┏━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━┓

It had been two nights since Octavia McCall and Clementine May almost kissed.

Almost.

The moment lingered like smoke — hazy, unspoken, and impossible to grasp. Octavia had left the May residence that night with flushed cheeks and the reckless insistence that whatever it was, they both wanted it. But since then? Silence.

Not a word was exchanged during their closing shift at Deja Brew, where the air smelled of espresso and secrets. They moved around each other like magnets flipped to the wrong poles — close, aware, but never touching.

Not a glance during the lacrosse practice, where they watched Scott and Stiles barrel across the field, Mars shouting unsolicited commentary from the bleachers. Clementine sat beside her, so close Octavia could feel the heat radiating off her arm, but their eyes never met.

And now, in the fluorescent-lit purgatory of gym class, it was no different.

Scott and Allison were halfway up the rock climbing wall, clipped into their harnesses and bathed in harsh overhead light. Octavia stood at the edge of the mat, arms crossed, pretending she was fascinated by her shoelaces.

Clementine stood several feet away, tying her hoodie around her waist with deliberate precision, like she needed something to do with her hands. The space between them felt like a battlefield lined with unsaid things. Lydia, ever the tactician, clocked it immediately.

From beside her, Lydia raised a perfectly sculpted brow. "Do you want to explain what's going on with you and the Indie Film Protagonist over there?" she whispered, her voice dipped in curiosity and sass.

Octavia's head snapped up. "Clementine," she corrected sharply. "And it's nothing."

Lydia snorted softly. "Doesn't look like nothing."

She cast a judgmental glance at Clementine, who was now rubbing dried paint off her forearm — a streak of dusty sage green that clung stubbornly to her pale skin. Her platinum hair was in a messy braid, a few strands falling into her eyes, and she had on one of those old band shirts Octavia was secretly obsessed with. Lydia, unsurprisingly, looked unimpressed.

"She could try a brush her hair, maybe use conditioner," Lydia muttered. "Or, I don't know, clothes that weren't stolen from a thrift store ghost."

Octavia opened her mouth — probably to defend Clementine or say something — but was cut off by the loud thud of Scott losing his balance and flailing mid-air.

He was caught by the harness, of course, but only barely. He dangled there for a split second before he hit the mat with a dramatic oof.

The coach took a seat on the mat and laughed. "McCall, I don't know why, but your pain gives me a special kind of joy... Right?"

Coach stood up, "All right, next two! Stilinski, Erica, let's go! The wall."

Octavia watched as Stiles offered Erica Reyes a kind smile, soft and disarming.

He ascended the wall with surprising grace — limbs long and awkward, sure, but practiced. When he reached the top, he kicked off the wall with a theatrical flourish, flexing exaggeratedly in Octavia's direction.

She rolled her eyes and snorted, biting back a smile. "Show-off," she muttered.

Clementine glanced at her from the corner of her eye. Octavia didn't notice.

Erica, on the other hand, wasn't doing so great. Halfway up, she paused. Her breathing hitched. Her fingers went stiff against the next hold.

Octavia felt it like a ripple—a sudden spike of fear, thick and sharp, tightening her chest. Not mine. Her eyes narrowed as she focused on the girl trembling above.

"Erica?" Coach called up. "You dizzy? Is it vertigo?"

Lydia scoffed. "Vertigo's a dysfunction of the vestibular system of the inner ear." She gestured to Erica. "She's just freaking out."

"Erica!"

Erica's voice wavered. "I'm fine!"

Allison stepped forward. "Coach, maybe it's not safe. You know she's epileptic."

"Why doesn't anybody tell me this stuff?"

Octavia's voice cut in, dry and biting. "Because you're the teacher, it's in her file, and reading is fundamental?"

Coach waved her off like an annoying fly." Erica, y-you're fine. Just-just kick off from the wall. Th-there's a mat to catch you. Come on."

Erica finally let go. She landed awkwardly, knees wobbling, but stayed upright. The class broke into a low hum of laughter and whispered jabs.

Octavia's hands curled into fists. "Hey!" she snapped, voice sharp as broken glass. "Shut the fuck up before I—"

A warm palm slapped over her mouth.

Stiles.

"Detention," he warned under his breath, eyes wide. "You can't threaten to murder people again."

She narrowed her eyes at him, a low growl in her throat.

He grinned.

And then yelped. "Did you just lick me?!"

He stumbled back, wiping his palm on his sweats with visible disgust.

Lydia sighed, muttering something under her breath.

"I will bite you," Octavia told Stiles, entirely unbothered.

Clementine watched the exchange from a distance, jaw clenched, but said nothing.

