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Octavia McCall jolted awake, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as white-hot pain flared through her left forearm. It wasn't the numb ache from a bad dream or a lingering soreness; it was sharp and foreign and seemed to sink deep into her bones. She clutched her arm, her heart racing, her gaze darting around the dark room.

The dim red numbers of her clock read 2:00 a.m., casting an eerie glow that barely reached the edges of her shadowy bedroom. Outside, the street lights flickered erratically as if affected by an unseen force. She looked down at her arm, half-expecting a bruise or a scrape, some mark that might explain this strange, relentless ache. But there was nothing. Only the pulsing pain, each throb as vivid as a heartbeat in her arm.

The next morning, she dragged herself to class, feeling foggy, half-asleep, and out of her body. The pain had dulled, but it clung to her, a nagging ache that didn't quite belong to her, as though she were carrying it for someone else. There was something else, too—an unsettling sense of unease that had settled in her stomach, twisting with each tick of the clock.

As her history teacher handed out the graded exam, Octavia could barely pay attention. Her surroundings felt strangely distant, as if she were behind a glass wall. She kept absently rubbing her arm, but the sensation wouldn't go away. It was as if her body was trying to tell her something she couldn't understand. She tried to shake off the thought, but a prickling sensation lingered at the back of her mind.

"I don't know!" Scott's frustrated voice momentarily snapped her out of her fog, jolting her back to the present. She blinked and found herself staring at her brother, who was glowering at Stiles. The world sharpened briefly, but the clarity slipped away as quickly as it had come, replaced by that persistent fogginess.

Stiles caught her vacant look and raised an eyebrow. His concern was evident as he glanced at her, but she barely noticed. Her history test was returned with a bright red 'A' circled at the top, yet she couldn't bring herself to care. Her mind was miles away, the ache in her arm oddly sharp again, nagging at her like a memory she couldn't quite reach.

When the final bell rang, Stiles nudged her out of the classroom, his hand steady on her back as he guided her down the crowded hallways. She followed in silence, offering only faint nods and tired smiles. She felt like she was walking through water, everything muted and distant. As they reached his Jeep, she absentmindedly brushed her fingers over her left forearm again, tracing the outline of an ache that wasn't there.

A strange chill ran down her spine as they pulled out of the parking lot, settling in her chest. It was almost... familiar, though she had no idea why. Her stomach twisted, a feeling she couldn't explain tugging at her as if calling her attention somewhere she couldn't see.

"Derek," she mumbled, the name slipping out without thought.

Stiles's foot slammed on the brake, and the Jeep lurched to a sudden halt as a figure appeared in front of them. Octavia's heart jumped as Derek Hale came into view, stumbling into the road with one arm raised weakly, his face pale and hollowed.

A sudden wave of pain and dread crashed over her, so intense it made her gasp. Her hand flew to her chest, and for a split second, it felt like her own breath had been stolen like she'd been hit by the same wave of pain that had wracked Derek. She blinked hard, clutching her arm, trying to make sense of it, but the sensation defied logic, fading like a ghost before she could grasp it.

The blare of car horns behind them snapped Stiles into motion. He leaned out of the window, muttering complaints about the Hale.

"What the hell?" Scott's voice joined the chaos as he rushed over. His gaze flickered between the Jeep and Derek, but he didn't wait for an explanation. Instead, he knelt beside Derek, eyes wide with concern. Stiles scrambled out of the car, rushing to Scott's side as Derek gasped for air. "What are you doing here?" Scott asked, his voice tight with urgency.

"I was shot," Derek panted, his voice tight with pain.

Octavia watched from her seat, feeling strange waves of his pain ripple through her, though she had no idea why. She pressed her arm, half-expecting it to bruise, but nothing made sense. The sensation wasn't fading, as though her body was mirroring Derek's agony. She struggled to ignore it, willing it to be some trick of her imagination.

Stiles's voice cut through her thoughts. "He's not looking so good, dude."

