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Octavia McCall had barely left Lydia Martin's side all weekend, no matter how many times the strawberry blonde insisted she was completely and totally fine.

Octavia had called bull on that each and every time.

She had survived the past two days on stale, lukewarm coffee from the nurses' station and whatever passable food her mother could scavenge from the hospital cafeteria. Her hoodie smelled like antiseptic, and her body ached from sleeping upright in an uncomfortable chair, but she refused to leave until Lydia did.

Outside Lydia's room, the quiet waiting area looked like a makeshift battlefield of exhaustion. Stiles Stilinski and Marshall May were sprawled out across several seats, limbs askew, their unconscious bodies weighed down by fatigue. A half-deflated Get Well Soon balloon was loosely tied to Stiles' wrist, bobbing slightly with every slow breath he took. Mars, far less comfortable, had a bouquet of roses clutched to his chest like a lifeline, a small stuffed animal squished beneath his arm.

Melissa McCall stood nearby, jotting notes onto her clipboard, presumably updating Lydia's chart. Her lips quirked as she glanced over at Stiles.

"Yes, just like that... No, no, you first..." Stiles muttered, still deep in sleep. A dreamy smile ghosted across his lips.

Melissa arched a brow.

"Oh, me first?" he giggled, his hand slipping off the chair with a soft thump. He snored on, undisturbed.

Mars, meanwhile, was nowhere near as lucky. He had tossed and turned in the rigid hospital chairs, shifting every few minutes, until he finally surrendered to the fact that sleep wasn't coming for him. His leg bounced anxiously, fingers twitching around the plastic wrap of the roses.

Inside Lydia's room, Octavia sat perched in the visitor's chair, her leg bouncing as she flipped mindlessly through a magazine she had zero intention of reading. Bleary-eyed and exhausted, Lydia sat up, and Octavia was immediately on her feet to help.

Lydia fixed her with a look—a glare that carried all the sharpness of a dagger but none of the actual malice.

"I can sit up on my own, you know," she deadpanned.

Octavia lifted her hands in surrender, a smirk twitching at the corner of her lips.

"You want help getting in the shower?" Lydia's father asked from the doorway, his voice laced with concern.

Lydia's unimpressed glare transferred seamlessly from Octavia to him. "Maybe if I was four," she drawled, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, "and still taking bubble baths."

Octavia pressed her lips together to suppress a laugh, nudging Mr. Martin toward the door. "We'll just be outside."

"Where it's slightly less sarcastic," Mr. Martin tacked on, following her out.

Back in the waiting area, Stiles remained draped over three chairs, out cold, his mouth slightly open. Mars sat stiffly beside him, still clutching the bouquet as though it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

Mr. Martin eyed the two boys and then turned to Melissa. "They've been here all night?"

"They've been here all weekend."

Stiles smacked his lips in his sleep as if on cue and murmured, "You're dirty..." A chuckle followed, breathy and amused. Then he puckered his lips and kissed the air.

The cleaning lady, crouched beside him to empty a trashcan, froze.

Her head popped up, bewildered.

Octavia, despite her exhaustion, lost it. A sharp, incredulous laugh burst from her lips as she watched the sheer horror creep onto Stiles' face the moment his eyes flickered open.

He blinked blearily, still tangled in the deflated balloon string, looking wildly between Octavia and the deeply confused cleaning lady.

"Oh God—" he started, frantically batting at the balloon as if it were the problem.

Octavia wrapped her arms around herself, still laughing. "You okay there, Romeo?"

"This is so not funny," he muttered, cheeks going pink as he fought his way out of his balloon-induced prison.

"Oh, it really is," she countered, wiping her eyes. "Was it your Megan Fox as Princess Leia fantasy again?"

Stiles froze. His ears burned. He shot her a wounded, betrayed look.

"I told you that in confidence!"

Octavia smirked, unrepentant. "That's on you for thinking I wouldn't weaponize it."

Stiles groaned, rubbing a hand down his face before standing up, wincing as his stiff muscles protested. Octavia's gaze followed him as he stretched, rolling his neck. She nudged his foot lightly with hers.

He groaned, rubbing a hand down his face before standing up, wincing as his stiff muscles protested. Octavia's gaze followed him as he stretched, rolling his neck. She nudged his foot lightly with hers.

"What are you even doing here?" she asked, voice teasing but soft.

Stiles hesitated for half a second.

For the past two days, she had been the reason he stayed.

But instead of saying that—because, yeah, that would be a lot—he shrugged, masking it with his usual grin. "What kind of question is that? We both know Lydia would've killed me if I hadn't stayed."

Octavia scoffed, folding her arms. "Lydia still thinks your name is Miles."

Stiles clutched his chest dramatically. "That is a vicious lie."

"Oh, is it?" Octavia quirked a brow, leaning in slightly. "Because I was right there when she called you twice on Friday, and you just—" she mimed a silent, eager nod "—went along with it."

"I panicked!" he blurted. "It was a high-stakes moment, Birdie! You can't just correct a girl who came out of a supernatural coma. That's, like, unethical."

Octavia shook her head, laughing softly, before nudging his foot again. "Whatever you say, Miles."

Stiles rolled his eyes but grinned—until his gaze lingered on her for just a second too long.

Because she was still looking at him like he was the same Stiles he had always been. Like he was just the ridiculous, sleep-deprived, snarky idiot who got himself tangled in a balloon.

Like he hadn't spent all weekend losing his mind over how she kept biting her lip when she worried, how her voice softened every time she spoke to Lydia, or how she had barely let herself rest because she refused to leave her best friend's side.

And she had no idea how much he had been watching her.

She had no idea that every sarcastic jab, every teasing remark, every flicker of her eyes in his direction was starting to feel different to him.

And that—that was the real problem.

Stiles Stilinski did a lot for Octavia McCall—small, thoughtful acts he'd convinced himself were just part of being a good friend.