Once in the boys' locker room, the sharp blast of Coach's whistle pierced the low hum of pre-practice chatter. The sound echoed harshly off the tiled walls and metal lockers, slicing through conversations and locker doors slamming shut.

"Listen up!" Coach bellowed, his voice gruff and commanding. "Anybody sees Isaac Lahey, you immediately tell the principal. Get a teacher, or you call me." He paused, scanning the room before his eyes landed on one particular person. "Except for you, Greenberg—don't call me for anything. I'm not kidding. Don't call me. You shouldn't even have my number."

Scott and Stiles exchanged glances as they turned to their lockers.

"Isaac?" Scott asked, brows furrowing.

Stiles shrugged as he tugged off his hoodie. "It's Derek's problem now."

Minutes later, the two stood at their gym lockers, the clank of metal doors and the scent of sweat and cheap deodorant surrounding them.

"What do you mean tonight's not a good idea?" Stiles demanded, pulling his 'Stud-muffin' graphic tee over his head, voice rising with disbelief.

"I don't know." Scott opened his locker, his movements slower, more distracted than usual. "That thing we saw last night, Isaac missing, Allison's grandfather... all this stuff happening with Derek—it just doesn't feel right."

"No, you're not backing out! Do you wanna know why?" Stiles's voice rose, filled with a mix of jest and insistence. He left it rhetorical, barreling ahead. "Because you and Allison are obviously having quite a good time together. And you know who else wants to have a good time? Stiles! Stiles wants to have a good time! Many, many times! Several times in a row! In several different positions! With your sister! Are you even listening to me?"

Scott wasn't.

Across the hall, in the girls' locker room, Octavia had just pulled her sweater over her head when it hit her.

The prickling anxiety started low in her chest, sharp and sudden, like the flick of a switchblade. Her breath caught. Then the tremor came—her hands shook, unsteady, as if her nerves had short-circuited. The metallic tang of fear slid over her tongue. Her vision blurred at the edges, white blooming like overexposed film.

Allison's voice faded like someone had turned down the volume on the world.

Something was wrong.

No—someone was wrong.

Without thinking, Octavia shoved open the locker room doors and sprinted, her boots thudding across the slick floor, rounding the corner with her heart pounding out a warning drumbeat in her chest.

By the time she reached the rock climbing wall, Scott was already there, catching Erica just before her body hit the ground. Her limbs were jerking, spasming violently.

"On her side!" Octavia shouted, dropping to her knees. "Get her on her side—now!"

Scott reacted fast, shifting Erica with practiced ease. Octavia reached out without hesitation, one hand on Erica's shoulder, grounding her. The sensations ripped through her—static, like electricity under her skin. Pain. Panic. Hesynced syncing with Erica's, like her body, was echoing what was happening inside the other girl.

Allison knelt beside them, eyes wide. "How'd you know?" she asked Scott, watching as he took Erica's hand.

Scott didn't look up. "I just felt it."

But Octavia did, too.

The bell had just rung, its shrill tone echoing down the fluorescent-lit hallway, signaling the end of Biology. Students spilled from classrooms in a wave of backpacks and chatter, but Jackson Whittemore didn't notice them. His eyes locked on Lydia Martin's retreating figure as she moved quickly, purposefully, down the corridor.

He barreled after her, his footsteps pounding like thunder on the linoleum floor. Jackson caught up with her, grabbing her arm roughly and yanking her back with enough force to send her stumbling. His hand clamped down like a vice.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he snarled, his face too close to hers, eyes wide and manic with desperation.

"What?" Lydia gasped, her voice a mix of confusion and fear. Her heart leaped into her throat.

"Show it to me." Jackson's voice was low, demanding, and dangerous as he reached for the hem of her skirt. "Come on. Show me."

"Are you out of your mind?!" she shrieked, slapping his hand away, her eyes wide with disbelief and terror.

"Nothing happened to you," he growled, fists clenched. "It's like... It's like you're immune."

"I don't have a clue what you're talking about," Lydia whispered. Her voice trembled, her pupils dilated with panic. She could feel her back pressed to the cool concrete wall, the hallway spinning ever so slightly around her.

That only pushed Jackson further off the edge.

"It's-it's you. Whatever it is-- blood, saliva-- whatever soul-killing substance is running through your veins, you did this to me. You ruined it for me! You ruined everything!"

His voice cracked, unhinged.

"Back off, jackass."

Jackson froze.

A beat of silence passed before he slowly turned his head.

Mars May stood a few feet away, leaning casually against a row of lockers like he'd been watching for a while. But nothing was casual about the tension in his jaw or how his eyes burned into Jackson like twin blades.

"Excuse me?" Jackson sneered, though his bravado flickered.