Scott leaned closer, studying Derek with growing worry. "Why aren't you healing?"

Derek's eyes were hazy with pain, but when they landed on Octavia through the windshield, something shifted in his expression, almost like he knew something she didn't. His eyes held hers, and her stomach twisted again, a flicker of something she couldn't place buzzing in the back of her mind.

Suddenly, she found herself saying, "He can't," the words falling from her lips before she even realized she'd spoken. Both Scott and Stiles turned to her with surprise on their faces. She shook her head. She wanted to take the words back, to explain them away, but they lingered in the air, heavy and strange, making her feel like a stranger to herself.

Derek's gaze softened for a brief, unsettling moment as if he understood something she couldn't even begin to grasp.

Octavia slipped into the backseat, far more aware of the world around her. The air felt charged as if holding secrets just beneath the surface. She caught Derek's grimace as Scott and Stiles struggled to prop him into the passenger seat, both muttering in frustration.

When Derek was in, he spoke to Scott with a clipped urgency. "I need you to find out what kind of bullet they used."

Scott scoffed, voice edged with irritation. "How the hell am I supposed to do that?"

"She's an Argent. She's with them."

Octavia didn't need to see Scott's expression to know how he was feeling—she could feel it, like heat radiating from him. She shook her head slightly, sensing Derek's reply before he even said it. Sure enough, his voice cut through, steady and low.

"Because you need me."

Octavia rolled her eyes, an almost smile tugging at her lips. The guys might never admit it, but she'd known for a while now that Derek was more useful to them than they liked to admit. She'd tried convincing Scott and Stiles of that fact, though they usually shrugged her off, calling it her "overthinking."

"Fine. I'll try," Scott muttered.

Stiles climbed into the driver's seat, grumbling under his breath. He shot Scott a scathing look. "I hate you for this. So much."

Octavia felt the weight of the moment settle on her, a prickling sensation on her skin like she was seeing everything unfold a beat before it happened. She shook off the feeling as Stiles hit the gas, speeding them into the night.

Derek's breaths came in shallow, uneven gasps as Stiles drove, his face paling in the dim glow from the dashboard. Octavia could feel the tension thickening, like static in the air. She glanced at Stiles as he checked his phone, catching the flash of Scott's text: Need more time.

Stiles muttered under his breath, shoving his phone back down with a frustrated sigh. "Come on," he grumbled. "Hey—try not to bleed out all over my seats, okay? We're almost there."

Derek's voice was low, strained. "Almost where?"

"Your house," Stiles replied as if that were the only reasonable answer.

"What?" Derek's question was laced with confusion, and before Stiles could respond, Octavia leaned forward, voice pitched high with alarm. "You can't take him there!"

Stiles' gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, meeting her wide-eyed stare. "I can't take him to his own house?"

"Look at him, Stiles." Her voice softened slightly as she took in Derek's weakening form, and she felt an unsettling pang of dread she couldn't explain.

Derek exhaled roughly, his eyes unfocused. "I... I can't protect myself."

Stiles pulled over abruptly, turning to Derek with a mix of skepticism and concern. "And what happens if Scott doesn't find your magic bullet? Are you dying?"

Derek grimaced, but his reply was steady. "Not yet. I have a last resort."

Octavia leaned forward again, a flicker of something cold sliding down her spine. "What last resort?"

In response, Derek pulled up his sleeve, revealing the gunshot wound where his blood vessels had started turning black. Stiles recoiled, his face twisting in disgust as he shielded himself. "Oh my god! Is that... contagious? You know what? You should probably just get out."

Beside him, Octavia grimaced, torn between horror and concern. "Oh, that's nasty," she muttered.

"Start the car," he growled. "Now."

Octavia crossed her arms, her tone taking on a playful edge. "Hey, Der-Bear. Love the whole dark and brooding thing you've got going on—really, I do. But maybe you could be just a bit nicer to Stiles since, you know, your life kinda depends on him."

