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It had been two days since Lydia had been found in the woods, pale, trembling, and disturbingly silent. The whispers hadn't stopped since. Some classmates speculated, others gossiped, and a handful were just waiting for the next dramatic spectacle to unfold. Octavia knew better. She had promised to meet Lydia and Allison before first period, ensuring no one dared cross a line with either. But first—damage control.

Specifically, preventing her idiot brother from thinking he could raw-dog the full moon like it was no big deal.

She followed Stiles and Scott toward the locker room, their backpacks jostling with every step, their lacrosse sticks held by the straps.

"I'm serious!" Scott protested for what had to be the millionth time that morning. "It's not like the last full moon. I don't feel the same."

Stiles scoffed. "Oh, does that include the urge to maim and kill people like me?" He threw in an extra layer of sarcasm for good measure.

"Like us," Octavia corrected, striding beside them as they pushed through the crowded boys' locker room entrance. The air was thick with sweat, cheap body spray, and whatever had died in someone's gym bag two weeks ago.

Scott turned to them with an exasperated expression. "I swear, I don't have the urge to maim and kill either of you."

"Yet," she deadpanned.

"Exactly!" Stiles pointed at her. "You say that now, but then the full moon goes up, and out come the fangs and the claws, and there's a lot of howling and screaming and running everywhere, okay? And it's very stressful on me, and so yes, I'm still locking you up."

Scott exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. "Okay, fine. But I do think I'm more in control now, especially since things are good with Allison."

Stiles immediately bristled. "Okay, I'm aware of how good things are with Allison."

"I'm double aware of how good things are," Octavia added, grimacing. "Considering I have to hear about it from both of you."

Scott grinned, oblivious to their discomfort. "They're really good."

She exchanged a pained look with Stiles.

"I-thank you, I know," he muttered.

"I mean, like, really good..."

"All right, I get it! Just please, shut the hell up before I have the urge to maim and kill myself."

Octavia smirked. "I think there's a spell for that."

Scott wisely dropped the subject, instead pivoting to a more pressing issue. "All right. Did you get something better than handcuffs this time?"

Stiles brightened and swung his backpack off his shoulder, nodding. "Yeah, much better."

With a practiced flick, he opened his gym locker. A long, clanking stream of heavy-duty chains came pouring out like some kind of metal waterfall, rattling against the tiled floor with a deafening crash.

Half the locker room turned to watch.

Octavia stood, arms crossed, amusement dancing in her eyes as Scott and Stiles stiffened under the weight of their growing humiliation. "Not compensating for anything, are we?"

Stiles shot her a quick glare as he let the chains fall. "Ha. Ha. You're hilarious. But when Scott's not turning me into human confetti, we'll see who's laughing."

"Probably still me."

Coach Finstock appeared beside them, chewing his gum with the slow, deliberate movements of a man who had seen too much. He stared at the pile of chains, then at Stiles, then back at the chains.

"Part of me wants to ask," he said, voice perfectly even. "The other part says knowing will be more disturbing than anything I could ever imagine. So, I'm gonna walk away."

"That's good. That's a wise choice, Coach," Stiles replied smoothly, recovering some of his dignity as he bent to pick up the chains.

But Finstock wasn't done. His gaze slid back to Octavia, and he let out a long-suffering sigh. "And girl McCall, what did I tell you about being in here?"

Octavia barely batted an eye. "Not to get caught?"

"Try again."

"Coach, it's fine. I'd either puke at the sight of it or laugh at the size of it." she offered, gesturing vaguely to the room in general.

Stiles choked on his own breath. A couple of the guys snickered. Finstock pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling as though questioning all of his life choices.

"Just—just get out of here before I have to start filling out paperwork," he grumbled, already walking away.

"Gladly," Octavia chirped.

Stiles watched her go, an unreadable look flickering across his face. It wasn't until Scott nudged him that he snapped out of it, shaking his head as if to clear it.

"Shut up," he muttered before Scott could say anything.

Scott just smirked.

The heavy chains still sat in a tangled mess on the floor, but Stiles hadn't moved to pick them up yet. He was still staring at the locker room exit where Octavia had disappeared, an odd, unreadable expression flickering across his face.

Scott, who had long since learned to read his best friend's weird behavior, arched an eyebrow. He bent down, gathering a few chain links, and gave Stiles a knowing look.

"You know, you look at her a lot," Scott mused, his voice deliberately casual.

Stiles snapped out of whatever trance he had been in, blinking hard. "What?" he asked, his voice pitching just a little too high. "No, I don't."

Scott smirked. "Yeah, you do."

"No, I don't."

Scott tilted his head, feigning deep thought. "Huh. That's weird 'cause I could've sworn you do. Like, all the time."