"I said back. Off." Mars stepped forward now, slow and deliberate, his tall frame casting a long shadow down the hallway. "Or I'll show you exactly what happens to guys who corner girls and put their hands where they don't belong."

Lydia, eyes wide, blinked in disbelief at the sudden shift in power.

Jackson scoffed but took a step back, either from instinct or self-preservation. "This has nothing to do with you."

"It does now," Mars said coldly. "You've got ten seconds to walk away before I make it permanent."

The hallway had grown eerily quiet. A few lingering students paused, watching the scene unfold, sensing the storm in the air.

Jackson looked between Lydia and Mars, jaw clenched, before he turned sharply and stalked off, muttering under his breath.

Lydia let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. Her shoulders sagged, and her fingers trembled as she touched her arm.

Mars turned to her, his voice softer now. "You okay?"

She nodded, but her eyes were glassy. "Yeah. I'm fine. Thanks."

"Next time he gets within five feet of you like that, you call me," Mars said. "Or better yet, knee him where it counts."

A small, shaky laugh slipped from Lydia's lips.

The tension broke just enough.

And Mars smiled—just a flicker. "Come on. Let's get you out of here."

The cafeteria smelled like overcooked fries and adolescent regret. Octavia McCall wrinkled her nose as she pushed open the double doors with her shoulder, falling into step beside Stiles.

"Are you trying to look suspicious?" she asked, eyeing the way he kept his hands shoved in the pockets of his dusty purple zip-up, shoulders hunched like he was smuggling contraband.

"Not suspicious," Stiles replied. "It's called stealth. This is how a man on a mission walks."

"You look like you're about to buy black-market kidneys."

"Still stealth."

They weaved through the chaos of the lunch crowd, dodging rogue tater tots and dodging an airborne juice box. Octavia spotted Boyd at a back table, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"There's your guy," she said. "Try not to embarrass yourself."

Stiles gave her a look. "I am the picture of composure."

He pulled out a chair across from Boyd and sat with faux-casual flair. Octavia dropped into the seat beside him, resting her elbows on the table like she was settling in to watch a show.

"Boyd," Stiles said, trying to sound smooth and failing. "You got the keys?"

Boyd didn't respond at first—he just lifted one hand slowly, letting the keys to the ice rink dangle from a worn leather chain. Stiles lit up like a kid on Christmas, reaching for them.

But Boyd didn't let go.

"This isn't a favor," he said. "It's a transaction."

"Right," Stiles nodded, already patting his pockets. "Absolutely."

He pulled out a wrinkled twenty and slapped it on the table more confidently than warranted.

Boyd didn't move.

"I said fifty."

Stiles blinked. "Really? I-I remember twenty. I don't know, I have a really good verbal memory, and I remember twenty. I remember that distinct 'twuh' sound, 'twuh-enty.'"

"I said 'fifty.' With the 'fuh' sound. Hear the difference?" Boyd deadpanned. "If you can't, I can demonstrate some other words with the 'fuh' sound."

Octavia leaned in with a smirk. "Oh, please do."

Stiles shot her a side-eye. "Whose side are you on?"

"The side that gets us into the ice rink after hours so I don't have to embarrass myself in front of eight-year-olds with better balance than me."

Stiles whipped a glare her way, but it was half-hearted at best. "You're not helping."

"You're not paying."

With a long-suffering sigh, Stiles pulled out another twenty.

"Still ten short," Octavia said as Boyd silently popped a chip into his mouth.

"Come on, man. Have you seen the piece of crap Jeep that I drive?"

"You seen the piece of crap bus that I take?"

"Fifty," he muttered as he defeatedly placed another ten dollars down.

Stiles grabbed the keys, muttering a "Thank you" that sounded more like "I hate you," and spun around.

They crossed the cafeteria together until they reached Scott's usual spot. Stiles tossed the keys onto the table with a victorious clatter and dropped into the seat beside Octavia again, their shoulders brushing.

"Got 'em." he said to Scott, "Pick you both up right after work tonight, and we'll all meet at the rink, cool?"

But Scott didn't respond. His eyes were locked on the cafeteria entrance.

Octavia followed his gaze—and stopped breathing for half a second.

Erica Reyes stood framed in the doorway like a movie still. Hair is blown out, eyes fierce, and confidence is like perfume. She strolled across the cafeteria, slow and deliberate, then bit into an apple taken straight from some dazed kid's tray.

Octavia blinked. Was that—?

Lydia appeared beside them, mouth slightly open. "What...the holy hell...is that?"

"It's Erica."

Octavia glanced sideways, catching the way Stiles' eyes lingered.

He wasn't ogling exactly. But there was something... interesting in his expression. A curiosity he hadn't had five seconds ago.

Octavia's brows furrowed, just a flicker, just for a second. She told herself it was nothing.

