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Scott McCall was going to give his sister a headache with how often he bounced between trusting and not trusting Derek Hale. One minute, Derek was their begrudging ally; the next, he was the biggest question mark in their lives.

And yet, here Octavia was, crammed into the backseat of Derek's car as Scott drove like his life depended on it—which, in fairness, it did. Stiles was in the passenger seat, flailing dramatically as usual.

Scott's hands gripped the wheel tightly, his knuckles pale in the glow of the dashboard. The Camaro roared down the narrow roads of Beacon Hills, going well past the speed limit, while the SUV behind them—Kate Argent's car—stayed firmly in their rearview mirror.

"Hey, Scott, I don't think you're grasping the concept of a car chase here!" Stiles shouted, twisting around in his seat to look past Octavia at the headlights glaring behind them. His voice carried its usual mix of urgency and sarcasm.

"If I go faster, I'll kill us!" Scott snapped, the strain in his voice evident.

"Well, if you don't go faster, they're gonna kill us!" Stiles replied, his tone rising in exasperation.

Octavia pressed her lips together, her nails digging into the armrest. She didn't love being in the middle of a car chase—especially not after the fight she'd had with Scott earlier that week. She'd been ready to wash her hands of all this, but then her brother showed up with a heartfelt apology and a small bag of her favorite sweets. She wasn't proud of how quickly she'd caved.

She turned in her seat, glancing out the back window. Her eyebrows furrowed. "They're gone," she declared, her tone sharp enough to cut through the tension.

Stiles craned his neck to see for himself, disbelief plastered across his face. "Gone? What do you mean, 'gone'? You don't just lose them like they're one of your hair ties."

Octavia shot him a look. "I mean gone. Do you see anyone back there? No? Then maybe use your brain for once."

Before Stiles could fire back, he fiddled with the police scanner mounted under the dash. A familiar voice crackled through the static, and Sheriff Stilinski's steady tone filled the car: "All units, suspect is on foot, heading into the ironworks."

"Why does it always have to be creepy, abandoned buildings?" Octavia muttered, but no one answered. Stiles practically climbed into her lap in his haste to scramble into the backseat, his elbow narrowly missing her face.

"Watch it!" she snapped, shoving his arm away.

"Sorry, sorry!" he said hurriedly, but the faint blush creeping up his neck betrayed his embarrassment. He tried to play it cool by pointing out the window. "Hey, look, Derek's doing some Terminator thing."

Sure enough, Derek sprinted across the open yard, dodging bullets like a pro before diving into the car. Scott didn't wait for the door to shut before slamming on the gas.

"What part of 'laying low' don't you understand?" Scott growled.

"Damn it, I had him!" Derek growled, his voice low and dangerous.

"Who? The Alpha?" Stiles leaned forward in his seat, his voice pitched with excitement.

"Yes!" Derek snapped. "He was right in front of me, and the freaking police showed up."

"Whoa, hey!" Stiles said, holding up his hands. "They're just doing their jobs."

Derek turned in his seat, fixing Stiles with a glare. "Yeah, thanks to someone who decided to make me the most wanted fugitive in the entire state."

"The entire state is a little dramatic," Octavia began.

"Can we seriously get past that? I made a dumbass mistake. I get it!" Scott cut in defensively, his voice tight.

"All right!" Stiles flailed, leaning back in his seat. He turned to Derek. "How did you find him?"

Derek shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Scott scoffed. "Can you try to trust us for at least half a second?"

"Yeah, the three of us!" Stiles chimed in, and Derek's glare deepened. "Or, uh, just him. I'll be back here."

Octavia let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking her head. "Smooth," she said under her breath, but her voice carried enough for Stiles to hear.

"Look, the last time I talked to my sister, she was close to figuring something out. She found two things. The first was a guy named Harris."

"Our chemistry teacher?" Stiles asked skeptically, his sitting in the backseat only lasting a moment before he jolted forward, Octavia letting out a little huff of a laugh from beside him.

"I knew that son of a bitch was fishy." She shook her head.

"Why him?" Scott asked.