Stiles laughed incredulously, shaking his head as he aggressively stuffed the chain into his bag. "Pfft. Please. I look at lots of people. I look at you all the time. Maybe you should be worried about that."

Scott didn't let up. "Right. Except you don't get all weird when you look at me."

"I'm not weird—"

"And you don't stare at me like you're trying really hard not to stare."

"I don't—"

"And you don't get all defensive when I bring it up."

"I AM NOT DEFENSIVE!" Stiles exploded, immediately proving Scott's point.

Scott grinned. He crossed his arms, watching as Stiles fumed, huffing like a cornered animal.

"You like her," Scott said simply.

That was it. Three words. No teasing, no smirking—just a fact laid out in the open.

Stiles froze. His mouth opened, then closed, his brain visibly buffering as he struggled to find an escape route that didn't exist.

Scott watched the way Stiles' hands clenched around the strap of his backpack, his jaw locked, and his heartbeat jumped—and that was all the confirmation he needed.

Stiles let out a breath, dragging a hand down his face. "Okay, first of all, you don't know that," he tried weakly. "Second, even if you did know that—which you don't—it wouldn't matter because she doesn't see me like that. And third—" He pointed a finger at Scott, eyes narrowing. "Shut up."

Scott's smirk deepened. "You like her," he repeated, clearly enjoying this too much.

"You're a werewolf, not a therapist," Stiles shot back. "Stay in your lane."

Scott just laughed. "Dude, this is so much worse than you even realize."

"How is it worse?" Stiles demanded.

"Because you think you're hiding it." Scott slung his backpack over his shoulder and shot Stiles a knowing grin. "But you're not."

Stiles groaned loudly, turning and slamming his locker shut like that would somehow shut down the conversation. "Can we not do this right now?"

Scott shrugged. "Sure. But one day, you're gonna have to admit it. To her."

Stiles scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, and one day, you'll stop being a lovesick puppy over Allison, but I'm not holding my breath."

Scott didn't take the bait. "Mmhmm. Keep deflecting."

"I'm not deflecting."

"Okay."

"I'm not—"

"Alright."

"Scott—"

"I believe you."

"You so don't."

Scott grinned again. "Nope."

Stiles groaned again, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. "You're the worst."

"And you're in love with my sister."

Octavia sat between Scott and Stiles in chemistry, her arms crossed over her notebook, the eraser of her pencil pressed against her temple as she attempted to look invested in the periodic table projected on the board. Mr. Harris droned on at the front of the room, his monotone voice barely rising above the soft hum of the overhead lights. The air smelled like chalk dust and teenage boy—unfortunate, considering she was sandwiched between two of them.

Scott leaned in, voice low but urgent. "So, Isaac Lahey's a werewolf now."

That snapped her attention back from the land of zoned-out daydreams. She blinked. "Wait—what? Since when? I miss one practice..."

Stiles, already scribbling nonsense in the margins of his notebook, leaned closer from the other side. "Since Derek decided to go full recruiter mode. Apparently, Isaac took the bite."

Octavia's eyes widened. "Seriously? Isaac? He barely talks. What, did Derek lure him with a free brooding class?"

"Why would Derek choose Isaac?"

"Peter told me that if the bite doesn't turn you, it could kill you... And maybe teenagers have a better chance at surviving?" Stiles whispered.

"Doesn't being a teenager mean your dad can't hold him?" Scott asked.

Octavia glanced at her brother. "Since when do you know that much about legal custody laws?"

Scott ignored her.

"Not unless they have solid evidence," Stiles answered, adding dramatically, "Or a witness..."

He spun in his seat so fast Octavia nearly toppled off hers, trying to get out of his way.

"Danny!" Stiles called across the aisle, leaning over dangerously far. "Where's Jackson?"

Danny didn't even look up from his notebook. "In the principal's office. Talking to your dad."

"What? Why?" Scott asked, brows furrowing.

Danny finally looked up, tone dry. "Maybe because he lives across the street from Isaac?"

Octavia blinked slowly. "That seems...important."

"Witness," Scott said, the puzzle clicking into place.

Stiles twisted back around. "We gotta get to the principal's office."

"What?" Octavia asked at the same time Scott said, "How?"

Stiles leaned in again, eyes bright with the thrill of coming up with something incredibly dumb. "Okay, so Plan A."

Octavia narrowed her eyes. "Why do I already hate this?"

"Simple," Stiles whispered, "you pretend to faint. Full-on dramatic collapse. Desk, floor, maybe twitch a little—just enough to cause a distraction. While Harris checks your pulse and has a nervous breakdown, we slip out."

Scott raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"I mean, it worked in a movie I saw once," Stiles defended, already hyping himself up. "You're a theater kid at heart, Birdie. This is your Oscar moment."