That it didn't mean anything.

She turned back toward the doors as Erica walked straight out of the cafeteria as if she had a spotlight following her. The three of them got up in sync and trailed after her, pushing through the doors just in time to see her climb into Derek Hale's car.

He gave them a lazy smirk as the engine revved. Erica didn't even glance back.

The Camaro sped off.

Scott looked haunted. Octavia looked thoughtful.

And a little off-balance.

"Well," she said finally. "That felt vaguely threatening."

The café had emptied twenty minutes ago, but the warm scent of espresso still lingered in the air, clinging to the wooden walls and overgrown herbs that draped from hanging pots like lazy jungle vines.

Octavia wiped down the same countertop for the third time, her rag moving in slow, circular motions that didn't match the rest of her. Her jaw was tight, and her shoulders were tense.

Across the room, Clementine knelt to stack chairs on a table. The faint jingling of her rings and bracelets was the only sound besides the low hum of the dishwasher in the back.

Neither of them had spoken in ten minutes.

Not since closing started. Not since the awkward choreography of brushing hands at the register. Not since their eyes met over the tip jar, and both looked away.

Not since that night on the rooftop.

Octavia broke first. "You missed a chair."

Clementine glanced up, her eyes unreadable. "So did you."

Octavia threw the rag onto the counter. "Okay. Cool. We're doing this then."

Clementine stood slowly, arms crossed. "Doing what?"

"This... avoidance thing." Octavia gestured vaguely between them. "You've said exactly twelve words to me all night, and seven of them were 'Do you want oat or almond milk.'"

Clementine arched a brow. "I was giving you space."

"Space?" Octavia scoffed. "Since when do we do space?"

"Since you bolted off a roof to go save a werewolf and never brought it up again."

"That's not fair," Octavia said, stepping closer now, her voice quieter. "You told me to go."

"I did." Clementine's voice was flat, carefully neutral. "Because I knew you would. Because you always do."

The words landed with more weight than they should have. Octavia blinked.

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

Clementine's gaze flickered. "It means maybe I didn't expect you to come back and pretend it didn't happen."

Octavia's breath caught in her chest. Her heart thudded. Loud. Loud enough, she was afraid Clementine might feel it.

"I wasn't pretending," she said. "I was waiting."

"For what?" Clementine asked softly, stepping around the table now. "For someone else to bring it up? For the perfect moment?"

Octavia looked away. "For it to stop scaring me so much."

That landed. Clementine's jaw softened just a little.

"Oh."

They stood there for a beat—two shadows in the flickering café lights, surrounded by the ghosts of laughter, espresso steam, and unfinished confessions.

Octavia took a breath. "You were going to kiss me on that roof. And I wanted you to. I still want you to. But then the world caught on fire—again—and I didn't know how to come back and say, 'Hey, sorry, got pulled into a supernatural murder plot, but can we talk about how your face was really close to mine?'"

Clementine gave a short, quiet laugh. "That's... one way to phrase it."

"I'm serious," Octavia said. "You matter to me. And it's terrifying. Because you're sharp and brilliant and somehow the only person who can make pouring tea feel like an act of war."

Clementine smiled then—really smiled—and it made something in Octavia's chest clench painfully.

"I thought maybe you changed your mind," Clementine said.

Octavia hesitated, eyes flicking away. "No. I didn't." A pause. "I just... didn't know how to talk about it."

Clementine's smile faded into something quieter. "Okay."

"I've never been with a girl before," Octavia admitted, voice low, almost uncertain. "Like—ever. I didn't even think about that part of myself until you."

Clementine's eyes softened immediately.

"I spent so long thinking I had to be a certain kind of person," Octavia continued. "Like it was easier to just... stay in my lane. Crush on boys, flirt, let Lydia set me up with lacrosse players, date Lucas, whatever. But then you showed up, and I started feeling things I didn't have a name for. And that night on the roof... I don't know. I guess it made everything real."

Silence stretched between them again, but it was different now. It wasn't avoidance. It was weight. It was breath.

Clementine's voice was barely above a whisper. "Thank you. For telling me that."

"I was scared it would make this weird," Octavia said. "That I wouldn't know how to do this right. Or that you'd think I was confused or—"

"I don't think that," Clementine interrupted gently. "And there's no right way. There's just... us."

Octavia exhaled, the tension in her shoulders releasing just a little.

"You didn't miss your chance," Clementine added, stepping forward again. "If anything... I think we're just getting started."

Octavia let out a soft breath—relief, nerves, everything tangled into one. But still, something pinched behind her ribs. Something tight and unspoken.

"I want that," she said. "I do. I really do."

Clementine gave her a questioning look, gentle but expectant. "But?"