"I don't know yet," Derek replied.

"What's the second?" Scott asked.

"Some kind of symbol." Derek ignored them, the two in the back, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket and handing it to Scott. Octavia leaned forward instinctively, her shoulder brushing against Stiles's as the three of them peered at the symbol drawn on the paper. Scott let out a sigh. "What? You know what it is?" Derek asked, noticing the look of frustration Scott wore.

"I've seen it on a necklace." Scott replied hesitantly, his hand softly thudded against the steering wheel. "Allison's necklace."

Octavia followed her brother into the school, the faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzing above them and the distinct smell of floor wax lingering in the air. Stiles lingered by the door, holding it open for her with a casual, lopsided grin. She muttered a quick "thanks" as she passed, her boots echoing softly against the linoleum floor.

"This is gonna be impossible, you know," Scott muttered, glancing over his shoulder as they headed toward the lockers.

"Why don't you just ask her if you can borrow it?" Stiles suggested, his voice carrying that familiar edge of sarcasm.

"How?" Scott asked, his frustration evident.

"It's easy. You just say, 'Hey, Allison, can I borrow your necklace to see if there's anything on it or in it that can lead me to an Alpha werewolf that I need to kill in order to get back together with you?'" Stiles deadpanned, his hands gesturing dramatically.

Octavia rolled her eyes, smirking despite herself. "Flawless plan, Stiles. I'm sure that'll go over perfectly."

"You're not helping," Scott shot back, his brows knitting together.

"Okay, fine." Stiles huffed, planting his hands on his hips as he thought. After a beat, he turned to Octavia, his gaze narrowing as if she'd just become the key to solving all their problems. "Why don't you ask? Girls borrow each other's things all the time, right? 'Oh my God, I love your necklace, can I borrow it?' Boom. Done."

Octavia raised an eyebrow, her tone flat. "Her and I aren't exactly on speaking terms." The words hung heavy in the air, a not-so-subtle reminder that her friendship with Allison and Lydia had been strained since Scott's messy breakup—and since Lydia had kissed Scott. Octavia hadn't outright blamed Lydia, but it still stung.

"Then one of you just has to talk to her!" Stiles exclaimed, his voice pitching in exasperation. He jabbed a finger between them for emphasis.

"She won't talk to me," Scott admitted.

"I didn't do anything wrong!" Octavia said simultaneously, her stubborn tone matching her crossed arms.

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath about McCall's genetics and their collective inability to cooperate.

"What if she only takes it off in the shower or something?" Scott wondered aloud, earning simultaneous groans from both his companions.

"That's why you ease back into it," Stiles gestured animatedly. "Get back on her good side. Remind her of the good times. And then you ask for the necklace."

When Scott didn't respond immediately, Stiles gave him a pointed look before smacking his chest. "You're thinking about her in the shower, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Scott confessed, though his voice faltered.

"Yeah," Octavia echoed absently, earning a double-take from both boys.

"What?" Scott asked, looking between her and Stiles, confused.

"Don't worry about it," Octavia deflected, turning on her heel and heading toward her locker, leaving the boys to exchange baffled glances.

Stiles shook his head, refocusing. "All right, Scott. Stay on track: get the necklace, get the Alpha, get cured, get Allison back. In that order." With that, he hurried after Octavia, catching up just as she reached her locker.

Octavia's locker popped open easily—a small triumph compared to the cursed battle she'd fought with it earlier in the semester. She let out a satisfied huff, already reaching for her chemistry textbook when a cascade of long-stemmed roses spilled out in a dramatic flourish.

They hit the floor like a crimson tide, petals scattering across the scuffed linoleum.

"What the—" Octavia froze, her hand still mid-reach. Her stomach flipped, not with excitement but with pure, unfiltered mortification.

The hallway seemed to inhale all at once. Conversations stuttered and then stopped, leaving an eerie quiet punctuated by the dull scrape of sneakers and the sharp hum of whispers. Heads turned. Eyes stared. Octavia, caught in the vortex, could do nothing but crouch down, attempting to gather the roses to regain some semblance of dignity.