"I was tree number three in our third-grade play," she deadpanned.

"And it was a powerful performance," Stiles whispered reverently.

She rolled her eyes. "I am not fake-fainting. Do you know how hard it is to fall convincingly without breaking something? What if I land on my face? What if my shoe flies off and hits Harris in the jugular?"

Stiles paused, tilting his head. "Honestly, that would still be a win for us."

Octavia gave him a long, unimpressed look. "I'm so glad you're not in charge of actual emergencies."

Scott bit back a laugh as he glanced toward the front of the room. Harris was mid-lecture now, pacing like a man on a mission to bore them all into submission.

"We need a real distraction," Scott muttered.

"I gave you one," Stiles insisted. "Performance art! High drama!"

Octavia raised her hand slowly like she was in class. "Question: if Plan A fails, am I legally allowed to blame everything on you?"

"Of course," Stiles said, hand over his heart. "I'll even sign something."

Before Octavia could suggest something better—or at least less humiliating—Scott reached for his notebook, tore out a sheet of paper, crumpled it into a tight ball, and, without warning, hurled it straight at Mr. Harris.

The class burst into laughter. Mr. Harris whirled around, fury brewing in his eyes. "Who in the hell did that?!"

Stiles pointed at Scott.

Scott pointed at Octavia.

Octavia, scandalized and betrayed, pointed at Stiles.

Mr. Harris stormed down the aisle toward them, his beady eyes narrowing with each step. Octavia forced her most innocent expression onto her face, though she could already feel her cheeks turning red.

"I know it wasn't you," Harris said, waving her off like an annoying fly. "You're not stupid enough to get caught."

"Well, thank you—I think?" she said, glancing between her brother and Stiles, who looked way too smug for people about to be written up.

Harris pointed at Scott and Stiles. "You two. Principal's office. Now."

Stiles didn't move right away. Instead, he leaned over Octavia's desk, whispering, "If we don't make it back, tell Mars he still owes me twenty bucks."

"And tell mom I said sorry for the thing she doesn't know I did yet," Scott added.

Octavia rolled her eyes. "You two are so dramatic. It's literally the principal's office, not prison."

"Famous last words," Stiles muttered, and as he stood, his hand briefly brushed Octavia's—just a blink of contact, but enough to send a strange, flickering awareness through her. She blinked it away just as quickly, blaming the fluorescent lights and too much secondhand cologne.

She watched the two of them go, shoulders hunched, whispering conspiratorially even as they rounded the corner. Something warm flickered in her chest. Affection, probably. Or exasperation. They were basically the same thing with those two.

Mr. Harris cleared his throat. "Miss McCall, would you like to join them?"

She blinked back into focus. "Nope. Just silently judging them from here."

He grunted and turned away.

Octavia exhaled, slumping in her seat, then finally opened her textbook.

She only read one paragraph before her eyes drifted back to the door they'd disappeared through.

Idiots.

Months ago, Octavia would've chalked it all up to a funny coincidence—that Rhiannon May never worked the night of a full moon or that the odd little witchcraft shop tacked onto the café always seemed to hum with extra energy the day before it. Just quirks of Beacon Hills. Nothing more.

Back then, she might've shrugged it off with a smirk and returned to steaming milk for a teenager who wanted a latte that tasted as little like coffee as possible.

But now?

Now, she was standing on the front steps of Rhiannon's home under the silver eye of a full moon, which, according to her boss, was an ideal time for a "first lesson." A phrase that had been delivered with a wink and absolutely no follow-up. Typical.

She had expected something eccentric. Maybe a cluttered cottage filled with hanging herbs and cryptic chalk symbols—something quaint. Witchy.

Instead, she found herself facing a bubblegum-pink Victorian mansion with turrets, ivy creeping up the sides, and the distinct aura of "definitely haunted by a Victorian child who coughs blood in your sleep."

Octavia tilted her head, one eyebrow arching as she took it all in. "Of course, she lives in Barbie's haunted dream house," she muttered to herself, then reached out and pressed the antique brass doorbell. It let out a muffled chime from deep within like the sound had to echo through several planes of existence before reaching someone.

She rocked back on the balls of her feet, hands jammed into the pockets of her hoodie, trying to ignore the flutter of nerves. Whether it was the moon, the witchcraft, or the fact that Rhiannon had taken a strangely personal interest in her lately, something about tonight felt heavier. Charged.

The door creaked open—not dramatically, but enough to add to the vibe—and there stood Clementine May.

She wasn't what Octavia had braced for, not at that moment, not under the glow of the porch lantern that lit her like something out of a painting. Clementine wore a soft, oversized sweater in a dusky lavender color that made her hair—dark at the roots, fading into a silvery rose—glow in the light. A candle flickered behind her somewhere, casting soft shadows over the hallway behind her.

