school incident. Allison had called to check on her, her voice softer than usual, and Scarlett had told her she had twisted her ankle—nothing serious. The conversation had shifted quickly into something that hovered between teenage heartbreak and something heavier. Allison couldn't believe Scott had lied. Couldn't believe he had acted so strangely. She had left him. But even over the phone, Scarlett had heard it: the ache wasn't about the lies. It was about losing him.
"Hey," Allison said now, eyes scanning Scarlett briefly. "I'm surprised you're riding your bike."
Scarlett blinked. "Why?"
As they started walking toward the entrance together, Allison lowered her voice. "My dad's been basically escorting me everywhere this week. It's suffocating. I thought maybe—" she gestured vaguely toward the police cars.
Ah, of course, Scarlett understood immediately.
The Argent must be in allert more then usual, they could think it was actually Derek the one that had almost killed their daughter. Or they could be thinking that it was the Alpha. Either way their precious unawear daughter had been at harm.
Scarlett could not wrap her head around the fact that Allison really seemed to know nothing about creatures. Which was strange. For what she knew, most hunters were trained from childhood so that they could be deadly soon. Why hadn't they trained Allison?
"Well, they're scared," Scarlett said smoothly, pretending to mean worried parents rather than seasoned hunters.
"My parents are not just scared," Allison cut in, opening her locker with more force than necessary. "They're hovering. I swear if he keeps breathing down my neck like this, I'll lose it."
Scarlett watched her glance over her shoulder again, tense, hyperaware.
"And I also find crazy that—"
"Hello, girls."
Lydia's voice cut in from nowhere, sharp and perfectly pitched, making Scarlett nearly flinch. She turned to find Lydia leaning casually against a nearby locker as if she had been there all along.
"Why are you all so tense?" Lydia asked lightly.
Scarlett honestly could not decide if Lydia was oblivious or just pretending to be.
"We are the only two tense," Allison said, shutting her locker and falling into step with them. "Don't you find it weird that everyone's talking about what happened the other night and nobody knows it was us?"
"Stiles told me some rumors started," Scarlett said. "But they died pretty quickly. The police didn't release our names."
Lydia scoffed. "Thank you, protection of minors."
Allison let out a long breath, and Scarlett could hear it—the shift in tone, the fragile edge. "You guys think I made the wrong decision?"
There it was.
Lydia didn't hesitate. "About that jacket with that dress? Absolutely."
Scarlett was surprised by herself, but she honestly had to bit back a laugh.
"You know what I mean," Allison insisted.
"Scott locked us in that classroom and left us for dead," Lydia replied slightly pissed. "He's lucky we're not pressing charges or sending him our future therapy bills."
"That's a little dramatic," Scarlett heard herself say before she had fully decided to.
Both girls turned to her, making her realize that she had spoke out loud. Scarlett was not meaning to defend the pup. It was not she cared about what happened between him and Allison. But she really thought that the two girls were both overexagrating what had happened.
Lydia raised a brow. "Oh? You think he was right?"
Allison's expression softened, hopeful.
Scarlett inhaled slowly. Why did she care? Why was she even stepping into this?
"What I think is that…" she began, before letting out a little breath. "Alright, I think that was a crazy night. And he made a… strange decision," she wasn't sure strange was the right word but it would have to do. "But he locked us in a place where nobody could go out, and nobody could get in." Scarlett shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe it's because we've made it out alive at the end, but I think he was trying to protect us."
Lydia rolled her eyes, while Allison seemed to think about it. But before anyone could say something a loud voice echoed in the corridor, making Scarlett jump.
"Black!" The melodic voice of Coach Finstock was able to annoy Scarlett even more than Lydia's.
Since he was looking for her Lydia and Allison said to her that they would wait for her in the classroom, while Scarlett stopped turning towards the man showing her perfect white smile.
Coach marched toward her like she had personally offended him.
"Where the hell have you been?"
"At home, Coach," she replied a frown appearing on her face, "Like everyone?"
"We have a crisis," he announced dramatically. "Two guys have pink eye." Scarlett grimaced involuntarily, but the man didn't even noticed. He was too focused on what he was saying. "So we're running times today. To form the team." Then he looked at her with resolution. "I need you in perfect form!"
"To... press a button?" she asked, genuinely confused.
"Exactly," he barked as if it were genius, already walking away. Scarlett observed him with wide eyes as he disappeared behind a corner. He truely was irritating... but now she was stuck in that situation, and thinking that she could spend some more time with a certain person made that situation less unfortunate.