Octavia hesitated, her teeth worrying about her bottom lip. She hated this part—hated being vulnerable when it didn't come with a joke or a smart-ass comment as armor.

"But I'm also scared of losing you," she admitted finally, voice barely more than a whisper. "As a friend."

Clementine blinked, and Octavia pressed forward, the words rushing out like a dam breaking.

"You're one of the only people I actually feel like gets me. Like, not just the surface stuff, not just the sarcasm or the supernatural trauma bingo card I'm carrying around—me. The real stuff. The parts I don't always understand myself. There's so much that I can't talk to Lydia about because I've suddenly become Octavia the Teenage Witch."

She shook her head, suddenly fidgety, tugging at the sleeves of her hoodie.

"And if this—us—gets complicated, or weird, or breaks somehow, I don't want to lose what we already have. Because that would wreck me more than anything."

There it was. Bare and terrifying.

But Clementine didn't flinch.

Instead, she stepped in closer—so close that Octavia could see the subtle flecks of amber in her eyes and the way her jaw twitched slightly when she was holding back emotion.

"You're not going to lose me," she said quietly, firmly. "Friendship doesn't disappear just because things change. If anything... I think it's what makes this stronger. Because it's real."

Octavia looked up at her, blinking fast.

"I mean," Clementine added with a small smile, "you're already my favorite coworker-slash-emotional-chaos tornado. You think I'm just gonna let that go?"

Octavia laughed, the sound breathy with relief. "You're the worst."

"I know."

Clementine reached out then, taking Octavia's hand. "But seriously. I don't want you to feel like you have to hide any part of yourself with me. We're figuring this out together, okay?"

Octavia nodded, eyes glimmering. "Okay."

Clementine's hand was still wrapped around hers, thumb gently brushing against Octavia's knuckles. The air between them shifted—warmer now, softer, charged in that quiet way that made everything else blur at the edges.

Clementine leaned in just a little. Octavia mirrored her, breath hitching. She could already feel the static pull—her pulse rising, her eyes half-closed.

And then—

HOOOOOONK.

The blaring sound of a car horn shattered the moment with all the grace of a baseball through stained glass.

Octavia flinched so hard she knocked over the tip jar.

Clementine blinked, dazed. "Was that—?"

HOOOOONNNK. HOOOOOONK. HOOOOOONK-HOOOOOONK.

BANG BANG BANG.

A fist thudded rhythmically against the front glass door, followed by a muffled, unmistakable voice yelling:

"LET'S GOOOOOO, MCCALL. I GOT THE HOT CHOCOLATE, THE EXTRA SWEATSHIRT, AND THE PASSION FOR GLORY. DO NOT MAKE ME COME IN THERE."

Octavia dropped her head onto Clementine's shoulder with a groan. "I'm going to murder him. Slowly. With a butter knife."

"I hate him," she muttered into her sweater. "I love him, but I hate him."

Clementine bit her lip, trying not to laugh. "Is he always like this?"

"This is him toned down."

Outside, Stiles banged again, the door vibrating in its frame. "IF THIS IS ABOUT GLOVES, I ALREADY BROUGHT AN EXTRA PAIR WITH ME. YOU HAVE NO EXCUSE."

Clementine shook her head, amused. "You should probably let him in before he gets us arrested."

Octavia sighed dramatically, reaching for the keys. But before unlocking the door, she turned back, lingering one last beat with Clementine.

"Rain check on the kiss?"

Clementine squeezed her hand before letting go. "Rain check."

Octavia nodded, cheeks pink. "Absolutely. Like, literal storm warning levels of rain."

She opened the door to Stiles practically falling through it, bundled up in three different scarves, holding a travel mug in one hand and flailing with the other.

"There you are! Why are you glowing? Are you glowing? Never mind, we gotta go—ice awaits, people."

He turned, already heading back to the Jeep.

Octavia called after him, "Stiles."

"What?" he yelled over his shoulder.

She gestured toward Clementine, who was still behind the counter, arms crossed, and one brow arched.

"Clementine's coming too."

Stiles stopped in his tracks, wheels visibly turning. "Oh. Right. Yes. Of course. Clementine. Skating. That's great. I mean, yeah. She's... good at balance and... it'll be fun. It'll be great."

Clementine tilted her head, already sensing the shift. "That a problem?"

"No, no," Stiles said quickly, waving a hand like he was swatting away the idea. "Of course not. The more, the merrier. Right, Birdie?"

Octavia nodded, "Of course, as long as you want to."

Clementine gave her a small smile. "I do."

And Stiles watched it happen—watched the smile they shared, the way Octavia's voice softened in response. How she looked at her. Not the way she looked at him. Not the way she ever had.

Something in his chest gave a quiet, uninvited twist.