"Hey," Clementine said, her voice low and kind of smoky. Not in a trying-to-be-mysterious way. It just... was.

Octavia blinked. Forgot to say anything.

Clementine tilted her head, amused. "You planning to come in, or were you just admiring the architectural trauma?"

Octavia huffed a laugh. "Little bit of both. Is that a gargoyle on the balcony?"

"Yes. His name's Edgar. Don't look him in the eye."

That earned a grin. Octavia stepped inside, the air warm and perfumed with something herbal—lavender, maybe, or sage. A cat slipped past her ankle like a shadow. The floor creaked beneath her sneakers.

"Rhiannon's upstairs," Clementine said, nudging the door shut behind them. "She said to bring you up when you got here. But she also said not to rush. Which is basically code for 'don't interrupt my potion-crafting while it's volatile.' So..."

"So," Octavia repeated, glancing around at the high ceilings, the velvet drapes, the shelves filled with books that looked older than most countries. "This is where you grew live?"

"Grew up, escaped, and now get roped back," Clementine said dryly. She leaned against the banister, arms crossed loosely. "You nervous?"

Octavia met her gaze. There was something about Clementine's eyes—pale and sharp like she saw more than she let on.

"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to feel," Octavia admitted. "Excited? Terrified? Deep spiritual dread?"

Clementine smiled slowly. "All of the above is normal."

The air between them hung for a beat—warm and pulsing. Octavia felt it settle in her chest, that flutter again, stronger now. Clementine pushed off the banister and gestured with a flick of her fingers.

"Come on," she said. "I'll give you the five-cent tour. And sneak you some cookies before Rhiannon starts talking about your 'latent potential' like you're a Marvel character.

Octavia followed, her footsteps soft against the hardwood, her heart doing something suspiciously hopeful.

Clementine led her down a long hallway lined with framed botanical prints, shelves of dried herbs in labeled jars, and the occasional mirror Octavia could swear warped slightly when she passed it.

"This place feels like a museum curated by a really dramatic herbalist," Octavia said, trailing a finger along the banister. "Or, like, if a haunted apothecary had a Pinterest board."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Clementine replied, tossing her a glance over her shoulder.

"It's not," Octavia said, and she meant it. There was something oddly comforting about the dusty grandeur of the place—the slightly off-kilter paintings, the flickering candles, the way every room seemed to be holding its breath.

They passed a sitting room filled with velvet chairs and an old record player humming soft jazz. A few candles floated lazily near the ceiling like sleepy fireflies. Clementine paused in the doorway, leaning her shoulder against the frame.

"Rhiannon says the house has a memory," she said quietly, her voice lower here. "It holds onto emotions. So if you're in a good mood, it'll treat you kindly. If you're not..." She lifted a shoulder. "The doors stick. The lights flicker. Weird things happen."

Octavia glanced around, feeling a chill trace her spine—but it wasn't fear. More like awe. The house wasn't just old. It was alive.

"You ever try yelling at it?" Octavia asked. "That's usually how Stiles fixes his car. Well, that and duct tape."

Clementine snorted. "Yeah. Didn't work. It just locked me in the library for two hours."

"Oh my god." Octavia grinned. "That sounds like something you'd make up to avoid family dinner."

"It was tempting to stay in there, honestly. Better than listening to Rhiannon explain Mercury retrograde over soup."

Octavia laughed again, the sound echoing softly off the high ceilings. Clementine was easy to talk to—sharp, deadpan, and weird enough to match Octavia's offbeat wavelength.

They rounded a corner and passed what looked like a narrow sunroom strung with dried flowers and crystals, where a large orange cat lay sprawled across a velvet settee like it paid rent.

"Oh my god, who is this?" Octavia dropped to a crouch instantly, holding out her hand. The cat lifted its head with disdain, blinked slowly, and meowed like it had something deeply judgmental to say.

"That's Rhubarb," Clementine said. "He's technically Fox's cat, but Rhubarb only listens to people he respects, which... is no one."

As if to prove her point, Rhubarb stood, stretched like a diva, and hopped off the couch with a dramatic flick of his tail.

"Wait—Fox has a cat?" Octavia blinked. "That... doesn't feel legal."

"Right?" Clementine gave a crooked smile. "I'm still not sure how it happened. One day, Fox showed up with this six-toed menace and said, 'He found me.'"

"Of course he did." Octavia watched Rhubarb disappear into the shadows like a feline cryptid. "You sure he didn't hatch from an egg?"

"Jury's still out on that one," Clementine said. "But I have seen the birth certificate. Unfortunately."

Octavia gave her a look. "Is it made of black parchment and signed in blood?"