Stiles smirked, nodding in agreement. "If I wanted to, I could probably drag your little werewolf ass out into the middle of the road and leave you for dead."

Derek's eyes narrowed, flicking from Octavia to Stiles. His tone was dripping with sarcasm. "Please start the car. Or I'll rip your throat out with my teeth."

Octavia leaned back, a hint of a smile breaking through her concern. "Oh, kinky."

Stiles' old Jeep was once again pulled over by the side of the dark, empty road. The surrounding woods were silent, except for the engine's faint hum and the restless tapping of Octavia's fingers against the leather seat as she leaned over Derek. Her middle and index fingers pressed firmly to his neck, feeling for a pulse. The faint beat was steady yet disturbingly slow, like a low drumbeat that hinted at something lurking beneath the surface.

Derek's jaw clenched as he allowed her to check his vitals, his expression a mix of frustration and resignation. Octavia stifled a flash of pride, thinking of all the times she'd convinced herself that learning this might come in handy. "You never know," she'd told her mom when asking for that tutorial, though she'd hardly imagined she'd use it on someone like Derek Hale. But that pride dissolved as her fingertips registered his low heart rate, sending a shiver up her spine.

From the driver's seat, Stiles gripped his phone, his fingers weaving nervously through his hair as he spoke. "What am I supposed to do with him?" His voice was low but laced with urgency.

"Take him somewhere," Scott whispered through the phone, his tone equally tense. "Anywhere!"
Stiles sighed, casting a wary glance at Derek.

"And by the way, he's starting to smell."
Scott hesitated. "Like...what?"

"Like death," Stiles muttered, and Octavia nodded silently, though her brother couldn't see it. The air in the Jeep felt heavier, a strange mix of diesel, pine, and something sharper, more ominous.

Scott finally spoke. "Okay, take him to the animal clinic."

Stiles raised a skeptical eyebrow. "What about your boss?"

"He's gone by now. There's a spare key in the box behind the dumpster," Scott replied, his tone dropping as if he feared someone would overhear.

Stiles sighed, rubbing his tired eyes, then stretched out the phone to Derek. "You're not gonna believe where he's telling me to take you."

Derek's expression darkened as he took the phone, refusing to dignify Stiles' comment with a response.

As he muttered into the phone, Octavia turned to Stiles, her brow furrowed in thought. "What if we, like...have to cut off his arm or something?"

Stiles whipped his head around, eyes wide. "Why—why would you even say that?"

She shrugged, her voice maddeningly calm. "I think it's a reasonable question."

"How is that reasonable?" His voice went up an octave, horror etched into every syllable.

She shrugged again, her gaze drifting back to Derek. "Dunno," she said, her voice light. "But if it comes down to it, not it!"

The smell of antiseptic and stale air filled the room as Derek staggered in, finally dropping onto a stack of dog food bags. His face was ghostly pale, dark veins creeping like a spider's web from his wound.

"Does Nordic Blue Monkshood mean anything to you?" Stiles asked, wrinkling his nose as he eyed the spreading infection.

"Wolfsbane. A rare strain of it, too." Octavia answered without missing a beat, beating Derek to it. Both Derek and Stiles glanced at her, a moment of shared confusion flickering between them.

"He needs to bring me the bullet," Derek rasped, wincing as he slumped.

"Why?" Stiles's voice was soft, but his eyes
betrayed his fear.

"Because I'm going to die without it." The weight of Derek's words dropped a heavy silence on the room.

Moments later, Stiles found himself shoved into an examination room, wincing as he took in Derek's arm—blackened veins climbing, sinister and alive. Derek's shirt lay crumpled on the floor, exposing his feverish, clammy skin.

"You know, that doesn't look like anything some echinacea and a good night's sleep couldn't take care of," Stiles muttered, stomach twisting.

But Octavia's expression turned steely as she studied the wound. "That's not just infected, Derek. It's spreading fast. What happens if it reaches your heart?"