Despite despising the taste, he kept mint mojito gum in his pockets just because she loved it. An extra sweatshirt was always tucked in the back of his Jeep, ready for those evenings when the chill seemed to seep into her bones. During her 'Hell Week,' as they jokingly called it, he was unusually prepared with a stash of her favorite comfort snacks, which he replenished religiously. He never questioned it. Never made a big deal out of it. Just showed up at school with a bag of chocolate-covered almonds, a pack of sour gummy worms, and a bag of Starburst, which he'd hand sort to make sure there were no oranges or yellows, shoving them into her hands like it was a drug deal in the hallway.

But the one line he wouldn't cross? His loyalty to Reese's, despite Octavia's baffling disdain for peanut butter—a "peanut butter-hating freak," he called her, with exaggerated horror.

Still, he hesitated at the vending machine, a yawn stretching his jaw as he dug through his pocket for change. He blinked blearily at the rows of snacks, running his tongue over his teeth in thought. The smart move—the Octavia-approved —would be to go for the Twix. Or the Kit-Kat. Or anything that wouldn't get him a dramatic groan and an exaggerated look of betrayal from her later.

"Screw it," he muttered, hitting I on the keypad.

Instant karma struck.

The Reese's clung stubbornly to its coil, half-dropped but refusing to fall.

"Seriously?" Stiles muttered, jabbing the button repeatedly, his frustration growing. "Come on—" He slammed his palm against the plexiglass, then rocked forward on his toes, assessing the situation like he was in a full-on battle with gravity.

His next move? The classic Stilinski approach—shake it loose.

He spread his legs for leverage, gripped the edges of the vending machine, and yanked.

Nothing.

Another shake. A grunt. Still nothing.

"Oh, come on—just—" Stiles threw his weight into it.

The vending machine tilted.

"Woah—!"

Stiles barely leaped back in time before it came crashing forward, hitting the ground with a violent boom that echoed through the hospital halls.

Around the corner, Octavia and Mars jumped at the sudden sound. Exchanging a knowing look, they immediately knew who was behind the chaos. Mars' gaze shifted curiously to Octavia, noticing the anxious way she twisted the friendship bracelet around her wrist, a gesture he'd come to recognize too well.

Mars leaned closer, his voice gentle but direct. "What do you feel?"

Her head snapped up, surprise widening her tired eyes. "How did you—"

"You have a tell," he interrupted softly, tapping gently on her bracelet. "You always fidget when something bad is about to happen."

Octavia huffed softly, half-annoyed, half-impressed. "Why don't you have a tell?"

Mars' ever-present grin widened, unruffled by her frustration. "Because, my dear Octavia, I'm not like you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she snapped lightly, nerves frayed from exhaustion.

He shifted comfortably, crossing his legs beneath him. "Think of it like doctors—each has their own specialty, right?"

"Yeah," she conceded cautiously.

"Witches are similar. We all have our specific talents, our particular gifts," he explained gently. "It's all there in the grimoire."

Octavia sighed, irritation fading into fatigue. "Well, excuse me for not being caught up on Witchcraft 101. I've been busy." Her gaze flicked briefly around the sterile waiting room, the oppressive fluorescent lights seeming to pulse with her growing anxiety.

But even as she spoke, dread twisted sharply in her gut. Suddenly, her mind flooded with vivid, uncontrollable visions—the sensation now so painfully familiar.

Fire rips through her veins, agonizing and white-hot.

Kate Argent's cold, ruthless stare.

Derek Hale collapsed, bloody and wounded.

The darkness inside the video store, shadows whispering to her.

Then—an entirely new vision surged forward, clearer and sharper.

Blackwater, endless and suffocating.

A charred hand broke the surface, grabbing hold desperately of pale, fragile skin.

Lydia—her hair wild, wet, tangled, standing barefoot and trembling in the shadow-filled woods.

Octavia gasped sharply, eyes snapping open, her heart pounding violently against her ribs. A piercing scream sliced through the vision, echoing from Lydia's hospital room. Ignoring the violent burst of pain that surged head to toe, Octavia jolted up, sprinting toward the scream.

She burst through the door first, breathing ragged, pulse frantic.

"What the hell was that?" Melissa McCall rushed in behind her daughter, Mr. Martin close on her heels, with Stiles and Mars stumbling urgently into the room.

Mars swiftly pushed past them toward the bathroom, anxiety clear on his face. They all followed closely, freezing in shock at the sight that greeted them. The faucet running, water cascading unchecked into an overflowing sink. A blood-stained hospital gown lay abandoned on the white tile floor.

Lydia was gone.

A chill raced down Octavia's spine as a whisper of cold air brushed past her. She turned slowly, her eyes immediately drawn to the open window, sheer curtains billowing softly in the breeze.

Wordlessly, Octavia reached out, grabbing Stiles and Mars by their sleeves, urgently pointing toward the window. A heavy silence fell over the room as realization dawned.

Lydia Martin had vanished into the night—and Octavia knew, deep in her bones, that something dark and terrible was waiting out there, just beyond her reach.

In the dimly lit hospital parking lot, under lights that cast long, ominous shadows on the ground, Octavia, Mars, and Stiles stepped out of the sanitized glare of Beacon Hills Memorial. The atmosphere was laden with an indefinable tension, a palpable dread that the dark seemed to amplify.

Scott was already waiting by the passenger side of Stiles' Jeep, visibly tense, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of trouble. Clutched in Stiles' hands was Lydia's recently discarded hospital gown, stained with dark patches of blood—stark against the white fabric, resembling grotesque blooms. The arrival of Fox's red 1995 Chevrolet Camaro broke the monotony of the scene, its engine's rumble a sharp contrast to the silent anticipation. Sitting next to Fox, Clementine fixed her gaze on Octavia, her expression filled with a quiet concern that spoke volumes though she uttered no words.

As Mars hurried to join the May siblings in the Camaro, Fox stepped out with a fleeting glance at Octavia, a nod acknowledging the gravity of the situation before he turned his attention elsewhere. Clementine's gaze lingered on Octavia, her furrowed brow betraying her worry, though she chose to remain silent, perhaps sensing Octavia's reluctance to discuss her feelings.