"I think he keeps it in an obsidian envelope, actually."

They grinned at each other, the kind of shared smirk that buzzed a little too long—just enough for Octavia to suddenly realize how close they were standing. Clementine's gaze lingered, warm and amused, and Octavia felt a hitch in her chest she wasn't prepared for.

Before she could say something to break the tension (likely sarcastic, definitely unnecessary), a door creaked open down the hall.

Footsteps. Heavy. Unhurried.

And then he appeared: tall, moody, wrapped in some oversized sweater that looked like it belonged to a 19th-century poet recently returned from exile. Fox May.

He glanced at them with mild disinterest, one brow barely lifting. "You're early," he said to Octavia, his voice low and sandpapery like it had been filtered through midnight and sarcasm.

"She's not," Clementine replied flatly. "You're just always late."

Fox's eyes flicked to her. "You told me seven-thirty."

"It is seven-thirty."

"It's seven-forty-five, actually." Octavia pipped in.

He looked at a clock on the wall and scowled. "Rhubarb chewed through the minute hand again."

A meow of pure mischief echoed from somewhere nearby as if in agreement.

Octavia shook her head, already biting back a grin. "This is weirdly on-brand. You, the haunted house, the candlelight, the suspiciously intelligent cat. I'm honestly just shocked you don't sleep in a coffin and speak in riddles."

Fox gave her a slow blink, utterly unimpressed. "You say that like it's not aspirational."

"And yet," Octavia said, stepping past him, "I'm still reconciling that you didn't hatch from an egg."

Clementine covered a laugh with a cough. Fox looked at Octavia like she'd just threatened to write poetry near him.

"I do have a mother," he said dryly.

"Do you?" she replied, raising an eyebrow. "Or was she just the storm that bore you?"

He opened his mouth, paused, then tilted his head. "Okay. That was almost good."

Clementine gave Octavia a small, conspiratorial smile, and for a moment, the hallway felt too warm again—like something between them had clicked into place without either of them saying it out loud.

"Anyway," Clementine said, nudging Octavia gently. "Come on. We'll detour through the conservatory before Rhiannon finishes her moon chant and decides to test your aura or something."

The room beyond looked like a cross between an alchemist's workspace and an antique greenhouse. Moonlight spilled in from a skylight above, casting a silvery glow across the tiled floor. Shelves held numerous jars, books, bones, and feathers. A chalk circle was drawn on the floor in pale silver, etched with symbols Octavia couldn't read but somehow felt—like they vibrated behind her eyes.

Rhiannon May stood at the far end of the room, a loose robe swaying around her as she adjusted something in a ceramic bowl on a pedestal. She didn't turn as Octavia entered.

"You're late," she said lightly. "But I forgive you. Rhubarb's been distracting everyone tonight."

"I feel like that cat's an agent of chaos," Octavia muttered.

"Correct," Rhiannon said, now turning to face her. Her hair was loose, wild as always, and her eyes seemed even brighter than usual. "The moon's full. The veil's thinner. The house listens, and so does the magic. That means you will, too."

"I didn't realize this was going to be, like... real." Octavia stepped inside, scanning the room again. "I figured there'd be some incense, maybe a weird chant or two. Not... this."

Rhiannon smiled, but it was a quiet one. Knowing. "Oh, sweetheart. You were born into this long before I offered you tea and a part-time job."

Octavia's mouth went dry.

"I'm not going to throw you into anything," Rhiannon continued. "Tonight is about listening. Learning how to feel the pulse of things. You already do it, don't you?"

"I—what do you mean?"

Rhiannon gestured toward the center of the room, where a candle burned with a blue flame. "Step inside the circle."

Octavia hesitated. Her fingertips tingled.

She stepped in.

A hush fell over the room the instant she crossed the chalk boundary. Not silence—just stillness. Like everything around her was waiting.

"Good," Rhiannon said. "Now breathe. Close your eyes."

Octavia did.

The scent of sage curled through the air. Her heart beat steadily, but underneath it, something else rose—a hum, a vibration deep in her chest, like the room's bones were singing.

Rhiannon's voice came from somewhere behind her. "Focus. Feel where the energy pulls."

Octavia didn't try to reach for anything. She just let herself notice.

The moon above felt like a tether—bright, humming. The floor under her feet buzzed. Her skin prickled, not unpleasantly. Her pulse slowed. And suddenly—

A rush of emotion hit her.

Not her own.

Something old. Gentle. Grief-laced. A memory that wasn't hers curled through her chest like a ghost brushing past.

She gasped, eyes snapping open. The candle in front of her flared high, the flame twisting.

Outside the circle, Rhiannon watched her calmly. "There it is," she murmured.

Octavia stumbled back a step. "What—what was that?"

