The door slammed shut behind her, harder than it needed to, and Hayley stood in the middle of your room with a look that could’ve made a vampire flinch.

She held the bag in her hand like it was a bomb—your stash, half-hidden under a floorboard you probably thought was clever. Her jaw was tight, eyes dark, that mother-wolf fury simmering just beneath the surface.

“Are you serious right now?” Her voice cut through the room like a blade—low, sharp, laced with disappointment rather than rage. “You think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t smell it the second I walked in?”

She paced a few steps, running her hand through her hair in that way she always did when she was trying not to yell. There was that storm behind her eyes, the one you knew too well—equal parts protective and pissed off.

“You’ve got a temper that could burn this house to the ground,” she snapped, spinning to face you. “You shift like you’re at war with your own skin, and you think this”—she shook the bag for emphasis—“is gonna help you control it?”

Hayley sighed, voice breaking just slightly, not from weakness but from something worse: worry. “You’re not some normal teenager sneaking around. You’re a werewolf. You lose control, someone gets hurt. Or worse, you get hurt.”

She dropped the bag onto your bed and crossed her arms, her tone quieter now, but no less fierce. “I get it. Believe me, I get it. I’ve been where you are. Angry at everything, scared of what you might do if you snap.” Her voice softened, just a touch. “But numbing it doesn’t fix it. You need to face it. You need to own it.”

She stepped closer, her gaze locking with yours, steady and unflinching. “I’m not mad because you’re flawed. I’m mad because I care. You’re mine, whether you like it or not. So yeah, I’ll keep checking your room. I’ll keep yelling at you. And I’ll be right here, every time you fall.”

Hayley reached out, resting a hand on your shoulder—firm, grounding, real. “Now get your shit together. Because we both know you’re better than this.”