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The woods were alive with the sounds of crickets and rustling leaves, but the stillness of the night felt heavy around the two boys. A small fire crackled nearby, its flickering light casting long shadows against the surrounding trees. The sharp smell of moss and damp earth mixed with the biting tang of whiskey in the air.

Stiles Stilinski sprawled on the forest floor, his head resting precariously on a moss-covered rock. The boy had reached the unmistakable point of intoxication where his thoughts spilled out faster than his brain could catch up. His honey-brown eyes, glassy and unfocused, flickered with mischief as he reached for the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels lying on the rocky ground between him and Scott. "Dude, you know, she's just one...one girl." He began drunkenly. "You know, there are so many...there are so many other girls in the sea."

Scott McCall sat a few feet away, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, his face illuminated by the fire's glow. He wasn't drunk—not even close. The whiskey had been a bad idea from the start, but Scott hadn't had the heart to stop Stiles when he saw how determined he was to cheer him up.

"Fish in the sea," Scott corrected quietly, not looking up.

"Fish?" Stiles let out an exaggerated laugh, his voice rising above the crackle of the fire. "Why are we talking about fish? I'm talking about girls. I love girls." He waved his hand dramatically, his words tumbling together. "Girls with dark brown hair... and brown eyes... and like, five-foot-seven..."

Scott lifted his gaze, his expression darkening. "Like Octavia?"

He snorted. "Octavia?" he repeated, his voice cracking slightly. "No, no, no. I'm talking about—uh..." He trailed off, his lips twitching into a faint, awkward smile. "Wait, what was I talking about?"

Scott didn't let him off the hook. He leaned forward, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied Stiles. "You were talking about Octavia."

Stiles scoffed, waving him off with a shaky hand. "Pfft. No way. Octavia's—she's—she's just Octavia, man. She's bossy, she's annoying, and she's—" He stopped abruptly, his face scrunching up as if he were searching for the right insult, but kept finding something else entirely. "—fine, I guess. She's fine. Whatever."

"Right," Scott muttered, the corners of his mouth twitching in exasperation. Maybe it was Scott's werewolf senses, or perhaps it was just painfully obvious now that he was paying attention. Either way, he couldn't unsee it.

"Hey, you're not happy! Take a drink." Stiles told Scott, tapping his leg before grabbing the bottle.

"I don't want anymore,"  Scott replied flatly, shaking his head.

Defeated, Stiles dropped the bottle onto the ground with a clink. "You're not drunk?" he asked, squinting at his best friend like he'd committed some great betrayal.

"I'm not anything," Scott said softly, the weight of his breakup with Allison clear in his voice.

Octavia McCall sat at a corner table in the library, surrounded by textbooks and a half-empty coffee cup, trying to make sense of her history assignment. But her focus was fractured.

Her pen tapped against her notebook as she glanced toward the door for what felt like the hundredth time. She didn't know who—or what—she was expecting.

She sighed and buried herself back in her notes. The Civil War could wait, though the smudge on the page reminded her it had already been neglected too long.

"That pen might have more to say than you do at this point."

The voice startled her, low and tinged with sarcasm. She looked up and immediately met the boy's piercing gaze. He leaned casually against a nearby shelf, a thick book tucked under his arm. He looked the same as he had in the music room—messy dark hair, sharp eyes, and an expression that seemed perpetually unimpressed with the world around him.

Octavia blinked. "Are you stalking me, or is this some kind of grumpy loner scavenger hunt?"

His mouth twitched at the corner. "Relax. I needed a book." He held up the one under his arm. "The Divine Comedy." "Guess I'm the grumpy loner who reads Dante for fun."

"Not exactly light reading," Octavia said, crossing her arms. "Do you ever smile, or is that too mainstream for you?"

"Only when it's warranted." He stepped closer, setting the book down on her table. "Should I even bother asking why you've been sitting here staring at the door like you're waiting for a ghost?"

Her cheeks flushed. "I wasn't staring. I'm working on—" She waved vaguely at the open textbook. "History. You know, some of us have homework to finish."

He raised an eyebrow, glancing at her notes. "Ah, the Civil War. Riveting."

"It's not Dante, but it's fine." She closed the book. "What are you even doing here? This isn't exactly your brooding piano lair."

"Contrary to popular belief, I can exist outside of dark corners and dramatic lighting," he shot back, his voice laced with dry humor.

She couldn't help but smirk. "Could've fooled me."

There was a brief pause. He tilted his head, studying her, and for a second, she thought he might actually say something serious. But then he leaned forward, resting his hands on the table.

"I'm guessing you're not getting anywhere with this," he said, gesturing at her disheveled notes.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she quipped.

He straightened, sliding his book back under his arm. "Let me know when you want a real challenge. Until then, good luck with... Lincoln."