"Echo," Rhiannon said. "From the house. Or the moon. Or something inside you that's waking up. Don't fear it. Just learn it."

Octavia felt her breath catch again, not from fear but something strangely like recognition. Like some small part of her had been waiting for this.

From the doorway, Clementine's voice broke the quiet.

"She okay?"

Octavia turned.

Clementine stood just inside the room now, eyes on her—not worried, not surprised. Just... watching.

"She's more than okay," Rhiannon said, her voice fond. "She's aligned."

Octavia looked at Clementine, her hands still tingling, the moment's weight settling around her like a second skin. And in the soft curve of Clementine's mouth—half smile, half something she wasn't saying—Octavia felt something else shift.

Not magical.

Just real.

Just... there.

And maybe just beginning.

The conservatory was quieter now. The moonlight had shifted, casting long shadows across the tiled floor, and the candles had burned low, their flickering reflections dancing in the windows. Rhiannon had vanished with no fanfare—something about "the herbs won't sort themselves"—leaving Octavia and Clementine alone again.

Octavia sat on the edge of a low velvet bench, elbows on her knees, hands still faintly tingling. She wasn't sure if it was leftover magic, adrenaline, or both.

Across from her, Clementine leaned against a windowsill, one leg tucked up beneath her, nursing a chipped mug of something that smelled like lemon and mint. She hadn't said much since Rhiannon left. She hadn't needed to.

"I feel like I just got struck by lightning," Octavia finally said, rubbing her palms together. "Emotionally. Magically. Existentially."

"That means it worked," Clementine said, her voice soft.

Octavia looked up at her. "Has it ever hit you like that? The whole... echo-of-the-universe thing?"

Clementine tilted her head. "Once. When I was thirteen. My aunt had me cast in the circle alone for the first time. I opened myself up too far, and the house poured in like a wave. I couldn't speak for a full day after."

"Damn." Octavia exhaled slowly, trying to slow the flutter behind her ribs. "And you kept coming back?"

"Of course," Clementine said. "That's how you learn where the edges are. And what happens when you lean past them."

They sat in the hush that followed. A moth tapped quietly against one of the tall windows. Somewhere deeper in the house, a floorboard groaned like it remembered something.

"I still feel like I'm faking it," Octavia murmured, not really intending to say it out loud. "I've had this... thing in me for a while now. I knew something was different. I just didn't grow up with this—" she gestured vaguely around the room, "—circle-casting, moon-phase-tracking, family grimoire kind of life. I'm not like you. Or Rhiannon. You're all... steeped in it."

"You're still a witch, Octavia," Clementine said simply. "Born into it or not. Magic doesn't care how you got here—it just wants to know if you're going to show up."

Octavia's eyes flicked toward her. "What if I'm scared I'm not enough for it?"

"Then that's something you feel," Clementine said. "Not something that's true."

Octavia was quiet, her hands curling around the hem of her sweatshirt. "That moment in the circle didn't feel like I was calling the magic. It felt like it was calling me."

"That's how you know it's real," Clementine said gently.

Their eyes met across the space, and something in Octavia's chest unfolded like a page being turned. Clementine wasn't just reassuring her—she meant it. There was no trace of doubt in her voice.

Octavia hesitated, then asked, "Is that what you see when you look at me? Some kind of... wandering baby witch?"

Clementine smiled faintly. "No. When I look at you, I see someone powerful who hasn't been told she can believe it yet."

That made Octavia pause. Her throat went a little tight, but not in a bad way.

"You're going to be something rare," Clementine added, her voice softer now. "Because you're not just learning spells—you're listening. You feel everything. That's your magic."

"You mean the constant emotional whiplash?" Octavia said dryly.

Clementine laughed, low and warm. "Exactly. It's your superpower. Even if it sucks sometimes."

"I'm glad it was you," Octavia said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Tonight, I mean. Guiding me through it."

Clementine's lips curved, small, and real.

"I'm glad it was me, too."

She set her mug down, pushed off the windowsill, and slowly crossed the space between them. Their knees barely brushed when she sat beside Octavia, but the touch sparked like static. Clementine leaned forward, elbows resting on her thighs, mirroring Octavia's posture.

Close now. Closer than before.

"You're going to be something powerful," Clementine said softly. "But you don't have to rush. You've got time. And people."

Octavia's breath caught. "People like you?"

Clementine smiled again—wider this time but no less gentle. "Exactly like me."

Later, the two of them ended up on the rooftop.

Clementine had led her up a narrow, creaky staircase Octavia hadn't noticed before, hidden behind an old tapestry in the upstairs hallway. They'd climbed in silence, not because there was nothing to say—but because neither of them wanted to break whatever this was.

