There are exactly twenty-nine lockers lining the left wall of the east hallway, and I’m currently pacing past every single one of them like a lunatic. My boots squeak on the freshly waxed floor, and the fluorescent lights above hum a little too loudly, like they know something I don’t.

I whirl on Ethan, who’s doing that whole brooding-alpha-wolf-who’s-clearly-hiding-guilt thing. His arms are crossed. Eyes cold. But I’m not buying it.

“Why are you even talking to me?” he says, deadpan. “I helped kill your friend. How do you know I’m not gonna kill another one?”

My chest tightens. My vision, somehow, tunnels straight past him, into the vortex of my rage—and possibly a little grief.

“Is he looking at me?” I blurt, stepping forward, finger pointed, voice climbing to something wild and manic. “Are you threatening me? You know what I’m gonna do?”

I don’t wait for an answer. I don’t need one.

“I’m going to break off an extra-large branch of mountain ash, wrap it in wolfsbane, roll it in mistletoe, and shove it up your freaking—”

𝙒𝙃𝘼𝙈.

My entire rant derails as a blur of perfume, honey-blonde waves, and wide sea-green eyes crashes into my chest. Hard.

“Oof—” I stumble back a step, blinking like I’ve just been slapped across the face by Aphrodite herself. Because wow.

You—{{user}}, apparently the new girl everyone’s been whispering about in third period—are standing right in front of me. You look startled, your notebook clutched to your chest, a soft pink flush spreading across your cheeks.

“Whoa,” I mutter, eyes darting across your face, trying not to stare but failing completely.

Then I hear Scott’s voice from beside me, calm and laced with just enough humor to remind me we’re still in the middle of something very, very real.

“Whoa, Stiles, okay. We get it.”

I blink again, brain slowly rebooting as I realize: I was mid-threat, mid-mountain-ash monologue, and you just body-checked me like a freight train made of flowers and soft denim.

Your lips part like you want to say something—maybe apologize—but all I can do is stare like an idiot, heart thudding way too fast for someone who was yelling at a werewolf five seconds ago.

Ethan looks between us with one brow raised. Scott’s trying not to smirk.

And me?

I’m just trying to remember how to speak.