"Tavs," Scott called out softly, his voice tinged with concern as he opened the door for her. His protective demeanor offered little comfort against the storm of emotions within her. With quick movements, Stiles slid into the driver's seat, his jittery energy palpable. His eyes, full of unspoken thoughts, flickered towards Octavia as she settled into the backseat, her fingers twined nervously.

Scott took the bloodied gown from Stiles, his voice urgent. "This is the one she was just wearing?" At Stiles' grim nod, Scott turned to reassure Octavia, placing his hand on her arm with determination. "I'm not gonna let anyone hurt her," he vowed, his voice mixing desperation and resolve. "Not again."

"All right, just shove the thing in your face, and let's find her." Stiles spoke before Octavia could voice her usual protest—before she could even articulate the depth of her fear—Scott pressed the gown to his nose, closing his eyes in concentration. The Jeep came to life under Stiles' command, its headlights cutting through the darkness as they illuminated a sudden figure in their path.

"Wow!" Stiles exclaimed, startled, as Allison Argent appeared from the shadows. Her approach was swift, and her face was etched with resolve as she confronted Scott.

"What are you doing here?" Scott whispered urgently, his head darting around to check for observers. "Someone's gonna see us."

"I don't care," Allison retorted, her defiance clear as she glanced towards the Mays approached from the Camaro. "She's one of my best friends. We have to find her before they do."

Scott's reply was tinged with a defensive edge. "I can find her faster than the cops."

"What about before my father?" Allison countered.

"He knows?" Octavia interjected, her voice sharp with anxiety.

"Yeah," Allison confirmed grimly. "I just saw him and three other guys leave my house in two SUVs."

Scott exchanged a quick, uneasy look with Octavia and Stiles. Octavia rubbed her eyes wearily, the weight of the situation pressing down on her.

"Search party," Scott said darkly.

"More like a hunting party," Allison corrected her tone grave.

Octavia leaned back, her voice low and bitter. "That's...so much better."

Clementine stepped forward then, her tone even but filled with a soft concern that made Octavia believe it was aimed directly toward her. "We'll work on the tracking spell. You guys follow the scent. It'll be okay."

Scott nodded resolutely, opening his door wider. "Get in," he urged Allison softly. She climbed hastily over Scott into the backseat, carefully settling beside Octavia, who welcomed the steadying presence despite her swirling dread.

As the Camaro pulled away, Stiles pressed his foot hard on the gas, gripping the wheel tightly. The Jeep surged forward, tires squealing. Stiles glanced anxiously at Allison through the mirror, voice shaking slightly. "Alright, but if Lydia's turning... would they really kill her?"

"I don't know," Allison's voice trembled, anguish evident. "They won't tell me anything. All they said was, 'We'll talk after Kate's funeral when the others get here.'"

"Others?" Scott echoed sharply.

"Hunters?" Octavia's stomach twisted, dread pooling deeper.

"I don't know. They won't tell me that yet," Allison groaned softly, resting her forehead against her trembling fingers.

"Okay," Stiles remarked tensely, attempting levity despite the palpable stress, "your family's got some serious communication issues to work on.."

Octavia momentarily clenched her fists, wishing she could channel Derek Hale's brute strength long enough to silence Stiles' ill-timed sarcasm. Under different circumstances, she might have smiled, teased Scott, hung his head out of the window like an eager puppy sniffing the night air, joked about finally getting that dog she always wanted, or rewarded him with a Scooby snack for good behavior.

But these weren't different circumstances.

These circumstances meant discovering unsettling truths about herself—empathic powers she could barely control, visions she couldn't yet decipher. These circumstances meant an ancient tome thicker than Marcel Proust's masterpiece, waiting for her attention. A werewolf brother. A best friend missing, leaving behind only a haunting, bone-chilling scream echoing relentlessly in her ears.

Octavia felt thoroughly and irrevocably fucked. And not in the sarcastic, wryly humorous way Stiles would have joked about—this was real, overwhelming, and utterly terrifying.

"Scott," Stiles finally broke the oppressive silence, his urgency returning as he glanced toward the passenger seat. Are we going the right way?"

Scott inhaled sharply, eyes closed momentarily before nodding, determined and tense. "Take the next right."

With a screech of tires against the pavement, the Jeep lurched sharply, hurtling into the uncertain darkness ahead.

Why did it always lead back to the Hale house?

That thought spiraled through Octavia's mind, taunting her with every crunching step across brittle leaves and twisted roots. She pulled her jacket tighter around her, a shiver crawling up her spine—not entirely due to the chill biting at her fingertips. Between the sterile glare of Beacon Hills Memorial and this burnt-out shell of a mansion, she realized with grim amusement that she'd spent more time in places steeped in misery this weekend than her own home.

Next to her, Stiles trudged forward, his brow furrowed, and eyes narrowed suspiciously at their surroundings. The shadows cast by the bare branches seemed to flicker ominously across his face, accentuating the unease in his expression. Behind them, she could hear the quiet murmurs of Scott and Allison, their hushed tones tense yet comforting, wrapped up in their private conversation. The air felt charged, the silence pressing against her chest like a heavyweight.

"She came here?" Stiles asked sharply, disbelief lacing his voice as he glanced skeptically back toward Scott and Allison. "You sure?"

Scott nodded solemnly, his gaze locked onto the dilapidated house ahead. "Yeah. This is where the scent leads."

With a huff of frustration, Stiles turned back to face the house, clearly unconvinced. He took several hesitant steps forward before pausing abruptly, spinning around again as an afterthought nagged at him. "All right, but has Lydia ever been here before?"

"Not with me," Allison replied softly, her expression uncertain in the shadows.

Stiles swung his questioning gaze to Octavia, who raised an eyebrow, incredulity painted vividly across her features. "Yes, Stiles," she drawled sarcastically, "I took my best friend to a burnt-down house in the middle of the woods for fun. I thought we'd make a night of it—roast some marshmallows, maybe contract tetanus."

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips, but he didn't argue. Instead, he exhaled and turned back toward the house.

Allison leaned closer to Scott, voice cautious but loud enough to hear. "Maybe she came here on instinct...like she was looking for Derek."

Scott hesitated, voice tight with something Octavia instantly recognized as apprehension. "You mean, looking for an Alpha."