Okay. Weird. What was that?

It's just Clementine. And Octavia. And okay, they were standing kind of close, and Octavia's cheeks were pink, but that was probably just the cold, right? Or the lighting. Or a very intense bout of... embarrassment. Totally normal. Definitely not a thing.

But then Clementine brushed her hand against Octavia's arm as they turned toward the door—and Octavia beamed. That real, glowy, stupidly rare smile that only showed up when she wasn't guarding herself.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Oh, no, no, no.

Stiles blinked, the pieces clicking into place like a puzzle he really didn't want to finish.

He'd seen Octavia flirt a hundred times—hell, he'd seen her make the beefiest lacrosse players stutter—but this? This wasn't flirty. This wasn't casual.

This was real.

And suddenly, the idea of Clementine coming ice skating with them felt a little less "fun group hang" and a little more "third wheel at a table for two."

He shoved the thought down. Hard. It didn't mean anything. It couldn't. Octavia was his best friend. His partner-in-crime. His go-to for bad ideas and sarcastic commentary. She wasn't—

She wasn't his.

Not that she ever had been.

Not that he was allowed to want that.

He swallowed it down and slapped on a grin that felt like wet paper. "Cool. Great. Love a solid group skate. You know me—big on festive bonding and potential concussions."

Clementine smirked, clearly picking up the undercurrent. "You fall a lot, don't you?"

"Define a lot.'"

She didn't respond. Just raised an eyebrow and pulled on her jacket.

As they stepped out into the crisp night air, Octavia turned to Stiles with a bright, breezy smile. "You okay?"

And just like that, she was Octavia again—open, playful, absolutely unaware that he was standing there, heart doing something uncoordinated and ugly in his chest.

"Yep," he chirped a little too quickly. "Totally. Just... mentally preparing to out-skate you in front of witnesses."

Octavia rolled her eyes and looped her arm through his with zero hesitation. "You are so going to wipe out."

And Stiles couldn't even enjoy the warmth of her next to him—not how he used to.

Because now, every laugh from her toward Clementine felt like a little spark.

And every spark made him realize just how long he'd been standing in the dark.

Stiles Stilinski was completely and utterly out of his element.

It wasn't just the biting cold that seeped through his jacket or the fact that the only thing colder was the ice stretching in front of them like a frozen void. No, it was more than that. Maybe it was the realization that, out of everyone here, he was the only one who'd shown up solo. Or maybe — definitely — it was the brief, casual squeeze on his arm from Octavia as he flipped on the overhead lights, bathing the empty rink in the pale fluorescent glow.

A silent "thanks for coughing up fifty bucks this afternoon, Stilinski," before she skated — metaphorically, not yet literally — toward the rest of the group already gathered by the dasher boards. She didn't even look back.

The chill in the rink suddenly felt personal.

"Could it be any colder in here?" Lydia muttered, perched beside Mars as they laced up their skates, her breath puffing out in a dramatic huff.

Mars didn't hesitate — he dug into his backpack and pulled out a sweatshirt, folded with the kind of precision that suggested his mom had probably packed it. "Here," he offered.

Lydia blinked at it. Then blinked again. "I'm wearing blue," she said slowly, eyeing the vibrant orange monstrosity like it had personally offended her.

Mars frowned. "It's warm."

"It's orange."

"But it's the color of the Mets!" Stiles and Mars said at the same time.

A beat passed. Lydia raised a single eyebrow — a move that could wither most men — and Mars backed off with a sheepish grin, folding the sweatshirt like it had embarrassed him.

Stiles turned back to his skates, fingers fumbling clumsily with the laces. "Okay, so maybe orange and blue isn't the best combo. That's fair. But, like, you know, sometimes things that shouldn't work together just... do. Right? Like peanut butter and pickles. Or pineapple on pizza. Or, like, two people who—who no one ever thought would be a thing, but then somehow it just makes sense?"

His voice cracked slightly on the last word. His hands were tying knots that were probably going to strangle his ankles, but he didn't care. He was spiraling.

Lydia glanced at him, amusement flickering across her features. "No, I can see that."

Stiles blinked. "Wait, really?"

"Yeah." Her voice had gone soft, almost distant. Her gaze wasn't on him anymore — it had drifted over his shoulder toward the ice.

Octavia stood there with Clementine, the two of them giggling at something that had clearly sent Octavia into full, unguarded laughter — the kind that threw her head back and lit up the corners of her eyes. Clementine leaned in with a smirk as if she'd been waiting for that exact reaction.

"They're cute together," Lydia said, her smile a little too knowing.

Stiles followed her line of sight. His heart plummeted a few inches.

"Oh. Yeah. Them."

"Cute."