Before she could reply, he turned and walked away, his footsteps muffled on the library's carpeted floor.

Octavia sat cross-legged on her bed, a battered book resting on her knees. The overhead light cast a soft glow over her room, illuminating the stacks of novels and the polaroid-strewn bulletin board that covered one wall. She'd been trying to focus on the pages in front of her, but her mind kept drifting back to the encounter in the library. The boy, with a sarcastic smile and sharp eyes, lingered in her thoughts like the faint notes of a haunting melody.

Her train of thought derailed at the sound of the front door opening, followed by loud, uneven footsteps echoing up the stairs. She furrowed her brow, closing the book as Scott appeared in her doorway. He was half-carrying, half-dragging a very drunk Stiles, whose arm hung limply around Scott's shoulder.

"Hey," Scott said, out of breath as he deposited Stiles onto the bed beside her with a soft thud. "He's your problem now."

"Wait, what?" Octavia straightened, looking from Stiles to Scott, who was already retreating toward the door. "What am I supposed to do with him? Scott?"

Her brother raised a hand in dismissal as he disappeared down the hallway. "Good luck!"

"Scott!" she called after him, her voice laced with exasperation. When no answer came, she let out a long, frustrated sigh and turned back to the boy now sprawled across her bed.

Stiles was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling fan like it held the secrets of the universe. His cheeks were flushed, his honey-brown eyes unfocused and wide. He blinked slowly, then turned his head toward her with a goofy, lopsided grin.

"What am I gonna do with you?" Octavia muttered, leaning forward to study his face.

"You're so pretty," he said suddenly, his voice soft and earnest, like he was stating the most obvious fact in the world.

She froze, caught off guard, as he reached up and gently booped her nose with his finger. "Boop," he added, giggling like a little kid.

Her mouth fell open, but then she burst into laughter, shaking her head. "Oh my God, you're so wasted." She crossed the room, grabbed an old hoodie from her desk chair, and tossed it at him. "Alright, Casanova, go get ready for bed while I get you some water."

Stiles grabbed the hoodie, but instead of standing up, he pulled it over his face like a cape. "I am ready for bed. Bed's right here. It's warm. And you're here. Perfect."

She rolled her eyes, hands on her hips. "Nope, not happening. You're not passing out in your jeans, Stiles."

"Who says?" he mumbled from under the hoodie.

"Me." She leaned down and tugged the fabric off his head. "You're already crashing in my bed. The least you can do is not be disgusting while you're at it."

He groaned dramatically but finally sat up, swaying slightly. "Fine, bossy."

"Thank you," she said, her tone half-teasing, half-motherly as she headed for the door. "I'll be back in five minutes. If you're still sitting in those jeans when I return, I'm putting ice down your shirt ."

"Ruthless," Stiles muttered, watching her leave with a dazed smile.

When Octavia returned to her room, balancing a glass of water and a small bottle of aspirin in her hands, she found Stiles sitting cross-legged on her bed. He had somehow managed to change into an oversized McCall lacrosse sweatshirt and a pair of plaid pajama pants that hung a little too long at the ankles—clearly borrowed from Scott. His damp hair was sticking up in messy tufts, and he was fiddling with the edge of her blanket like a restless child.

She paused in the doorway, biting back a laugh. "Well, don't you clean up nicely?"

Stiles looked up, his honey-brown eyes glassy but warm, and grinned as if she'd just paid him the highest compliment in the world. "You're like... an angel."

Octavia rolled her eyes but chuckled.

"Drink," she said, sitting down beside him and keeping her tone brisk. "You're going to thank me tomorrow."

He took the glass with both hands, cradling it like a priceless artifact. "You're so bossy," he muttered, but he obeyed, taking a long sip.

"You need bossy," she quipped, leaning back against the headboard. "Otherwise, you'd probably be passed out in a ditch somewhere."

"Harsh," he said, setting the glass carefully on her nightstand. He looked at her then, his expression softening into something dangerously close to reverence. "I don't deserve you," he mumbled, leaning his head back with a content sigh. "You're too good. Too... Octavia."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't get all sentimental on me now, Stilinski. You'll regret it in the morning."

"I mean it," he said, his voice dipping into that odd, earnest tone he sometimes got when he wasn't trying to deflect with humor. "You're smart, and you're funny, and you're really pretty. Like, unfairly pretty."

"Okay, it's time for aspirin," she said, opening the bottle and shaking two tablets into her palm.

"And I'm gonna marry you one day," he added, completely undeterred.

The words hit her like a curveball, and for a moment, she didn't know whether to laugh, scoff, or throw the aspirin at his head. "Oh, yeah?" she said finally, going for playful disbelief as she handed him the pills. "Big plans for our future, huh?"