Amidst the mess of blooms, a folded note fluttered to the ground, landing face-up in plain sight. Her stomach sank.

Stiles appeared at her side, crouching like a kid settling in to watch fireworks. He let out a low whistle, one that carried just enough teasing to twist the knife deeper. "Wow. Someone's really pulling out the stops, huh?"

"Stiles, don't—" Her hand shot out, but he was quicker, snagging the note with his trademark mischievous glint.

He unfolded it exaggeratedly, his voice carrying an infuriating mix of mock drama and curiosity as he read aloud: "Octavia, you're always full of surprises—thought I'd return the favor. Will you go to the Winter Formal with me? I promise there will be less cleanup involved. —Yours (nervously waiting), Lucas."

Octavia's face burned, her blush spreading like wildfire. "Oh my god," she muttered under her breath.

"Lucas?" Stiles echoed, his voice dripping with feigned cheer while a shadow seemed to pass over his features. "Isn't that just adorable."

At that moment, Fox May's smooth, taunting voice sliced through the moment. "Looks like someone's popular," he remarked as he sauntered by, his piercing blue eyes scanning the scene with a smirk that seemed almost sculpted onto his face. "Careful, McCall, wouldn't want all that attention going to your head."

Octavia glared up at him, her expression hardening. "Don't you have somewhere to be? Like... not here?"

Fox chuckled, his smirk deepening. "Not really." He leaned casually against the locker next to hers, as though he owned the space, and added in a conspiratorial tone, "Besides, this is far more entertaining."

Stiles, who had been silent for the last few seconds, narrowed his eyes at Fox. "Who the hell are you? Who is this guy?"

Fox tilted his head, his gaze sliding to Stiles with measured indifference. "Someone who isn't asking ridiculous questions."

"Ridiculous?" Stiles repeated, stepping forward slightly. His voice was calm, but his jaw tightened, and there was an edge to his tone that Octavia wasn't used to hearing.

Octavia stood, clutching the armful of roses as she stepped between the two. "Okay, that's enough testosterone for one day. Stiles, can you not? And Fox... just go brood somewhere else, would you? I'm sure there's a dark corner for you somewhere."

Fox's smirk faltered for half a second before returning in full force. He winked at her. "As you wish, McCall. But don't miss me too much."

With that, he strolled off, his hands in his pockets, leaving Octavia seething and Stiles scowling after him.

"Seriously," Stiles muttered under his breath, his eyes still glued to Fox's retreating figure. "Who is that guy?"

"Someone I'd like to run over with a bus," Octavia replied, her voice sharp.

Stiles chuckled, but it was short, almost distracted. "Good plan. Let me know when and where—I'll drive."

Octavia spotted Lydia by her locker, her signature red curls bouncing as she flipped through a perfectly organized notebook. Even in the chaos of the crowded hallway, Lydia somehow managed to look like she had stepped out of a glossy magazine. Octavia hesitated for a moment, biting the inside of her cheek. The thought of confronting her about the roses—and everything else—made her stomach twist. But she pushed herself forward, weaving through the throng of students until she stood beside Lydia.

"Hey," Octavia said, her voice steady but quieter than usual.

Lydia glanced up, her green eyes briefly scanning Octavia's face before narrowing slightly like she was trying to gauge her mood. "Hey," she replied, her tone even, though there was a flicker of something—guilt, maybe—in her expression. "What's up?"

Octavia fiddled with the strap of her bag, glancing down at the floor before meeting Lydia's gaze. "So... the roses in my locker," she started, her voice tinged with gratitude and suspicion. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Lydia's lips twitched into a small, knowing smile. "Depends. Did you like them?"

Octavia blinked, caught slightly off guard by Lydia's honesty. "I mean, yeah, but—wait, how did you even—?"

Lydia snapped her notebook shut and leaned casually against her locker. "Lucas came to me for advice. He wanted to do something memorable, and, well, I'm one of the only people who knows your locker combination. It seemed... appropriate."

"Appropriate?" Octavia repeated, raising an eyebrow. "A full-blown flower explosion in the middle of the hallway?"

