Irene's POV
My alarm trilled like a small, determined bird at six thirty. For a second I stayed under the blanket, listening to the morning sit around me — the quiet hum of the radiator, the far-away sound of traffic, Mom stirring in the kitchen. I breathed in, tried to steady myself. Today was our first real presentation for senior year. The one that made Mr. Jacobs' eyes light up like a man who'd finally found an excuse to play with beakers.
When I padded into the kitchen, Mom—Mom—was already at the table with a mug of coffee warming her hands. She'd tried to make pancakes; only the center was a little too brown, but she smiled like it was perfect.
"Morning, sleepyhead," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Big day?"
"Presentation," I said, taking the plate she offered. The house smelled warm, clove and coffee, and for a flash I almost believed everything was ordinary again.
She leaned back and studied my face with that soft, complicated look she had—equal parts pride and worry. "You'll be fine. You always are."
I wanted to tell her about dinner at the Blackwoods, about the way the chandeliers made everything look like a different world. I wanted to tell her about Adrian's silence and the way he'd watched me in the garage like he was cataloging the parts of me he liked. I only managed, "Thanks, Mom," and watched her fingers curl around her cup.
We left on the bus. Westbrook Academy's bus was a clatter of backpacks and half-sung pop songs. This early in the year there were no tests, no finals panic—just the nervous energy of seniors who knew their choices mattered but didn't yet feel the grind. A group at the front of the bus argued about college essays. Two sophomores compared schedules. I opened my binder and checked our diagrams once more: sand, gravel, activated charcoal, fleece filter—explain the why, explain the cost, show a model they could imagine carrying into a community.
Anna's text blinked in: You slay—and Elsa sent a single thumbs-up emoji, the little square of approval that felt like a button you could press and make everything better.
Westbrook's red brick entrance rose into view. Kids flowed out like a small river, and the campus smelled of cut grass and the chalk dust that clung to the edges of the science building. Walking into Mr. Jacobs' lab felt like stepping into a different currency: the place where ideas and experiments were traded.
Before chemistry, I had English and then History. English was Mr. Thompson class—a gentle blend of poetry and conversation. We read a passage about the sea; she asked us to write a line that used sensory details to make a small thing feel huge. I wrote a single sentence about the smell of coffee at dawn and how it felt like a promise. She smiled when I read it aloud.
History was loud in a different way—Mr. Carter liked debates. Today we compared civic movements and how small communities could change policy. I thought about our filter design then: how small actions scale up. I looked around at desks full of other people's lives and found a quiet kind of courage. I could do this.
At lunch, Anna was all smiles. "You looked amazing in Bio prep last week," she said, pouring marinara sauce over her pasta like it was currency. She asked about the presentation with that easy curiosity that made me want to tell her everything.
"You'll be fine," she said. "Focus on explaining the why, not just the how."
When the bell for chemistry rang, my stomach tightened in that way it did before a ride. This was it. Adrian stood near the lab table, sleeves rolled back, hands steady. He didn't smile; that wasn't his way. He merely inclined his head like a small acknowledgement. Beside him, set like trophies, our canisters and the little tower of layers we'd built glinted under the lab lights.
Mr. Jacobs called us up with a theatrical clap. "Your demo, Walker and Blackwood."
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Adrian's POV
I woke before dawn. It was a reflex more than anything, the same internal alarm that had been tuned through long years of regiment and rules and my father's voice droning about duty. But this wakefulness wasn't just duty. There was something else gnawing at the edges—an animal impatience that had nothing to do with schedules.
The wolf stirred inside me like a restless engine. It wasn't a separate voice so much as a pressure that slid under my skin and lifted my senses. She is close. Keep her closer. It hummed like a low string. Do not be foolish.
My first test of the day was restraint. I dressed, shoved my hair back, and moved through the clipped halls of our house with the same measured steps I always used. The estate moved in quiet efficiency around me. It's easier for people like me to be precise than to be honest.
At school I was a quiet presence—observant, practical. Participating in the presentation should have been purely functional: explain torque and flow rates, show the charcoal density and the contaminants it bound. Instead, I found myself measuring the small things: the way Irene's fingers tightened around her paper before she spoke, the light that caught on the rim of her cup when she lifted it to take a sip. The wolf hummed.
Want her near. It was simple, blunt, not cruel. But I had reasons carved into me to doubt that desire. My life wasn't mine to scatter on a whim. There were allegiances, expectations, a history of deals and quiet compromises.
I stood beside her while she spoke, filling in the mechanical parts with technicality, my voice even, the kind that can make a motor sound like poetry if you try hard enough. When the filtered water ran clear—tiny beads slipping through our apparatus—there was a small, electric relief in the room. A few classmates whispered;while some clapped.
Claimed, the wolf said, and I imagined the word like a stone falling into a still pond.
I kept my face blank, and my hands steady. The animal wanted to announce itself. I wanted to be smarter than that. I watched her, and thought: she is daylight, and I am complicated shadow.