"Cute," he echoed hollowly. "Adorable."

Lydia didn't say anything else — she didn't have to. Stiles stared down at his tangled laces like they held the answers to all life's problems, while Octavia remained blissfully unaware, nudging Clementine playfully with her elbow.

And maybe that was the worst part — she looked happy. And Stiles had no idea whether that made him feel better... or worse.

It's chaos, in the best way.

The rink glows under warm, overhead lights that cast gold across the ice, diffused through clouds of breath and laughter. Music hums from the speakers near the rafters — something old and upbeat — as blades cut across frozen white in erratic arcs. Lydia twirls like she was born to, her coat flaring out behind her like wings, while Octavia flails a full ten feet behind her, her arms pinwheeling like she's fighting gravity and losing.

She shrieks — an undignified noise that makes Lydia glance back with a smirk — and then she's going down, full wipeout imminent.

Until a pair of hands catch her.

Stiles slides in just in time, gripping her elbows with practiced ease. It's automatic — reflexive.

"Whoa there, Twinkletoes," he says, breathless but grinning. "You trying to go viral on YouTube or what?"

Octavia's laughter bubbles out, her breath hitching as she clings to his arms. Her cheeks are flushed from cold and adrenaline, her hair a little wild, and her eyes bright. She looks like mischief and sunlight, something else Stiles tries not to think about too hard.

"If I die out here," she huffs, still catching her breath, "tell my brother I want my funeral catered by Deja Brew."

"You're not gonna die," he says, nudging her shoulder with a gentle grin. "I've got you."

She leans into him — fully, instinctively — as if she always has. "You always do."

And there it is. That flicker in his chest — stupid, traitorous warmth. The kind that's been there for years. The kind he thought he'd buried.

It feels like home.

Then — like a chill behind a closed door — Clementine glides in from the shadows at the edge of the rink. Smooth. Composed. Not a single strand of her dark hair was out of place beneath her beanie. Her coat trails behind her like she walked off a runway and onto the ice.

"Need a hand?" she asks, voice smooth as silk. She curves around them in a slow, precise arc, then stops just in front of Octavia, catching her other arm like a mirror to Stiles.

He stiffens.

"I've got her," he says too fast, too sharp. "She's used to me catching her when she falls."

Clementine tilts her head, lips curling into something that walks the line between a smile and a challenge. "I'm sure she is."

She doesn't let go.

Neither does he.

And now Octavia — giggling, completely unaware — is suspended between them, supported on both sides, oblivious to the crackling energy that zips between Clementine and Stiles like static electricity before a storm.

From the sidelines, Lydia slows to a glide, eyes narrowing in interest. Mars, Allison, and Scott pause, too, sensing something shift in the air.

Stiles tries to keep his tone casual. "I've never let her fall," he says with a shrug that's more tension than ease. "Not once."

Clementine meets his gaze without blinking. "Good," she says, her voice honey-sweet and laced with steel. "Let's keep it that way."

It's polite. Perfectly pleasant. But Stiles hears it — the edge in it. So does everyone else.

A beat of silence. Lydia arches a brow. Mars leans over to whisper something to Allison, who stifles a laugh.

But Octavia?

Octavia smiles between them, completely at ease, shaking her head at her clumsiness. "God, you guys are lifesavers."

"Anytime," Clementine says smoothly, gaze still on Stiles.

"Always," Stiles echoes, not breaking eye contact.

The spell of normalcy shattered in an instant.

One moment, the ice rink pulsed with music and teenage laughter, bright and echoing against the rafters. Lydia was skating again, cheeks flushed with pride and cold, her curls bouncing as she spun across the ice like a comet in designer boots.

The next, she screamed.

It wasn't a startled yelp. It was a wail — guttural, raw, the kind of sound that stopped hearts and shattered air. The music cut out. Skates screeched to a halt. Heads turned.

By the time Scott and Allison rushed back from the photo booth, breathless and confused, Mars and Octavia were already on the ice, slipping and scrambling toward the sound.

Lydia was on her knees, sobbing, her fingers digging into the ice like she was trying to claw away from something invisible. Her eyes were wild with terror, locked on a point beneath the surface.

"There's a man in the ice!" she shrieked, voice breaking. "There was a man in the ice!"

Mars looked stunned, but Octavia didn't hesitate. She dropped to her knees beside her friend, arms already wrapping around her. Lydia collapsed into her, shaking.

"It's okay, it's okay," Octavia murmured, rocking her gently, not even noticing the sting of the cold seeping through her jeans. "You're safe. You're okay."

"He was real," Lydia choked out between sobs. "His face—he was there—I saw him looking at me—he was real, Tav—"

Octavia tightened her hold, smoothing her hand through Lydia's tangled, strawberry-blonde curls, fingers shaking slightly. "I know," she whispered into her hair. "I believe you."