"You deserved something dramatic," Lydia said simply, shrugging one shoulder. "And, honestly, I figured it might cheer you up. You've been... tense lately." Her voice softened as she added, "With everything that's happened."

Octavia's chest tightened. Lydia didn't say it outright, but they both knew what she meant—Scott, Allison, the fallout from the kiss. It all hung between them like unspoken words begging to be addressed.

"Look," Lydia continued, her usual confidence wavering just enough to let Octavia catch a glimpse of the guilt beneath it. "I know I messed up. Kissing Scott... It was selfish, and it was wrong, and I'm sorry. I hate that I hurt you."

Octavia exhaled slowly, letting Lydia's words sink in. She'd been waiting for this apology, but hearing it out loud still felt strange—like acknowledging the hurt gave it more weight. "It did hurt," she admitted quietly. "You're my best friend, Lydia. You know how much Scott and Allison mean to me. It felt like you—" She stopped herself, shaking her head. "I don't know. Like you broke some kind of unspoken rule."

"I know," Lydia said softly, her usual poise giving way to something more vulnerable. "And if I could take it back, I would. But I promise, it wasn't about hurting you. I wasn't thinking about anyone but myself, and I hate that I let you down."

Octavia studied her, searching for any trace of insincerity, but found none. Lydia's apology felt real—raw in a way that the polished, put-together Lydia Martin rarely allowed herself to be.

"I forgive you," Octavia said finally, her voice steady.

"And to start paying you back," Lydia added, straightening up and flipping her hair over her shoulder, "I'm buying your dress for the Winter Formal."

Octavia blinked, caught completely off guard. "What?"

"You heard me," Lydia said matter-of-factly as if it were the most obvious solution in the world. "You're going with Lucas, which means you need to look absolutely stunning. And let's face it, you're not exactly a regular at high-end boutiques."

"Wow, way to backhand a compliment," Octavia said dryly, though her lips twitched into a faint smile.

"I'm serious," Lydia pressed, her tone firm but playful. "Let me do this. Consider it part of my apology."

Octavia hesitated, torn between her pride and the sincerity of Lydia's gesture. "You really don't have to—"

"Stop," Lydia interrupted, holding up a perfectly manicured hand. "I want to. And besides, you deserve it. Trust me, after what Lucas pulled, you'll need something jaw-dropping to match his over-the-top romantic streak."

Octavia rolled her eyes, though her cheeks flushed slightly. "Fine. But I'm picking the dress."

"Obviously," Lydia said with a grin. "And don't worry—I'll make sure you look amazing. He won't be able to take his eyes off you."

Octavia couldn't help but laugh, shaking her head. "You're impossible."

"That's why you love me."

With the weight of uncertainty about her standing with Lydia lifted Octavia found the remainder of her day surprisingly light. Lunch passed in a flurry of laughter at a table shared with the May twins, their infectious energy balancing out Scott and Stiles's tense undercurrent as they deflected Jackson's growing suspicions about Scott's lycanthropic secrets. Clementine's quiet warmth and Mars's chaotic humor were a strange contrast. Still, both radiated kindness—a mystery, given their relation to the enigmatic Fox, who usually spent his lunch hour tucked away in the library or his car.

After school, Octavia donned her apron for a shift at Deja Brew. The faint hum of the coffee machines blended with Rhiannon's impeccable playlist, and the current track was a dreamy acoustic melody that softened the café's bustle. Clumsy but endearing in his new role, Mars fumbled alongside her, his latest mishap leaving a trail of caramel sauce across the counter.

"It's like being annoyed at a puppy," she'd teased earlier during lunch with Clementine, and now, watching Mars mutter apologies to a confused customer, the thought made her smile again.

The doorbell jingled, cutting through the music and chatter, drawing Octavia's attention. Her breath caught when she saw Lucas Sawyer step inside, his hesitant smile a mix of amusement and nervous anticipation.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," Octavia said, her voice effortlessly teasing as Lucas approached the counter.

"Well, I need an answer to that crucial Winter Formal proposal, don't I?" His words carried a lightness that didn't quite mask his earnestness.