Scarlett adjusted her bag hanging against her shoulder and headed toward her first class—the dreaded Harris test. That man was truely cruel, he had no intention of cancelling his precious test even after what has happened. Probably he enjoyed seeing his student suffer. Harris would made an amazing vampire.
As she walked though she spotted Stiles down the corridor with Evelyn. Her books held neatly against her chest, as they exchanged quick and whispered words.
Scarlett's eyes studied Stiles. He looked tense, his shoulders were tight and his jaw set. Scarlett felt it before she even reached them—the agitation in his pulse, the subtle quickening of his heartbeat; he was worried about something.
"Hey," she said, stepping next to them, standing next to Stiles.
"Hi," Stiles replied, the tension in his face easing just a fraction at the sight of her. She hinted a small smile at him, before her eyes glancing also at the girl. She felt extreamely suspicious of Evelyn, but she tried to keep it polite.
"Is everything alright?" she asked.
Evelyn was the one to answer, "Stiles is worried about tonight," she said calmly glancing at him. Scarlett followed her stare with a little frown.
"Scott's not ready to handle the full moon," Stiles added, running a hand through his hair. "Especially after Allison."
"I told you," Evelyn said quickly, her words tumbling over each other slightly, "we'll figure something out. We'll keep him safe. Or… distracted. Or contained. Something."
Stiles exhaled, but it didn't ease him. "And my dad's going to be out all night."
Scarlett's expression softened, he was not only worrying about Scott turning, but his father being in possible danger. After what Stiles had told her, how he had lost him mother... she knew what it meant to be afraid of loosing everyone.
She touched his arm, ""Then we keep Scott off the streets," she said calmly.
"And how do we do that?" Stiles asked, rubbing a hand over his face. His harshness was not meant to her "Tie him up?"
"We could trap him..." Evelyn replied, thinking aloud, catching their attention. On her lips formed a smile. "I think I know what we could use, I just need time to grab it."
Stiles frowned, "Grab it? What are you talking about?"
"Something we can use," Evelyn answered almost proud of herself "But I need to get it, I don't have it at home anymore."
Scarlett and Stiles exchanged a look. Evelyn spoke but never entirely. That was quite confusing... and frustrating.
"Okay," Stiles said finally. "I'll keep him home. Keep him calm. We should be fine until night hits."
"I'll be there," Scarlett added immediately, her gaze steady on him. "In case he tries anything."
Evelyn nodded quickly. "Alright. Keep him busy. I'll meet you later." Being a year older, she turned down another hallway toward her class, already pulling her phone out like she was making a mental checklist.
Scarlett watched her go for half a second before looking back at Stiles.
He was still tense.
"Hey," she said softly as they began walking toward the test classroom together. "It's going to be okay."
He nodded, but his jaw was still tight. "He's on edge."
She understood that more than he knew. The moon pulled at werewolves in ways humans couldn't comprehend. It magnified emotion, stripped control, especially in young males who hadn't learned discipline. Scott was raw. Untaught. Unsteady.
"Nothing's going to happen," she said quietly. "I promise."
The word lingered between them.
Promise.
And as they stepped into the classroom, she wasn't entirely sure who she was trying to convince and when she had started to want to help the people around her so much without a second end.
She knew why she was doing it, she realized as she set on the stroll next to Stiles. It was just so strange how much she felt the need to protect him.
Scarlett was taking out her pen, when she noticed Scott enter the classroom. He was so very tense, but his eyes obviously lingered on Allison already sat in the front row.
He was truly a lost puppy, because even if Mr. Harris was already giving the tests, Scott stopped to try and talk to Allison. But the Argent girl still seemed confused and decided not to share words with him.
"Mr. McCall," Harris called him, already annoyed. "Please, take a sit."
Scarlett found all of that really confusing, part of her really wanted to insult the puppy. He had bigger problems, than that girl, but... she was coming to understand how some presence were more important then others.
Oh god... she thought, as Harris started the test. She was understanding what Scott felt for Allison. Her eyes moved to Stiles, who was already answering the questions on the paper. Was she really feeling like Scott felt for Allison?
"Mrs Black," the mocking voice of the professor made her jump on her sit. "Do I have to assumed you've not studied at all?"
Of course she hadn't, but giving the man a little smile she looked down to start her test.
It was not she cared at all about school on anything but when she read the first question, she's been really starting to question her reading skills.
An increse in imports of consumer goods is most likely to have been caused by?
Scarlett's eyes widened, the fuck did that even mean?