Allison paused. "Wolves need a pack, right?"

"Not all of them," Scott replied, his feet slowing as the group stopped in uneasy unison.

"But would she have been drawn to an Alpha?" Allison pressed quietly. "Is it an instinct to be part of a pack?"

Scott's eyes darkened thoughtfully. "Yeah, we're stronger in packs."

Allison nodded slowly. "Like, strength in numbers?"

"No, like-like, literally stronger, faster," Scott admitted, gaze flicking toward his sister for a moment. "Better in every way."

Octavia scoffed quietly under her breath, her anxiety masked by sarcasm. "Brag."

Scott threw her a quick, exasperated glance while Allison's lips twitched into a faint smile. Stiles reached out instinctively, grabbing Octavia's hand to guide her forward. His grip was gentle yet grounding, the warmth of his fingers comforting in a way she refused to examine too closely. The contact felt natural—easy—as if they'd always been intertwined. Before she could linger on the thought, a sharp, uneasy prickling raced up her spine, something deep within her stirring awake, screaming at her to stop.

Her grip tightened instinctively around Stiles' hand, yanking him back. "Wait—"

Stiles halted mid-step, confusion flickering across his face before he saw the thin line shimmering faintly beneath their feet. "Whoa," he breathed, crouching down swiftly. "Hey, look at this."

Scott and Allison turned toward them as Stiles traced the thin metal wire with careful fingers. "I think it's a tripwire," he muttered curiously, his brows knitted together. Without thinking, he gave it a testing tug.

Octavia spun sharply at the sudden sound behind them, eyes widening in shock as her brother flew into the air, hanging upside down like some ridiculous woodland decoration. A startled laugh bubbled from her throat despite herself.

"Stiles," Scott called out flatly, irritation battling embarrassment in his voice.

"Yeah, buddy?" Stiles turned, Allison mirroring his motion. Both stared blankly at Scott, dangling upside-down. "Oh."

"Next time you see a tripwire—" Scott sighed, gesturing loosely at his predicament as Allison covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. "Don't trip it."

Stiles pointed in agreement. "Yeah. Noted."

Octavia pressed her palm over her mouth, her laughter muffled. "Stiles Stilinski, ladies and gentlemen. Absolute genius."

Stiles glared at her as they were about to assist Scott; he held up a hand, his expression turning serious. "Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. Someone's coming. Hide...Go!"

Panic jolted through Octavia's veins as Allison tugged her arm, dragging her swiftly toward the cover of trees. Pressed tightly against a rough trunk, Octavia watched breathlessly as Chris Argent and two other hunters emerged into the moonlit clearing.

Argent knelt calmly before Scott, his voice a cold, measured threat slicing through the silence. "Scott."

"Mr. Argent," Scott answered, voice strained from his upside-down predicament.

Octavia felt her pulse quicken, a familiar unease clawing at her chest. Each biting word exchanged between Scott and Argent tightened the coil of dread around her heart, her breath hitching sharply as Argent described—with chilling casualness—the gruesome violence he was more than capable of. Her fingers trembled slightly, anxiety spilling out in waves. She instinctively reached beside her, gripping Stiles' sleeve tightly, silently grounding herself through the tension.

She saw Allison flinch at her father's words, guilt and dread pooling in her friend's expression. When Argent finally stepped away, the silent tension lingering in the air was almost suffocating. Stiles slowly stood up, brushing leaves from his knees. Octavia hastily released his sleeve before the three emerged from the tree.

"Are you okay?" Allison's soft voice clearly conveyed her worry, and her eyes locked on Scott's face.

Scott huffed lightly, shaking off the ordeal with practiced nonchalance. "Just another life-threatening conversation with your dad."

Allison's lips pressed into a thin line before she turned to the ropes suspending Scott. "Stiles, help me with this."

But Scott had other plans. He drew his claws, slicing through the rope with ease. He landed on the ground with a dull thud, dusting himself off as Stiles and Allison stared at him.

"Thanks," Scott said. "But I think I got it."

"Yeah," Stiles agreed, brows raised.

"Show-off," she teased, tension dissolving momentarily.

Scott grinned lightly at his sister before glancing toward Stiles, brows raised expectantly. "Comin'?"

Octavia felt warmth rise in her chest as she nudged Stiles forward. Her friend glanced at her, expression unreadable in the low moonlight. A peculiar flutter stirred in her chest—one she stubbornly ignored, chalking it up purely to adrenaline and exhaustion.

"C'mon," Stiles muttered, bumping her shoulder lightly as they fell into step side by side again.

Octavia wasn't exactly sure when it had happened—when Mars May and Stiles Stilinski had suddenly transformed into two halves of the same irritatingly charming coin—but now the two seemed practically inseparable, finishing each other's sentences and conspiring with shared mischievous glances. It was a friendship she'd never seen coming, yet here she was, walking reluctantly beside the pair, Scott's presence at her other side the only anchor keeping her from losing her mind entirely as they trudged across the Beacon Hills High parking lot.

The air was unusually sharp for Beacon Hills, dampness lingering in the morning chill as though a storm hovered just out of sight. Octavia hugged her jacket tightly around herself, goosebumps prickling her skin—not entirely due to the cold. Beside her, Stiles waved his hands wildly as he relayed what he'd overheard from his dad, words tumbling out in a nervous, disjointed jumble.

"She ate the liver?" Scott blurted, his voice pitching up in open horror, his eyes wide with disgust.

Immediately, Mars stiffened, his posture shifting protectively, jaw clenching tight. Octavia didn't miss how quickly Mars jumped to Lydia's defense—a reaction too sharp to be casual. "Whoa, slow your roll," Mars said sharply, dark brows knitting together. "Sheriff Stilinski didn't explicitly say she ate it. That's pure speculation."

Stiles grimaced awkwardly, throwing his hands up as if pleading innocence. "I just said it was missing!"

Mars crossed his arms tightly over his chest, jaw set stubbornly. "And anyway, even if she did eat it, it's the most nutritious part of the body."