Octavia leaned against the counter, heart thudding in time with the café's rhythmic pulse. "Lucas, about the dance..." She paused, the moment stretching taut between them as she searched for the right words. Then, with a soft, sure smile, she met his gaze. "I'd love to go with you."

"Yeah?" His grin widened, a mix of relief and disbelief. "I mean, my locker might smell like roses until graduation, but it was worth it."

The mention of roses made her tilt her head, curiosity flickering. "That was... a lot of roses," she said lightly, though the memory of them—so many, so red—pricked at her thoughts. "Sweet, though."

"Stiles said you liked roses, so I just went with it," Lucas replied, oblivious to the tension creeping into her smile.

Octavia's brow furrowed, the statement catching her off guard. Stiles said I liked roses? The thought twisted uncomfortably. She wasn't big on flowers—especially roses. Stiles knew that better than anyone.

Roses meant cheap apologies and slurred promises. The ghost of wilted petals on a kitchen counter surfaced briefly, and Octavia blinked it away. "Stiles said that?" she echoed, careful to keep her tone neutral.

"Yeah. Said you'd appreciate something classic."

Classic. The word hung heavy in the air. Forcing a smile, she pushed the memories aside. "Classic works," she said, her voice lighter now, though not quite reaching her eyes. "And I did appreciate the gesture."

Lucas relaxed visibly, his confidence returning. "So, roses weren't a disaster?"

"No. Not a disaster. Just... unexpected."

He laughed, the sound easy and unbothered. "Unexpected works for me."

Octavia matched his smile, grateful for his sincerity even as her mind wandered. Lucas wasn't the problem—he'd gone out of his way to make her feel special. But the roses? The why behind them unsettled her in ways she couldn't shake.

"So, does this mean I can expect a corsage to match?" she asked, steering the conversation back to safer ground.

"Obviously," Lucas replied, his grin turning mischievous. "Unless Stiles gives me bad intel again."

Her laugh came quickly, breaking the lingering weight. "Let's stick to neutral ground this time—no more floral gambles."

"Deal." With a final smile, Lucas stepped back, throwing her a glance as he reached the door. "Guess I'll see you at the game tonight?"

"You better," Octavia called after him, watching the door swing shut behind him. The bell jingled, and the café seemed to exhale, the chatter and coffee-scented air closing in around her again.

"You're thinking too hard," came a voice from behind her.

Octavia turned to find Fox May leaning against the counter, his smirk as sharp as ever. "I thought the other one was your boyfriend," he said, his tone lazy but probing.

"Other one?" Octavia asked, arching a brow.

Mars glanced up from his caramel-stained rag. "He means Stiles."

Octavia blinked. "What?"

Fox shrugged, smirking. "Skinny, sarcastic guy? Always buzzing around you like he's got something life-altering to say but never says it?"

Mars chuckled. "You two have more sparks than our grandma's old toaster."

Octavia flushed, shaking her head. "We're just friends."

"Sure," Fox drawled, his tone dripping with disbelief. "But you seemed pretty hung up on those roses he suggested."

Her smile faltered, the truth of that statement settling heavily. "It's just... weird. Stiles knows I don't like roses."

"Maybe he forgot?" Mars offered innocently.

"Stiles doesn't forget things like that," she said, more to herself than to them. The thought lingered, heavy and unresolved. Why would Stiles suggest roses?

"Maybe there's more to it," Fox mused, his voice quieter now. "Or maybe it's just a mix-up."

Octavia stared out the window, the evening light casting long shadows. "Maybe," she murmured, though the nagging doubt refused to leave her.

Octavia pushed the front door of the Stilinski household open without hesitation. She'd stopped knocking on the Stilinski door years ago—it was practically a second home. Her footsteps creaked softly as she climbed the familiar staircase to Stiles's room. She didn't bother announcing herself until she was right outside his door, knocking twice.

The door opened quickly, and Stiles's expression was oddly tense—his hair was mussed as though he'd been running his hands through it for hours. The moment he saw her, his shoulders sagged with relief.

