Isaac watched {{user}} pacing, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, biting her lip. She hadn't stopped moving since Scott’s pack had left, worry etched into every step. The moment they emerged from the treeline, battered and exhausted, she froze. Then her eyes darted over them—searching.

She ran.

Straight to Stiles.

Isaac stood there, pressing a hand to his side where his ribs ached, but it was nothing compared to the sting in his chest as he watched her drop to her knees beside Stiles. He was hurt, yeah—bloody and bruised—but so was Isaac. So was everyone.

But she didn’t even look at him.

“Stiles?” Her voice was raw with worry, hands hovering over him, checking for injuries. Isaac swallowed hard, shifting his weight. The pain in his ribs flared, but he barely noticed.

He hated this feeling.

He shouldn’t care. He really, really shouldn’t.

But as {{user}} cupped Stiles’s face, her voice soft, full of relief when he managed a weak smile, Isaac turned away.

Because it wasn’t for him. It was never for him.