Derek shot her a stern look, his breathing shallow. "It'll kill me."

Stiles made a face. "Positivity just isn't in your vocabulary, is it?"

"If he doesn't get here with the bullet in time...last resort."

"Which is?"

Derek pulled the saw out and slid it across the table. Stiles stared at it as if it would bite him.

"One of you has to cut off my arm," Derek said, voice a gruff growl.

Stiles's mouth dropped. He turned, horrified, to Octavia, who quirked a brow and casually tapped her nose, silently claiming she'd already called "not it."

"What if you bleed to death?"

"It'll heal," Derek snapped, wedging a blue tourniquet between his teeth as he tied it just above the veins.

"Look, I don't know if I can do this."

"Why not?"

"Well, because of the cutting through the flesh, the sawing of the bone, and especially the blood!"  His voice went higher on the last word.

Derek plopped his arm onto the cold metal table and looked at Stiles incredulously. "You faint at the sight of blood?"

"No," Stiles replied with a slight head shake that made Octavia bite back a smile. It was so sassy. "But I might at the sight of a chopped-off arm!"

Derek sighed, "Alright, fine. How about this- either you cut off my arm, or I'm gonna cut off your head."

Octavia stepped forward, clapping her hands to break the building tension. "Alright, enough, both of you." She raised an eyebrow at Derek. "I'll do it, but I have one question! Will your arm heal like a starfish? It's not a deal breaker but if we're going to get married one day I think I have a right to know what I'll be working with."

She stood too far away to grab and threaten, so Derek pulled Stiles in by his shirt, "Hey! Bad dog! Drop him!"

"That's so not helping!" Stiles gasped. "Bought. Sold. Totally. I'll do it. I'll do it."

Before Derek could say or do anything else, he was hurled over and threw up black blood. "Holy God, what the hell is that?" Stiles gagged.

"It's my body," Derek wheezed. "It's trying to heal itself."

"Well, it's not doing a very good job of it," Stiles muttered, trying not to throw up.

"Now" Derek's voice was a desperate rasp. "You gotta do it now."

Hands shaking, Stiles braced the saw and held it against Derek's skin.

"Tav? Stiles?"

They both turned, relief flooding their faces. "Scott!" they yelled.

Scott rushed in, eyes wide at the scene: his best friend holding a bone saw inches from Derek's arm, Octavia watching with an eerie calm. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Oh, you just prevented a lifetime of nightmares!" Stiles exhaled, dropping the saw and wrapping his arms around Octavia. She smiled, rubbing his back, grounding him in that unspoken way she had.

"Did you get it?" Derek croaked, eyes barely staying open.

Scott fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the bullet and tossing it onto the table. Derek's fingers reached for it, trembling, but he was fading, his strength slipping as he collapsed.

"No!" Scott dove for the bullet while Octavia and Stiles rushed to Derek's side. Octavia pressed two fingers to his neck, feeling the faint beat of his pulse, slowing, slipping away. Her eyes drifted shut, instinctively counting his heartbeats like she was reaching inside to grasp his failing life force and pull it back.

"Sit him up!" she ordered, snapping her eyes open. Scott and Stiles obeyed, bewildered but too panicked to argue. She grabbed the bullet and hurriedly cracked it open, and just as quickly lighting it aflame. Scott's jaw dropped.

"Tav, what the hell—?"

"Just trust me!" she said, her voice a mixture of urgency and something almost...otherworldly. She scooped up the ashes and pressed them to Derek's wound, watching as blue smoke curled upward, dancing around her fingers.

Derek's body arched, gasping back to life, as the wound hissed and sizzled, veins fading from black to gray. Octavia exhaled a relieved breath, muttering a quiet, "Thank God."

"That. Was. Awesome!" Stiles laughed in disbelief, throwing his arms around her. "Yes!"