"Mmhm," he hummed, popping the tablets into his mouth and chasing them with another sip of water. "Gonna make you pancakes every morning. With chocolate chips. And bacon."

Her lips twitched despite herself. "I don't even like pancakes."

"Waffles, then. I'm adaptable." He nodded sagely as if that settled the matter.

"Wow," she deadpanned, trying to ignore the warmth spreading in her chest. "You've really thought this through."

Stiles nodded again, his head lolling slightly to the side. "Yup. Me and you. Gonna be a power couple. Like... Beyoncé and Jay-Z. But, like, cooler."

She couldn't stop the soft and genuine laugh that bubbled out of her then. "You're such a dork," she said, shaking her head. "And drunk. And delusional."

"Maybe," he murmured, his eyelids drooping as the night's exhaustion caught up with him. "But you love me anyway."

She froze for a fraction of a second, her heart doing a weird little flip before she forced herself to roll her eyes. "Yeah, sure. Now, lie down before you fall over."

He obeyed without argument, sprawling out on her bed and tugging the blanket over himself with a content sigh. "Best friend ever," he mumbled, his words slurring as he started to drift off.

Octavia sat there for a moment, watching him. His features were softer in sleep, his usual whirlwind of energy replaced by something almost peaceful.

"You're lucky you're cute," she muttered under her breath, reaching out to pull the blanket higher over his shoulders.

She hesitated, her hand lingering near his arm, and then quickly pulled back, shaking her head as if to clear it. He was just Stiles—her and Scott's ridiculous, goofy best friend who couldn't hold his liquor and somehow ended up on her bed.

Standing, she grabbed her book off the nightstand and settled into the chair across the room, opening it to the same page she hadn't been able to focus on earlier. She could still hear the faint sound of his breathing as he drifted asleep, and it wasn't nearly as annoying as she expected.

Shaking her head, she muttered to herself, "Total disaster."

But a small smile was on her face as she turned the page.

Monday morning arrived like an unwelcome guest, far too soon for the McCall twins' liking. Octavia's alarm clock sounded like a relentless drill sergeant, and dragging herself out of bed felt like an uphill battle. Dragging Stiles, however, was a full-blown war.

"I swear, Birdie," he groaned dramatically, his face half-buried in a pillow as she yanked his blankets away, "I'm never drinking again. You hear me? Never."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll pencil that into your list of lies," she shot back, rolling her eyes as he groaned louder and clutched his head like a wounded soldier. "Get up, Stilinski. You owe me coffee for even letting you sleep this long."

Stiles muttered something incomprehensible, but the look on his face as he finally staggered to his feet told her all she needed to know. Between the hangover, Scott's breakup with Allison, and the full moon looming like a storm cloud, Monday had the makings of a spectacular disaster.

More than the twins, Melissa McCall had practically begged her children to stay home. Her voice still echoed in Octavia's mind: "It's okay to take a day for yourself, you know. Nobody would blame you." Melissa had seen the strain in Scott's eyes—and Octavia's, though Octavia had brushed it off. Standing in the kitchen, coffee in hand, she wished she'd listened.

The walk into school was no better. Scott had been eerily quiet, his hood pulled up as if to shield himself from the world. His broken heart was practically an open wound, and Octavia could feel it. Not just see it, but feel it—his pain, heavy and raw, radiating off of him like a suffocating fog. The grief, the helplessness—it pressed against her chest in waves, a dull ache she couldn't shake off no matter how much she tried.

She wished she could turn it off, whatever it was—this ability to feel everything so keenly. She hadn't meant to, but her connection to Scott was always stronger. The full moon made everything worse, heightening her senses and making emotions sharper and more difficult to ignore.

Every glance he stole at Allison in the halls sent another jolt of pain her way, a phantom echo of his heartbreak. It was exhausting, and she knew it was even worse for him.

And then there was Octavia herself. Where did she even stand with anyone? She felt caught in limbo, unsure if Lydia's polite smiles were genuine or veiled. Unsure if Allison wanted space or reassurance. And then there was him. The brooding, sarcastic jerk who seemed to materialize wherever she least expected him. Would he pop up today, too, just to throw her off balance? His presence always felt... complicated, the emotions that swirled around him like a storm cloud—equal parts intrigue, frustration, and something else she couldn't quite name.

By the time the third period rolled around—chemistry—Octavia was on edge. She sat in the back row, her legs bouncing under the desk, trying not to let her nerves bleed into her thoughts. Scott sat two rows in front, his back stiff, his pen clenched too tightly in his hand. She'd been keeping an eye on him all morning, sensing the way his emotions were spiraling. His anxiety had a pulse, quick and erratic, that thrummed against her own ribcage.