The rooftop was flat and slightly uneven, lined with iron railings and tangled vines that crawled up from below. From here, Beacon Hills stretched out in silver-blue shadows. The moon hung huge and pale above them, casting the world in quiet light.

Clementine handed Octavia a blanket—some faded plaid thing that smelled faintly of lavender—and sat beside her on the low edge of the roof. Their shoulders touched. Neither of them moved away.

"You ever come up here just to think?" Octavia asked after a few minutes.

"Sometimes," Clementine said, watching the stars. "When it gets too loud downstairs. Or when the house feels too... full."

"Full of what?"

Clementine's smile was soft, a little sad. "Memories. Magic. Ghosts. Mars. Same as anyone."

Octavia hummed, looking up. "It's kind of beautiful. In a terrifying, possibly-haunted, may-or-may-not-be-psychically alive kind of way."

"I think that's the point," Clementine said. "It's never either or. It's always both."

Octavia turned to look at her then, and Clementine was already looking back.

The moon lit her face gently—highlighting the soft curve of her cheek, the pale streaks in her hair, the steady, unreadable gaze she always wore like armor. But something in her expression had shifted now. Softer. Unshielded.

Octavia's heart thudded.

There wasn't a clear moment when the distance started to close. It just... happened. A shared glance, a flicker of something unspoken, Clementine leaned in—barely, cautiously. Octavia mirrored it without thinking, drawn forward like a tide pulling her to shore.

They were so close she could feel Clementine's breath—warm and steady. So close her lips tingled with anticipation.

And then—

Ring ring.

Octavia was startled as her phone buzzed violently in her hoodie pocket, the harsh ringtone slicing through the moment like a knife.

"Seriously?" she whispered, already knowing who it was. Only one person had the audacity to call her at peak almost-kiss o'clock.

She pulled the phone out, glancing apologetically at Clementine, who was already leaning back with a groan and a faint, resigned smile.

"Stiles," Octavia said as she answered. "Unless you are actively on fire, I'm putting you on silent and resuming something extremely important."

His voice came rapid-fire, panicked:

"Okay, great, then you can help save Isaac from being murdered because some guy dressed as a deputy is on his way to the station right now with a bullet full of wolfsbane, and I'm already on the way to get Derek, but I think we need backup and literally anyone who can throw a punch or, like, cast a protective circle or something!"

Octavia blinked. "...What?"

"Isaac. Station. Wolfsbane. Like, right now!" Stiles said. "Argents sent him. Or at least a Gerard-shaped person did. I don't know! Just get there fast!"

The call ended with his usual zero sense of closure.

Octavia stared at the phone for a second, then sighed and let her head fall back against the roof.

"I'm guessing that was Stiles," Clementine said, half amused, half annoyed.

"Yep," Octavia muttered. "Apparently, someone dressed like a cop is on their way to kill Isaac with wolfsbane."

Clementine blinked. "That's... a sentence."

"Welcome to my life," Octavia said, standing. "Sorry. I—this was..."

"I know," Clementine said, rising with her. "It's okay. Go."

They moved toward the stairwell, the blanket forgotten behind them. Octavia turned at the last second, hesitating in the doorway.

"I want to finish that moment," she said quietly. "Just... later."

Clementine's smile was small but certain. "Good. Because I do, too."

Stiles' powder blue Jeep skidded into the lot of the Beacon County Sheriff's Station with its usual lack of subtlety, the tires crunching gravel as if the car itself shared its driver's anxiety. David Condo's "Like Wolves" played through the Jeep's speakers—something moody and edgy with just enough bite to be on-brand.

Octavia sat in the back seat, chin resting in her hand, eyes flicking between the building and the speakers. She didn't say anything, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

"You made a playlist?" she asked dryly.

"It's thematic," Stiles defended from the driver's seat, adjusting the volume. "And if we die tonight, I'd like to do it to the sound of indie werewolf puns."

In the passenger seat, Derek Hale remained stone-faced, as if the concept of music—or humor—was beneath him.

"Okay," Stiles said, pulling the Jeep into park. "Okay. Now, the keys to every cell are in a password-protected lockbox in my father's office. The problem is getting past the front desk."

"I'll distract her," Derek said, already reaching for the door like it was a done deal.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Stiles lunged, grabbing Derek's leather jacket like a man holding back a bulldozer. "You? You're not going in there."

Derek slowly looked down at the hand on his jacket, then up at Stiles—expression unreadable but full of that quiet promise of violence.

"I'm taking my hand off," Stiles said quickly, lifting both palms in surrender.

From the backseat, Octavia snorted, the sound bubbling out before she could stop it. Her nerves were spiking, but this? This was weirdly comforting—watching them bicker like this. Familiar chaos.

"I was exonerated," Derek said stiffly.