Derek sat up slowly, his gaze on her with a cautious curiosity. "Are you...okay?" Octavia asked, her voice softer now, a hint of uncertainty betraying her usual boldness.

"Well, except for the agonizing pain..." Derek said, eyeing her still. Octavia's lips pressed into a thin line.

"I'm guessing the ability to use sarcasm is a good sign of health." Stiles said, his arm was still casually around Octavia, feeling the tension in her shoulders the second Derek made his comment. His thumb stroked her arm absentmindedly.

"Okay, we saved your life, which means you're gonna leave us alone. You got that?" Scott told the man. "And if you don't, I'm gonna go back to Allison's dad, and I'm gonna tell him everything-"

"You're gonna trust them?" Derek asked, appalled at what he had heard. "You think they can help you?"

"Why not?" Scott shot back. "They're a lot freaking nicer than you are."

"I can show you exactly how nice they are."

"What do you mean

The soft murmur of conversation filled Deja Brew, blending with the faint clinking of cups and the sweet aroma of roasted coffee and old books. Stiles sat beside Octavia on one of the faded, creaky couches, watching as her eyes skimmed the menu. He couldn't understand how she could even think about food after everything that had happened that afternoon. But here she was, calm and poised, her fingertips tapping lightly on the paper as if tasting each option.

He hadn't been able to stop replaying the day's events in his mind: the way Octavia had grazed her left forearm, mirroring the spot where Derek had been shot. Or how she'd spoken Derek's name right before he'd appeared as if she'd felt his presence. She hadn't hesitated, not for a second, when it came to saving him. She'd known exactly what to do.

"How's your arm?" Stiles asked abruptly, eyes narrowing as he glanced over the top of his menu to gauge her reaction.

Octavia looked up, eyebrows knitting together. "Fine...why?" She tilted her head, clearly puzzled.

He shrugged, trying to sound casual. "Just seemed like it was bothering you today. You kept rubbing it."

"Yeah, I think I pulled something last night," she replied, brushing it off. But Stiles caught the way she hesitated, just a beat too long.

He pushed further. "How'd you know about that Nordic Blue Monkshood stuff?"

She smiled at him, a mix of pride and bashfulness. "You're not the only one doing research, you know," she said, a playful glint in her eyes. "I found this old book—it's completely in Latin, though, so I've been teaching myself as I go."

Stiles blinked at her, mouth agape. "Wait, hold up. You're teaching yourself Latin?"

"Yes, pay attention!" She laughed, nudging him. "You act like I'm a walking mystery."

"Birdie, that's a dead language," he said, still staring at her in disbelief.

"Maybe to most people. But we're in the middle of some serious supernatural shit, and in every book, movie, or show about it, it's always Latin or French for some reason. I'm already taking French, so Latin's next."

Stiles just shook his head, a mix of admiration and confusion. "And that bullet thing—where'd you learn that?"

She shrugged, leaning back as she sipped her drink. "I don't know, really. It was more like...instinct. Like I could feel what needed to be done. It was almost like someone was shouting directions at me. I just...acted."

Stiles watched her, processing what she was saying and noticing the slight crease of worry on her forehead. She lowered her voice. "Stiles, do you think...there could be more out there than just werewolves?"

The question hung in the air, heavier than either of them expected. Stiles glanced around the cafe, noting the eerie side entrance to the attached oddities shop and the woman behind the counter—Rhiannon May, who always seemed like she held secrets no one else knew. Then he looked back at Octavia. She had that perpetual air of déjà vu, the way she'd sometimes go quiet as if sensing things that weren't visible.

His mouth felt dry. "Honestly?" he said, voice dropping to a whisper. "I think I'm starting to."

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i will literally sit there and think about these two and go "just kiss already!!!" as it i'm not the one in control of this story

i hope you guys are enjoying the story so far. it's a slow start bc i really wanted to set the dynamics up successfully and build up all the suspense following Octavia and her relationships

𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚘𝚝𝚎