Octavia stumbled slightly at that, her boots scraping the pavement as she came to a startled stop. She blinked incredulously, staring at Mars as if he'd sprouted another head before her eyes. "And exactly why do you know that delightful fact, Hannibal Lecter?"

Mars shrugged nonchalantly, unbothered by her accusing glare. "Research."

Octavia's mouth opened and closed again in mock outrage. "Remind me never to let you bring snacks," she muttered darkly under her breath, eliciting a quiet snort from Stiles beside her. She glanced at him briefly, and for a heartbeat, something odd and fluttery stirred in her chest—a feeling she immediately dismissed as mild annoyance.

"I never ate anybody's liver," Scott muttered defensively, clearly still stuck on the gruesome implication and deeply uncomfortable with even entertaining the possibility.

Stiles spun on his heel, raising an incredulous eyebrow at him. "Yeah, right. 'Cause when it comes to Werewolves, you're a real model of self-control."

Octavia shook her head decisively, stepping forward to end the ridiculous debate. "Look, Lydia Martin would never eat a human liver," she stated emphatically, reassuringly glancing toward Mars, whose expression visibly softened with relief. But then she continued, a mischievous glint sparking in her eyes, "Not unless it was prepared by a Michelin-star chef."

Mars's relief promptly vanished, replaced by pure indignation. He made a strangled noise, shooting her a betrayed glare. "Octavia! That's your best friend you're talking about!"

Octavia shrugged lightly, smirking. "Exactly. Which is how I know I'm right."

Before Mars could properly retort, Stiles suddenly halted, throwing an arm out sharply. Scott collided with him, causing Octavia to crash gracelessly into Scott's back with an undignified "oof!" She flushed lightly, pushing away quickly, embarrassed warmth creeping across her cheeks.

"Stiles, what the hell?" She demanded, twisting around to face him with evident annoyance.

Stiles ignored her, suddenly intense, eyes bright with the glow of a fresh revelation. "Wait, hold up. Scott, you're the test case for this, so we should review what happened to you."

Scott furrowed his brows in deep confusion. "What do you mean?"

Stiles gestured impatiently, fingers fluttering wildly as if physically attempting to pluck the information from thin air. "I mean, like, what was going through your mind when you were turning, you know? What were you drawn to?"

Octavia stared at Stiles flatly, entirely unimpressed. "Seriously? Do you really have to ask?"

Mars chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I've only been here a few weeks, and even I know the answer."

Sheepishness tugged at the corners of Scott's lips. "Allison," he admitted simply, shrugging helplessly as if no other answer had ever been possible.

Stiles bit back the urge to groan. "Okay, nothing else? Seriously?"

Scott met his gaze earnestly, unashamed, and genuine. "Nothing else mattered." Stiles pursed his lips tightly together, frustration etched into every tense line of his face. "But maybe that's good, right? Because the night Lydia got bitten, she was with you two," he gestured between Stiles and Mars.

Mars's expression darkened immediately, a shadow passing over his face as his gaze flickered across the parking lot. Octavia followed his stare, heart sinking as she spotted Jackson's sleek, grey Porsche rolling smoothly into its usual space. Mars looked as though the car had personally betrayed him, his jaw tightening as an emotion dangerously close to jealousy clouded his eyes.

"Yeah," Mars said quietly, bitterness creeping into his voice. "But she wasn't looking for either of us. She was looking for him."

An uncomfortable silence settled heavily around the group. Octavia swallowed thickly, the knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach. She could feel Mars's pain radiating from him, sharp and raw, blending with her unease. Without thinking, she glanced toward Stiles, whose eyes were trained on Mars, expression sympathetic but conflicted—almost as if he, too, was wrestling with emotions he couldn't fully name.

But then Stiles turned, catching her watching him. She quickly looked away, a strange heat rushing to her face, and she stubbornly blamed it on the morning chill. She refused to question why her heart sped slightly at his curious glance, brushing the feeling off entirely as nerves from yet another supernatural mystery.

Drawing a shaky breath, she squared her shoulders and spoke decisively, her voice steadier than she felt. "Look, whatever's going on with Lydia, we'll figure it out."

Mars nodded slowly, expression brightening slightly at her reassurance, even though uncertainty still shadowed his features.

Stiles cleared his throat awkwardly, tugging at his backpack strap. "Right. Let's just get to class before someone else finds a random body part to snack on."

Octavia rolled her eyes fondly, though she secretly appreciated the attempt to lighten the mood.

The chill of the morning seeped through the cold aluminum bleachers, biting into Octavia's skin even through her jeans. She sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Clementine May, eyes trained on the field below, but her mind was miles away. Mars was down there now, stumbling through lacrosse drills with the grace of a newborn deer, completely oblivious to the tense cloud that hung over the school like an invisible storm.

Octavia glanced sideways, watching Clementine quietly scribble something into the margins of an old leather-bound journal resting in her lap. Tiny symbols that looked foreign and oddly familiar curled elegantly beneath her fingertips. Octavia had seen enough to know they weren't random scribbles.

"You think that's going to work?" Octavia finally asked, keeping her voice low. She didn't have to clarify; the weight of Lydia's disappearance had grown heavier with each passing hour.

Clementine paused, her pen hovering mid-air. "I'm hopeful." She didn't look up; her blue eyes narrowed slightly as she considered something carefully before writing another symbol. "But hope's only half of it. Fox and I have to get this spell perfect."

Octavia nodded, anxiety coiling tighter in her chest. Lydia had vanished without a trace, leaving only unsettling signs—a stolen liver from a freshly dug grave and an eerie trail of confusion and dread. Mars had been frantic, Stiles was losing sleep, and Octavia felt helpless. Clementine and Fox's magic quickly became their best—and maybe only—hope.

Octavia released a slow breath, watching Mars attempt a complicated pass. Only to trip spectacularly and earn a furious whistle from Coach Finstock, she murmured softly. "I'm surprised Mars still joined the team with Lydia missing. "

Clementine smiled faintly, shaking her head without looking up from her journal. "Mars handles fear by throwing himself into something completely ridiculous. It keeps him from spiraling."

Octavia hummed in quiet agreement. "Fair enough. Though right now, he's spiraling headfirst into a concussion."