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Elsa's POV
At the back of the lab I sketched tiny notes and watched them. It was methodical, getting the micropolitical landscape of high school: who admires whom, who can be persuaded, who looks like they will fold under pressure. Irene's competence made the list of interesting things today.
She wasn't loud about it. That's what made her useful. Useful people are often overlooked—they move and the room makes allowances. Adrian's role was different. He was a fixed shape someone could lean on, predictable in the way he withheld himself. But watching him with Irene, there was something new: a tenderness that seemed to undercut his bred indifference. Tenderness is a symptom. Symptoms can be exploited.
When they finished and hands reached for questions, I made a point of smiling and clapping as if it were nothing, the analyst in me storing details. What was the charcoal grade they used? Did their joints in the apparatus look secure? Who had the timer? I filed it away and walked out of the lab like any other pupil.
This had the flavor of beginnings. I liked beginnings. Beginnings mean that people are not yet ironed flat by habit.
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Anna's POV
My brain wanted business models and spreadsheets; my heart wanted to cheer for Irene. Both were doing their Sunday-night homework on Monday morning, and I tried to balance them like a tightrope. Mr. Lee had us talk about brand voice today, and my voice was confident, clean. It felt good to be good at something.
When the chemistry bell rang, I headed down the hall to catch the aftermath—my best friend had done a thing, and I wanted to celebrate. Seeing Irene with that small, stunned kind of pride on her face made my chest feel heavy in that beautiful way. This is what friendships were for: to sit in the front row for each other's small victories.
When they walked out together after the presentation, I warned her in rapid-fire whispers about adolescence and rumor and the way boys sometimes disappeared from responsibilities when temptation sang. She waved me off, laughing, but I kept the protective eye anyway. Best friends know when to back off and when to stand guard.
---Perfect, partner 🙌 I get you 100%.
So from "The Presentation — detail and weight" down, it shouldn't be neutral narration. That whole part should be split into Adrian's POV (during and right after the presentation, plus the walk with Irene) and Elsa's POV (her sharp observation, watching them, analyzing).
Here's the rewrite, with your correction applied:
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Adrian's POV
The presentation should have been routine. I told myself that as we set up our filter tower—sand layered with gravel, activated charcoal at the base, fleece to catch particulates. I had rehearsed the mechanics until the numbers came out clean, practiced the measurements so they'd fall from my tongue without hesitation.
But then Irene spoke first. She explained why clean water mattered, her voice steady, not too loud, but carrying weight. She spoke like it wasn't an assignment but a cause, and every pair of eyes in the room turned toward her.
The wolf inside me stirred. This one carries fire. She belongs near.
I gripped the edge of the table tighter, careful not to let my face shift.
When it was my turn, I slipped into the role I knew best—facts, diagrams, precision. I showed how the charcoal pores captured impurities, how gravel slowed the flow, how this was simple enough for anyone to build. My voice stayed even, a practiced balance to her quiet passion.
When the water trickled through clear, brighter than the murky sample we had poured in, there was a low murmur across the room. Some students leaned forward. One or two clapped. Mr. Jacobs' eyes gleamed like we'd delivered a small miracle.
Claim her brilliance as your own, the wolf urged.
"No," I thought back. "She deserves her moment."
Questions came—about scaling, maintenance, microorganisms. Irene fielded them with composure, and I filled in with the technicalities. Side by side, we looked like a team. I hated how much I liked that.
After class, when the bell rang, I didn't think. I simply waited by the gate. Leaned against the brick wall, hands in my pockets, pulse steady on the outside. But when she walked out and looked at me, I asked, "Walk?"
She nodded, and we fell into step.
We didn't talk much at first. Just the sound of our shoes on pavement, the occasional car hissing past. Then she broke the silence:
"You explained the mechanics really well. It… it made sense."
I shrugged, trying to keep it casual. "You carried the why. That mattered more."
Her smile caught me off guard. Small. Honest. The kind of smile that made my wolf press against my ribs. Keep her near. Keep her safe.
I wanted to. More than I should.
---
Elsa's POV
I stayed behind after the bell, collecting my books slowly so I could watch. Irene and Adrian walked out together, side by side. They weren't holding hands—not yet—but the air between them was heavier than words.
I followed at a distance. Not close enough to be obvious, not far enough to miss anything. From behind, it was plain: his posture leaned ever so slightly toward her, and she kept glancing up at him like she wanted to solve a puzzle.
I could almost hear the rhythm of it: two people circling something dangerous, pretending it was nothing.
The wolf-boy wasn't supposed to care. That had been the story for years—Adrian Blackwood, untouchable, cold, carved in stone like his father wanted. And yet here he was, softening in plain daylight, for a girl who didn't even know the half of what she was stepping into.
Interesting. Very interesting.
I tucked my notes into my bag, already sketching mental lines between cause and effect, leverage and weakness. Love was a crack, and cracks could be widened.
By the time they turned the corner, I was smiling to myself. Beginnings always looked so sweet. Sweet things were easiest to spoil.
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