"You're still a person of interest, genius," Octavia chimed in, cocking her head. "You walk in there, and she's calling backup in, like, two seconds."

"An innocent person."

"An—You? Yeah, right." Stiles laughed sharply, grinning like he couldn't help it.

"That's adorable."

Derek's glare darkened, and Stiles immediately regretted every life choice that had led to this moment. He sighed in defeat. "Okay, fine. What's your plan?"

"To distract her."

"Uh-huh. How?" Stiles leaned forward. "By punching her in the face?"

Derek offered him a sarcastic laugh. "By talking to her."

"Okay. All right. Give me a sample. What are you gonna open with?"

Silence.

The kind that echoed.

"Dead silence," Stiles muttered. "That should work beautifully. Any other ideas?"

"I'm thinking about punching you in the face."

Stiles glanced between Derek and Octavia like he'd been betrayed by his own backup. For her part, Octavia burst into laughter, head tipping back as she leaned into the seat. It was the first time since she got in the car that she'd actually smiled, and Stiles noticed it. He always did.

But she didn't notice him noticing.

Inside the station, Derek worked his reluctant charm on the front desk deputy, leaning on the desk with practiced brooding while Stiles and Octavia slipped quietly into the sheriff's office.

Inside the station, Derek worked his reluctant charm on the front desk deputy, leaning on the desk with practiced brooding while Stiles and Octavia slipped quietly into the sheriff's office.

The lights were low, and shadows stretched long across the floor. Octavia's pulse ticked faster with every step. The full moon hung heavy in the sky outside the window, casting the room in silver-blue light.

Stiles punched in the code with shaking fingers. The lockbox clicked open—empty.

"Oh, no," he whispered.

Octavia barely had time to process it before Stiles grabbed her hand and yanked her into motion, dragging her through the hallways. His grip was firm, sweaty, a little frantic—and she didn't let go. Her fingers stayed locked with his, not because she was afraid, but because... something in her buzzed.

Something was wrong.

A presence hit her senses like a wave—dense, cold, and wrong, twisting in her stomach like a hook being pulled.

"Stiles—" she started.

And then they collided with him.

A man—sweaty, pale, in a deputy's uniform stained dark with blood—staggered into the corridor. Octavia immediately saw the snapped-off arrow in his leg, the sickly crimson trail behind him. Her breath hitched. Her senses spiked. He felt like static—violent, fraying at the edges. Not fear. Intent.

She squeezed Stiles' hand hard.

He looked at the man's legs, saw the arrow, and cursed. "Oh, sh—"

They turned, bolting down the hallway. But the hunter was faster than he looked.

His hand clawed at Octavia's jacket—she twisted free with a sharp breath, adrenaline surging like fire in her veins—but Stiles wasn't as lucky. The hunter grabbed him, slamming a hand over his mouth and dragging him back toward the holding cells.

Octavia turned heart, lurching. "Stiles!"

She didn't think. She moved, feet skidding on the tile as she sprinted back the way they'd come. Just out of the deputy's view, she reached the front desk and waved frantically at Derek through the glass, her eyes wide, movements urgent.

He saw her.

And he didn't hesitate.

They burst into the holding area seconds later—Octavia rushing straight to Stiles, who had backed himself into a corner, panicked and still breathless. The syringe—glinting faintly with wolfsbane—lay shattered beneath Derek's boot.

The noise startled Isaac, who turned in his cell—eyes glowing gold, growling low and guttural.

His gaze landed on Octavia and Stiles.

He took a step forward.

Octavia froze something cold and electric, zipping through her spine. The fear in the room lit up like fireworks in her chest—Stiles', Isaac's, her own. She felt it all, each note of it distinct and raw.

Isaac was going to lunge.

But Derek growled—loud and deep, full Alpha mode.

Isaac stopped short, the sound pinning him in place. He backed away slowly, retreating to the corner of the cell, trembling.

Octavia's chest ached.

"How did you do that?" Stiles gasped, voice shaky. His hand was still wrapped around hers like he hadn't even realized he hadn't let go.

Derek glanced over his shoulder, smug. "I'm the Alpha."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Octavia muttered.

But she didn't let go of Stiles' hand.

And he didn't let go of hers.

┗━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━┛

fox and rhubarb are an iconic duo i don't make the rules

also, bi octavia!

the other day i was thinking about the fact that i almost used jamie campbell bower as fox's face claim but i didn't want to use 3 stranger things actors in the book but also dylan o'brien and logan lerman being besties irl just made it seem so much more fitting.

idk, who would you use as a face claim for my oc's (or anyone else in the teen wolf universe)?


just found out that the end of this chapter didn't get added when i transferred it over sooooo uhhhh yeah

𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚘𝚝𝚎