The first thing you noticed was the cold. It clung to your skin, seeped into your bones. The earth beneath you was damp, littered with broken twigs and leaves.

Then you saw your hands.

Blood.

Your breath hitched, stomach twisting. You scrambled back against a tree, eyes darting around in the dark. Your clothes were torn, smeared with dirt, but you weren’t hurt. So whose blood was this?

A rustling sound made you freeze.

“You’re awake.”

Stiles.

He stood a few feet away, gripping a baseball bat and a flashlight. His face was pale, eyes scanning you like he was looking for something—someone.

“You didn’t kill anyone,” he said quickly, like he had to convince both of you. “I followed you all night. I made sure.”

The words barely registered. Your mind was blank, flashes of the full moon the only thing lingering. You tried to remember—the hunger, the rage—but all you got was black.

“I don’t—” Your voice cracked. You looked down at your hands again. “Stiles, I—”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer. His grip on the bat tightened. “But listen. The blood—it’s from a deer. Maybe a rabbit. You were fast. I could barely keep up.”

Your whole body trembled. You had lost control.

“I don’t remember,” you whispered.

Stiles sighed. “Yeah. First full moon. It happens.”

You let out a broken laugh. “It happens?”

He hesitated. “Okay, it could’ve been worse.”

Your eyes met his. “How?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it.

Finally, he knelt beside you, setting the flashlight down. “Look, you’re here. No one’s dead. That’s what matters.”

Your hands shook, but Stiles was here. He had stayed. Even though he was scared.

Even though you could still see it in his eyes.

“Come on,” he said, holding out a hand. “Let’s go home.”

You hesitated before taking it. His grip was warm, steady. Maybe—just maybe—you weren’t completely lost yet.