Clementine huffed a soft laugh, finally raising her gaze to meet Octavia's. Her expression softened noticeably as she tilted her head. "He'll be fine. Fox bet he'll survive the practice. I bet he'd trip and break something first."

Octavia managed a weary smile. "I'm on Fox's side. Mars has more luck than coordination."

Clementine's smile widened, eyes sparkling gently in the pale morning sun. "Traitor," she teased lightly, bumping Octavia's shoulder with her own in gentle camaraderie.

Despite the anxiety roiling beneath her skin, Octavia felt a strange ease settle over her—a fragile calm that only seemed to emerge when Clementine was around. It was unsettling and comforting, like stepping onto solid ground after stumbling in darkness for hours.

A sudden shadow fell over them. "Any luck?" Fox's voice was low and slightly hoarse, the dark circles beneath his eyes suggesting he'd been awake all night. His gaze briefly lingered on Octavia, intense yet guarded, before settling firmly on his sister.

Clementine handed him the journal. "Almost done. I think I've worked out the kinks."

Fox's eyes flickered over the notes swiftly, nodding once in quiet approval. "Good. We need to cast it tonight. The longer Lydia's missing, the harder it'll be to track her."

Octavia's stomach twisted sharply at Fox's bluntness. He never sugar-coated reality, something she simultaneously admired and resented. She met his gaze cautiously. "Do you really think this will help us find her?"

Fox studied her carefully, his expression softening slightly despite the sharp lines of exhaustion across his features. "If we get this right, it'll lead us straight to her."

Octavia exhaled slowly, relief mingling with nervous anticipation. "Thank you," she said quietly, voice sincere. "Both of you."

Clementine smiled warmly, nudging her again softly. "No need to thank us. Lydia matters to all of us."

"Some more than others." Below them, Mars loudly groaned after missing another catch, drawing Coach's angry glare. Fox sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in weary exasperation. "Why exactly is our brother trying to play lacrosse right now?"

Clementine shrugged. "Emotional coping mechanism. Or so he says."

"Or a death wish," Fox muttered dryly, sitting heavily beside Octavia on the bleachers, his knee brushing hers briefly. A flicker of warmth bloomed unexpectedly in her chest at the brief contact—so fleeting she barely had time to register it before Fox leaned back, stretching tiredly. She quickly shoved the feeling away.

A comfortable silence settled briefly between them, each lost in their thoughts until Clementine spoke again, gently nudging Octavia's foot with her own. "Have you been holding up alright?"

Octavia blinked, caught off guard by the quiet tenderness of Clementine's tone. Her chest tightened again, but this time it felt different—softer, warmer. "As well as anyone can, I guess," she admitted softly. "I'm just worried about Lydia."

Clementine nodded knowingly, eyes thoughtful. "I know. But we'll find her. Promise."

Fox cleared his throat softly, shifting just enough to glance at Octavia. "Clementine's spells rarely fail."

Clementine gave her brother a grateful but teasing glance. "That's practically a glowing compliment from Fox."

Fox's lips twitched slightly. "Don't get used to it."

Octavia smiled faintly, tension easing slightly under their gentle teasing. She unconsciously leaned closer to Clementine, their shoulders pressing lightly together in silent support. It was small, subtle, yet undeniably comforting.

For a heartbeat, Clementine turned toward Octavia, their faces unexpectedly close. Octavia's breath caught in her throat, but she held Clementine's steady gaze, her heart stumbling oddly in her chest. The moment stretched out until Clementine's smile turned slightly shy, and she glanced down at her hands. Octavia swallowed, quickly looking away herself.

Fox observed the exchange quietly, eyes narrowed in unreadable curiosity before shifting his attention back toward Mars, who'd managed to trip over another teammate. "Well," Fox murmured dryly, "at least one sibling remains predictably disastrous."

Octavia laughed quietly, grateful for the distraction, though her cheeks burned with confusing warmth. "It's comforting to know some things never change."

Clementine's hand briefly brushed hers, fingers warm and lingering just a moment too long. "Yeah," Clementine agreed softly, almost thoughtfully. "It is."

A whistle blew sharply from the field, drawing their attention back down to Mars, who was now arguing animatedly with Coach Finstock—likely begging for another chance. Fox stood with a sigh, tucking Clementine's journal beneath his arm.

"Time to save Mars from his own optimism," Fox muttered. He hesitated briefly, meeting Octavia's gaze with quiet intensity. "We'll keep you updated about the spell."

Octavia nodded firmly. "Good luck."

Fox's lips curled slightly in response, warmth flickering briefly in his usually unreadable eyes before disappearing beneath his usual stoicism. "We'll take it."

As Fox descended toward the field, Clementine leaned in close once more, voice gentle and teasing. "He likes you, you know."

Octavia rolled her eyes, fighting a fresh flush of heat. "I don't think he's capable of liking anyone."

Clementine chuckled, shaking her head softly. "Trust me—he likes you."

She stood slowly, offering Octavia a hand to pull her up. Octavia accepted, their fingers lingering together for a heartbeat longer than necessary before parting.

"Come on," Clementine said warmly, eyes brightening with determination. "Let's rescue Mars before Coach suspends him."

Octavia's school day had ended promptly at three o'clock—unlike Stiles, who had, predictably, landed himself another detention. Again.

So, after snapping at Rebecca Harlowe—better known as Harley—to "shut the fuck up" in the middle of a crowded hallway for bad-mouthing Allison, Octavia had stormed off, still fuming, to her evening shift at Deja Brew. The sting of frustration clung to her skin, hot and buzzing beneath her ribs.

Now, she stood behind the bar, gripping the espresso machine's steam wand like it had personally wronged her. Her hands moved on autopilot, but the drinks she churned out lacked their usual precision. The milk in the mochas foamed too thick, clumping in uneven peaks instead of the delicate designs she usually prided herself on. The fourth angrily decorated latte of the evening was snatched from the counter with a wary glance from the customer—clearly unsure if the caffeine boost was worth braving Octavia's current mood.

Rhiannon, lingering near the register, flicked a knowing gaze at her but said nothing, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she counted the till.