"Oh, thank God. For a second, I thought you were my dad," he said, stepping aside to let her in. "Not that you look anything like him. Or—uh—sound like him. But, you know, timing."

"Smooth recovery," Octavia replied dryly, stepping past him.

Her eyes swept the room, instantly catching sight of Danny Mahealani, who was packing up his laptop and cords on Stiles's desk, and—wait.

Her gaze froze on Derek Hale, perched stiffly on the edge of Stiles's bed, arms crossed, his usual scowl firmly in place.

"Hey, Danny. Hey, Der—" she started, then faltered.

"There. Miguel," Stiles interrupted loudly, his voice cracking slightly. He practically threw himself between her and Derek. "Birdie, you remember Miguel, my cousin, right?"

She folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. "Right. Cousin Miguel. What a... surprise." She let her words hang pointedly as she glanced at Derek, who looked ready to murder someone. Probably Stiles.

Blissfully unaware of the tension, Danny unplugged the last of his cables and slung his bag over his shoulder. "Well, I'll let you guys handle... whatever this is," he said with a wave, brushing past Octavia on his way out.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving an awkward silence in its wake. Octavia turned slowly, arms still folded, and fixed both Stiles and Derek with a glare.

"What the hell is going on?" she demanded, her voice low and sharp.

"The text Allison got when we were trapped in the school?" Stiles began, shifting nervously under her scrutiny. "It came from the hospital."

Octavia's eyes narrowed, sensing there was more to this than he was letting on. "Okay... And?"

Stiles avoided her gaze, rubbing the back of his neck. "And... someone accessed Melissa's account to send it," he admitted, wincing as though bracing for her reaction.

Her stomach sank. "Someone? Who?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Derek cut in, his voice calm but clipped. His sharp green eyes met hers, and momentarily, she felt the weight of the danger they were walking into.

"And you thought Danny needed to be involved in this why?" she asked, rounding on Stiles again.

"I needed his tech expertise, okay? He's discreet. He's basically a lacrosse-playing ninja."

Octavia rolled her eyes. "Right. Because Danny is the one I'd want on my side in a supernatural hospital hacking case."

"Well, it's not like I can call the FBI, Birdie!" Stiles shot back, throwing his arms in the air. "Besides, he's already gone. Problem solved."

"Problem solved?" she echoed, stepping closer until they were nearly nose-to-nose. "You've got Derek Hale—aka Cousin Miguel—in your room, you're investigating something that could put my mom in even more danger, and you think the problem is solved?"

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Stiles looked genuinely contrite, his wide brown eyes darting away from hers. Sensing the brewing storm, Derek released an exasperated sigh from the bed. "Are you done?" he asked flatly.

Octavia glared at Derek before letting out a huff of air. She dug into her jacket pocket, pulling out a small, intricately knotted charm made of black thread and tiny beads. Rhiannon's handiwork gave it a faint herbal scent. She held it out to Stiles, the weight of their argument giving way to a quieter moment.

"Rhiannon made it," she explained. "It's supposed to ward off bad vibes or something, I don't know. She insisted that you have it, said it works better if you carry it on you."

Stiles took it gingerly, turning it over in his hands with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. "Bad vibes, huh? Does it work on werewolves?"

Derek rolled his eyes. "No."

"Great," Stiles muttered. "I guess I'll just have to hope it works on the field."

Octavia smirked. "Just keep it on you, Stilinski. Humor me, and her."

Stiles hesitated for a moment, then tucked the charm into his pocket with surprising care. "Thanks, Birdie."

The use of her nickname made her chest tighten unexpectedly. She covered it with a shrug. "Don't thank me if you drop the ball tonight."

"Oh, I won't," he shot back, his usual grin returning. "Because then you'll have to answer to 'Cousin Miguel' over there."

Derek stood, his imposing presence filling the small room. "Let's just get this over with," he said, already heading for the door.

Octavia shook her head, her gaze following him. "He's not even trying to look like a Miguel."

Stiles chuckled nervously, grabbing his jacket. "Yeah, well, he's a work in progress. You ready?"

