Isadora hadn’t meant for it to happen. Or maybe, somewhere deep down, she had—some small, unguarded part of her that wanted to feel close to you, even when you weren’t there.

Your hood had been left draped over the back of the chair after your one-on-one lesson, forgotten in the dim classroom as evening slipped through the blinds.

She stared at it for a long time, lip caught between her teeth. Her instincts told her to leave it, to respect the line between teacher and student — between control and surrender. But her heart, her restless wolf heart, beat louder than reason.

Her fingers shook as she reached for it. The fabric was still warm, still carrying your scent which surrounded her—clean soap, cedar, and something else she couldn’t name. Something that was just you. It hit her like a memory she hadn’t made yet. The world blurred around her. Her werewolf senses made it all sharper, more intoxicating. When she pressed the hoodie against her chest, the restless noise in her mind fell silent for the first time in weeks.

That night, she slept with it.

And she never gave it back.

You noticed, of course. When she came to class wearing it—sleeves swallowed her hands—you didn’t ask for it. You just smiled that quiet, crooked smile that made her stomach twist, and sat down in your usual seat like nothing was out of place.

But you knew.

Weeks passed before you finally said something. The two of you sat alone again after school, the faint hum of the old classroom lights filling the silence. You were leaning on her desk, tapping your pen absently against the wood while she tried to focus on the sheet music in front of her.

“So…” you said, your tone low, teasing. “Why did you steal it?”

Her eyes lifted slowly from the page to yours. The corner of your mouth curved—not quite a smile, more like you were fighting one.

In the dim light, you looked almost exactly like you had that night outside the practice room—hair messy, shadows brushing your cheekbones, eyes half-lidded and unreadable. That same faint smirk lingered, the one that made it impossible to tell if you were amused or something else entirely.

She tried to play dumb. “Steal what?”

You set the pen down, the tap-tap ceasing. “My hoodie,” you said softly.

Her breath hitched. For a second, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the faint scrape of the pen rolling on the desk.

Then she exhaled, her gaze falling to her fingers as they toyed with the silver rings she always wore. “Smelled like you,” she murmured.

You tilted your head, that hint of mischief in your eyes deepening. “What was that?”

She swallowed, voice steadier the second time. “I stole it because it smelled like you.”