"You know," Rhiannon mused, tapping a nail against the cash drawer, "if you keep assaulting the milk like that, I'm going to start charging you for emotional damages."

Octavia glared at her boss but said nothing, her fingers tightening around the metal pitcher. She knew she was off today. Too much static in her head, too much pressure in her chest.

Scott was barely holding himself together. Stiles was pretending he was fine. And Allison—

Her stomach twisted. Allison should've been fine.

Mars had been initially scheduled to close with her, but after one glance at the tension coiling in his cousin's shoulders, he had made a very strategic decision.

"I prefer my head permanently attached to my body, thank you," he had muttered to Rhiannon, handing his apron off to Clementine, his sister, before quickly escaping. Octavia, in response, had lobbed a coffee stirrer at the back of his head.

"I'd like to see how you'd feel if your best friend went missing after getting attacked by a homicidal monster and then had to hear another girl shit-talk your other best friend!" she snapped, voice sharp enough to cut.

Mars had barely lifted his hands in surrender before he was gone, leaving the shop in an uneasy silence.

The front door locked with a soft click as Clementine twisted the deadbolt. Outside, the late autumn chill had settled over Beacon Hills, the streets quiet aside from the occasional hum of passing cars. Inside, Deja Brew was warm, dimly lit—the scent of espresso lingering in the air.

Octavia let out a slow breath, gripping the rag she had used to wipe down the counter. Her arms ached from how tightly she had been holding herself together.

Keep moving. Keep your hands busy. Keep it together.

Clementine's voice pulled her from her thoughts.

"Okay, what's next? Trash?"

Octavia blinked, refocusing on her. Clementine had rolled up the sleeves of her sweater, her dark curls pulled up into a loose ponytail, a few strands falling in front of her sharp, freckled features. She was already tying up the garbage bags, her movements smooth and efficient, like she had done this a hundred times.

"Yeah," Octavia muttered, rubbing a hand over her face. "Trash."

She turned, grabbed the broom, and started sweeping.

Except—

The simple motion of dragging the bristles across the tile no longer felt simple.

Her heart was racing. Fast. Hard. A pressure built inside her chest, pressing against her ribs like something was trying to claw its way out.

Too loud.

The broom scratched against the floor. The hum of the espresso machine. The rustle of the trash bag. The flickering of the overhead lights. Her own breathing.

It was all too loud.

Her pulse spiked, her vision tunneling at the edges as her hands started to tremble.

Not here. Not now.

Her grip tightened around the broom handle, her breath hitching—

"Octavia."

Her head snapped up. Clementine was right there, standing just close enough for Octavia to see the tiny crease between her brows and the quiet concern in her eyes.

"You need to sit down," Clementine said, voice softer now, lower. It's not a question—just fact.

"I'm fine," Octavia muttered, but she could even hear the strain in her voice and the slight shake in her hands.

Clementine didn't argue. She just moved, stepping into Octavia's space and gently prying the broom from her fingers.

"You're having a panic attack," Clementine said, calm but firm. "You need to breathe with me."

Octavia felt hot and cold simultaneously, her skin prickling and her chest locking up. She squeezed her eyes shut, fingers curling into fists.

Clementine's voice cut through the haze.

"Hey, look at me."

Octavia forced her gaze up. Clementine had crouched slightly to her eye level, her expression steady, her hands hovering near Octavia's, not quite touching, but there.

"Breathe in for four. Hold for four. Breathe out for four."

Octavia tried.

She inhaled, sharp and shaky.

"That's it. Again."

A beat. A pause. Another breath.

Slowly, the sharp edges of panic dulled. The noise in her head dimmed.

The shop was still warm. Still quiet. But now, the only thing Octavia could focus on was Clementine.

The steady presence of her. The scent of vanilla and hazelnut clinging to her sweater. The way she hadn't let go until Octavia's hands finally stopped shaking.

"Better?" Clementine asked after a moment, her voice softer now, careful.

Octavia exhaled. "Yeah."

Clementine didn't move away immediately. She hesitated and finally touched her—a brief press of fingers against Octavia's wrist, grounding.

"You could've just told me you needed a break, you know," Clementine said, teasing but gentle.

Octavia huffed a quiet laugh, still breathless.

"Yeah, well," she muttered, "I'm an idiot, so."

Clementine smiled, small and private like she already knew that.

And Octavia felt something other than anger for the first time that night.

Warmth.

Safe.

Octavia was freshly showered and her skin syrup-free when she heard the noise of her window sliding open. The cool night air rushed in, carrying the scent of pine and pavement still damp from the evening drizzle.

"I have a front door, you know?" she muttered, sectioning her now-dry hair with practiced precision. The warm hum of her flat iron filled the space between them.

"But coming in through the window is way cooler," Stiles argued as he hauled himself inside with the grace of a particularly ambitious raccoon.

She arched a brow, unimpressed. "And more dangerous."

"Which makes it more badass," he countered, flashing a lopsided grin as he plopped onto her bed, the mattress creaking beneath him. His hands were tucked behind his head, but his gaze drifted toward her, watching her work through the strands with rhythmic precision. The soft glow of the vanity light cast a golden halo around her, making her hair gleam in the dim room. A small smile tugged at his lips before he caught himself and shook it away.

"We found Lydia," he said after a few moments, shifting to prop himself on one elbow.

Octavia stilled, placing the straightener down as she turned to face him, her hazel eyes flickering with hope and concern. "Or... she found us, I guess."

"How is she?"

"Shaken up but still as demanding as ever," he replied with a half-hearted shrug. "She doesn't remember a thing about the last two days."

"That's just... perfect," Octavia huffed, exhaling through her nose as she turned back toward the mirror.

She was quiet now. Unmoving. The weight of uncertainty settled over her shoulders like an iron chain.

"Hey," Stiles urged softly, his voice losing its usual teasing lilt. "She's okay, Birdie."

Her jaw tightened. "No, she isn't."

"Yes, she is."

"Birdie—"

"I think I had a vision."

Silence. Then—

"WHAT?"

She winced, turning sharply. "Shh! You wanna wake up, Scott?"

