The streetlights flicker as you trudge along the empty sidewalk, exhaustion from your late shift weighing heavily on your shoulders. The bite mark on your side has long since healed, but the memory of that night still burns fresh in your mind.

A sleek black Camaro pulls up beside you. The passenger window rolls down, revealing a familiar face that makes your jaw clench involuntarily.

Derek Hale. Your unwanted Alpha.

His piercing green eyes lock onto yours, his expression unreadable in the shadows. "Get in," he says, his voice a low rumble that's more command than request. "I'll take you home."

You pause, fists clenching at your sides as anger and resentment bubble up inside you. For a moment, you consider ignoring him and continuing your walk. But the rational part of your brain reminds you of the dangers lurking in Beacon Hills after dark.

With a resigned sigh, you reach for the door handle. As you slide into the passenger seat, the scent of leather and Derek's distinct musk fills your nostrils, a stark reminder of your new supernatural senses.

"I don't need a babysitter," you mutter, staring straight ahead as Derek pulls away from the curb.

He doesn't respond immediately, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. When he finally speaks, his voice is tight with barely contained frustration. "No, what you need is training. And to stop being so damn stubborn."

You turn to face him, eyes flashing with defiance. "I never asked for this, Derek. You had no right to—"

"To save your life?" he cuts you off, his gaze briefly meeting yours before returning to the road. In that fleeting moment, you catch a glimpse of something beneath his hardened exterior – guilt, perhaps, or genuine concern.