"Always."

If someone had told Octavia she'd be sitting alone in Stiles' Jeep with Derek Hale, she'd have laughed in their face. Yet here she was, the engine idling softly in the hospital parking lot, the faint smell of Stiles' old leather seats mixing with the crisp, night air filtering through a cracked window. Derek sat in the passenger seat like a brooding statue, his silence oppressive, his gaze fixed on something unseen beyond the windshield.

Inside, the hospital lights flickered faintly, and Octavia couldn't shake the feeling that something inside was watching her. She tugged her jacket closer around herself, trying to ignore the faint hum beneath her skin—a sensation that had become almost constant since her encounter with the Alpha weeks ago.

The radio was barely audible, a Fall Out Boy song playing softly. Its steady rhythm was the only thing keeping the suffocating tension in check.

"Hey, Derek?" Octavia's voice was quiet, almost hesitant, as she leaned forward from the back seat.

Derek shifted, his head turning just enough to give her his usual guarded look. His raised eyebrow was a wordless demand to get to the point.

She swallowed, her fingers fidgeting with the frayed hem of her sleeve. "A few weeks ago, at the video store... I came face to face with him. The Alpha."

Derek's posture stiffened almost imperceptibly, but his eyes softened. Just barely. Enough for Octavia to notice.

"He was on me—too close. And I could feel everything." Her voice dropped as if the memory itself carried weight. "His breath on my skin, his anger, his rage. It wasn't just him being furious; it was like his emotions seeped into me, clawing their way into my chest. Desperation, hate... the hunger to destroy."

Derek's expression didn't change, but his jaw tightened, and Octavia knew he was listening intently.

"And then he spoke," she continued, her voice shaking slightly. "Or snarled, really. Yeah, it was more like a snarl-growl thing. But the words..." She hesitated, the memory a knot in her throat.

"Octavia." Derek's low and commanding voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. "What did he say?"

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. "Renata est, evigilavit, venefica, vates." Her voice dropped to a whisper, but the words carried an almost physical weight in the air.

Derek's head snapped toward her, his eyes sharp and suddenly alert. Recognition flashed across his face, gone as quickly as it came, but not before Octavia caught it.

"He said, 'She has awakened—the witch, the Seer.'" She leaned back, her gaze dropping to her hands as she wrung them together. "And then it was like my whole body ached. Like I was burning alive from the inside out." She winced at her own words, her eyes darting toward Derek. "Sorry, wrong choice of words. I didn't mean—"

Derek's face betrayed no reaction to her slip, but his silence spoke volumes.

Octavia pressed on, her voice softer now, tinged with frustration. "And then, at the school a few nights ago... when Scott howled. That feeling came back. That burning, humming, whatever it is." Her eyes locked on Derek's. "And you—" she pointed at him, her voice trembling slightly. "You looked at me like you knew something. Like you knew, but you didn't say anything. Not to me, not to Stiles, not to Scott."

Derek's jaw clenched, his silence more telling than anything he could have said. The shadows in the car seemed to deepen around him as if the night itself were leaning in to listen.

"Talk to your boss, Octavia," he said finally.

She blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. "What?"

"Rhiannon," Derek said, his voice lower now, as if someone might overhear. "Talk to Rhiannon."

Octavia stared at him, confusion and disbelief warring in her expression. "What does Rhiannon have to do with—"

"Just talk to her," Derek snapped, cutting her off. His tone left no room for argument.

Octavia opened her mouth to argue anyway, but the words died on her lips. A shiver crept down her spine, the sensation foreign yet eerily familiar. She glanced at Derek, whose eyes flicked toward the hospital, his expression unreadable.

"Fine," she said finally, though the word felt hollow. Her thoughts raced, tangled, and uneasy. What did Rhiannon—sweet, whimsical, indie-music-playing Rhiannon—have to do with any of this?

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stiles gave luke patterson vibes with that "too adorable" comment, no further questions

bi octavia! bi octavia! bi octavia!

we listen, we don't judge: teen wolf edition?

happy new year my hearts

𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚘𝚝𝚎