Stiles sat up straight, eyes wide like she'd just declared she was an alien from Jupiter. "I think I had a vision," she repeated, quieter this time. "Right before Lydia went missing. It was like—I don't know, like my mind got hijacked. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't normal. It felt like I was there."

Stiles blinked, scrambling to process her words. "Okaaaay, so, back up. You're telling me you saw something before it happened? Like a full-on, spooky Professor X moment?"

"Not exactly. It wasn't clear. More like... flashes. Feelings. Like something was wrong, but I couldn't place it. And then, two hours later, Lydia was gone."

Stiles' leg bounced restlessly. "And you're just telling me this now?!"

Octavia sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I didn't know if it meant anything. I still don't. But—" she hesitated, then crossed the room, kneeling by her bookshelf. Hidden between the dust jackets of old novels and borrowed textbooks was a leather-bound grimoire, its spine cracked from age and use. She pulled it free, flipping to a page she had tabbed.

"The seer," she read aloud, finger skimming over the faded ink. "A clairvoyant, one who perceives beyond sight. Visions of the past, present, and future. A conduit for emotions, memories, and fate itself."

Stiles was suddenly on his feet. "Are we seriously just breezing past the fact that Peter Hale called you that? Like, to your face? And you didn't immediately take that as a red flag?"

"Do you know how much weird shit gets said in this town? It barely made the top five that night," she shot back. "And besides, I figured he was just being cryptic and dramatic. But now..." She chewed her bottom lip. "Now I don't know."

Stiles stepped closer, glancing at the book before looking back at her. His usual sarcasm wavered under something heavier—concern.

"You're serious about this," he murmured.

She exhaled slowly. "Yeah."

His fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to do something—reassure her, maybe. Instead, he shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, rocking back on his heels. "Okay, so, what do we do?"

"We don't do anything. I just need to figure this out."

Stiles scoffed. "Oh, yeah, sure, that sounds safe. Just let the possibly prophetic visions do their thing while you casually pretend it's no big deal. Totally fine, nothing to worry about."

She shot him a look. "Stiles."

"Fine, fine, but can you at least—" He hesitated, rubbing a hand over his jaw before shaking his head. "Just... don't keep this stuff to yourself, okay? Not with this. Not from me."

Something in his voice made her chest tighten—earnest, unguarded, something dangerously close to tender.

She ignored it.

"Yeah," she muttered, flipping the book closed. "Okay."

His lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. The air between them felt charged, electric, like the very fabric of their dynamic was shifting.

And yet—neither of them noticed. Or maybe neither of them was willing to.

Instead, Stiles cleared his throat and clapped his hands together. "So, uh. Should I be worried you'll start pulling a Raven from That's So Raven and have a dramatic vision mid-sentence?"

Octavia huffed a laugh, grateful for the levity. "God, I hope not."

He smirked, but the worry hadn't left his eyes. And as she tucked the grimoire back between her books, she couldn't shake the feeling that something inside her was changing—whether she was ready for it.

Stiles watched as Octavia tucked the grimoire between the books, his mind still spinning. A seer. The idea alone should have sent him into a spiral of theories and dramatic conclusions, but instead, his focus snagged on something else.

Her hair.

Now that she had stopped messing with it, sections of her naturally wavy strands had begun to spring back, stubborn against the flat iron's heat. A few curls framed her face, softening her usual sharp confidence and making her look... different. Not in a bad way. Just in a way.

A way that made his throat a little dry.

"Y'know," he blurted, clearing his throat, "you don't have to straighten it."

Octavia turned back to him, brow arching. "Uh, yeah, I do. Otherwise, it's just—" she made a vague, chaotic motion with her hands. "Big. Frizzy. Everywhere."

"Yeah, and?" He tilted his head, studying her. "It's cool like that."

She blinked, caught off guard. "You like my curly hair?"

Stiles scoffed, flopping back onto her bed dramatically. "I love it. When it's all, like—" he waved his hands around vaguely, "springy and wild and you." She shouldn't have felt weird about that. But something about how he said you made her chest do a weird little stutter-step. It was stupid. Completely stupid. "You look like some kind of badass, mystical— I don't know, like a warrior princess or something."

Octavia stared at him for a second, then snorted. "Warrior princess?"

"Yes, Birdie, warrior princess," he affirmed, then grinned. "Wait—hold on—should we get you a sword? Do seers get swords? Because that would be—"

She cut him off with a pillow to the face.

"Stop talking," she said, but there was laughter.

Stiles peeled the pillow off, grinning. "Just saying. It's a look. Own it."

Octavia rolled her eyes but felt a warmth creep up the back of her neck. "Well, since we're talking hairstyles, I still don't get why you went for the buzzcut."

He scoffed in mock offense, running a hand over his too-short hair. "Excuse you, this is low-maintenance perfection."

"It makes you look like a twelve-year-old," she countered.

"Ouch."

"You should grow it out," she continued, tilting her head as if imagining it. "Like, a little longer. Maybe messier? The buzzcut is fine, I guess, but... I feel like you could pull off something with a little more chaos."

Stiles sat up, giving her an exaggeratedly serious look. "Birdie, are you trying to make me hotter?"

She shoved him again. "God, shut up."

"I'm just saying," he smirked. "You start telling a guy to grow out his hair; that's dangerous territory."

She scoffed, but her lips twitched in amusement. "You're impossible."

"And yet, here I am, in your room, on your bed, dodging your pillows, giving you heartfelt hair compliments. This is prime best friend behavior."

Her gaze softened at that, though she masked it with a smirk. "If you're done admiring me, you can go back out the way you came in."

Stiles grinned, making no effort to move. "Yeah, no. Way too much effort."

She rolled her eyes, but deep down, she didn't mind.

Neither of them did.

┗━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━┛

SEASON TWOOOOOOOO!!!

i am looking...not very respectfully at that gif

crazy how i can ship octavia with literally anybody and everybody

hoping to start updating regularly soon, life is just life-ing

thank you guys sm for reading and making it this far with me, i genuinely love this story so much and i get so excited every time i post and see you guys interacting/reacting

i love you

𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚘𝚝𝚎