And she did. Without question. Without doubt.

Because when someone like Lydia — brilliant, guarded, always in control — fell apart like this, it meant something, it had to.

Because Lydia had always believed her — in the nightmares, in the quiet mornings when Octavia couldn't breathe, in the moments she couldn't explain the things she felt.

Octavia stayed with her, right there on the rink, until Lydia's sobs turned to h, until her breathing and, until she stopped shaking.

Later, when they got Lydia home, Octavia climbed into bed beside her—shoes kicked off, jacket still on—and curled up under the covers, just like they had when they were kids, and the world felt too loud.

She ran gentle fingers through Lydia's hair, whispering things she barely remembered saying. Things like you're safe, I'm not going anywhere, and you're not alone.

Lydia finally drifted off, her lashes still damp with tears, her hand clutching Octavia's sleeve like a child.

Octavia didn't move for a long time.

Because this — this was what mattered. Not the monsters in the ice, not the questions no one could answer. Just this: the quiet, unspoken promise between them.

You were there for me. I'll be here for you.

Always.

The light above the stove glows softly, casting golden shadows across the countertops. The house is quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the clink of ceramic as Octavia sneaks the last lemon scone from a brown paper bag labeled Deja Brew.

She perches on the counter in her sleep shorts and hoodie, legs swinging lazily, picking at the crumbly edge of the scone. She's not really hungry — it's just something to do. Something to focus on other than the thousand buzzing thoughts in her brain.

Scott shuffles in a minute later, bleary-eyed and yawning, clearly just up from a restless sleep. He stops in the doorway, rubbing his jaw.

"You're eating lemon scones at two in the morning?"

Octavia glances over, caught. "They were lonely."

They fall into a familiar silence. Comfortable. Easy.

He pads over and leans on the counter beside her, grabbing a piece of the scone without asking. "You good?"

She shrugs. "Define 'good.'"

Scott chews slowly. "That's a 'no.'"

Octavia picks at a sugar crystal with her thumb. "I couldn't sleep."

He watches her for a second. "You wanna talk about it?"

"I don't know," she says. "Maybe. Probably."

A pause. Then-

"I think I like Clementine."

Scott blinks. "Okay. Cool."

A beat.

"Cool, cool, cool, cool—"

"Scott."

He stops. Takes a breath. "Sorry. I'm processing. Go on."

Octavia lets out a laugh that sounds more like a sigh. "It's not just that I like her. It's... I think I've liked girls before. I just never let myself look at it too closely. Like, maybe I thought it was a phase or a fluke or just me being—whatever. But then Clementine came along, all sarcastic, artistic, and funny, and now I feel like my brain is short-circuiting every time she looks at me too long."

Scott watches her, serious now.

"And the thing is," she continues, "I don't know what this means. About me. About anything. And I don't know how to talk about it without feeling like I'm... saying it wrong."

Scott sets down his water and crosses his arms. "Okay. First of all, you're not saying it wrong. There isn't a wrong way to figure yourself out."

Octavia looks up at him, uncertain.

"And second," he adds, softer, "I kinda already knew."

Her eyes widen slightly. "What?"

He shrugs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're not as subtle as you think. The way you look at her. The way she looks at you. I didn't want to push you into saying something before you were ready. But I've been waiting for you to say it. Or not. Whatever you needed."

Octavia's throat tightens unexpectedly. "You really don't care?"

"Of course I care," he says gently. "I care that you're okay. I care that you feel safe. But who you like? Who you love? That's your journey. I'm just... here."

She leans her shoulder into his.

He rests his head against hers. "You're still my sister. Still, the same chaos goblin I've known forever. Just now with a slightly alarming crush on a possibly intimidating goth girl."

"She's not goth," Octavia says with a scoff. "She just dresses as if the final girl in a post-apocalyptic indie movie and Stevie Nicks had a baby."

Scott snorts. "Totally different."

They sit in silence for a moment longer.

Then: "Thanks, Scotty."

"Anytime," he says. "Seriously. And if you ever need me to make things awkward with Clementine by being an overprotective brother—"

"Please don't."

"—too late, it's already happening."

Octavia laughs, and the tension in her chest eases just a little.

And for the first time in days, she thinks she might actually sleep.

┗━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━┛

𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚘𝚝𝚎

ROBBED OF SHIRTLESS DOB IN THIS EPISODE
JEFF DAVIS COUNT YOUR DAYS

the very first fanfic i ever made was a harry styles fic based off of this episode of teen wolf

the more first person pov books i read have me desperately wanting to edit this story and change the povs but idk i feel like third person helps with the gut punch of it all...what do y'all think?