He was unraveling. She could feel it—every shallow breath, every spike of panic. The classroom walls felt like they were closing in on her, though she knew it wasn't her panic—it was Scott's. It crawled along her skin, suffocating and frantic.

Octavia didn't hear what Harris said. Her focus was on Scott. His breathing was quickening, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. The faint scrape of pencils and hushed whispers around the room only worsened it. She felt the tension radiating from him like a live wire, sharp and suffocating. Her own heartbeat sped up, her body responding to the intensity of his emotions, and she had to dig her nails into her palm just to ground herself.

He gripped his pencil harder. Crack. The sound of it snapping in his hand was loud enough to turn heads.

"Scott?" she whispered, her voice shaky. But he didn't hear her.

The room seemed to blur as he stumbled toward the door.

"Mr. McCall!" Mr. Harris barked, his tone equal parts irritation and confusion.

But Scott didn't stop. He shoved the door open and disappeared into the hallway, his breath ragged and uncontrolled.

Stiles was out the door a moment later, Harris calling after him.

Octavia stared at the empty doorway, her heart hammering, her hands clammy. She wanted to follow, but something kept her rooted to her chair. The weight of her own emotions—and Scott's—pressed against her chest like a vice.

And she didn't know how to stop it.

Octavia juggled her textbook, a spiral notebook, and an overflowing binder as she tried to slam her locker shut with her hip. The thing had been sticking for weeks, and no amount of force seemed to convince it to cooperate. She was muttering something about the school budget when a cheerful voice interrupted her.

"Need a hand?"

She turned to find a boy standing nearby, holding what looked like an impressively organized planner. His dark hair framed his face, and he wore a smile that could light up a power outage. His vibe was warm, like a well-loved sweater.

"Uh, no, I got it—" Octavia started, but the boy was already stepping forward.

"Here, let me." He gave the locker a firm push with his shoulder, and it clicked shut immediately. He grinned like he'd just solved world hunger. "There! Locker 267 strikes again. It's notorious, apparently."

Octavia blinked. "Notorious? Did someone give you a campus tour and a history of problematic lockers?"

He shrugged. "You'd be surprised what you can learn in a day." He extended his hand. "Marshall, Mars."

"Octavia." She shook his hand, noticing the slight smudge of graphite on his palm.

Before she could say anything else, a second voice cut through the conversation—this one drier, sharper.

"Mars, are you harassing people with your random acts of kindness already?"

A girl appeared beside him, the resemblance unmistakable. She had the same brown hair, though hers was tied back into a loose ponytail, with streaks of electric blue framing her face. She wore a vintage band tee under an oversized flannel, her fingers absentmindedly toying with the strap of her messenger bag.

"It's called being nice, Clem," Mars said, feigning exasperation.

"It's called being annoyingly nice," Clementine replied, arching an eyebrow. She turned to Octavia, giving her an appraising look. "Sorry about him. He's basically a human golden retriever, but he's harmless."

"Noted," Octavia said, smirking. "And you are?"

"Clementine," she said, crossing her arms. "Clem, if you're feeling lazy. Don't get your hopes up, though—I'm not as bubbly as this one." She jabbed her thumb in Mars's direction.

"I wasn't expecting bubbly," Octavia said, tilting her head. "Maybe more... cutting commentary? I'm getting the vibe already."

Clementine's lips quirked into a reluctant smile. "Finally, someone who appreciates my talents."

"I appreciate them," Mars interjected. "I just don't encourage them."

Clementine ignored him, shifting her focus back to Octavia. "You're new here, right?"

Octavia blinked. "Uh, no? I've been here my whole life."

"Really?" Clementine frowned. "Huh. Weird. You seem like someone who should've left Beacon Hills behind years ago."

"That feels like an insult and a compliment simultaneously," Octavia said, unsure whether to laugh or glare.

"Exactly." Clementine winked.

Mars sighed, though the smile on his face suggested he was used to this dynamic. "Ignore her. She does this thing where she pretends she's smarter than everyone in the room."

"I don't pretend," Clementine said.

"And yet, here you are, still stuck on the difference between a literal and figurative metaphor," Mars shot back.

Clementine's jaw dropped, and Octavia couldn't help but laugh. "Wait, did the golden retriever just outwit the sarcastic artist?"

Mars shrugged, his grin widening. "I have my moments."

Octavia nodded approvingly. "Okay, this is fun. I'm keeping you both."

"Careful what you wish for," Clementine said. "We come as a package deal, and I'm the high-maintenance one."

Mars leaned closer to Octavia, mock whispering, "She's not that high-maintenance. Feed her sarcasm and occasional coffee, and you'll be fine."

"Thanks for the tip," Octavia replied, amused.

"Anytime," Mars said, standing up straight. "Now, since we're officially friends, where do people hang out? The cafeteria looks like a disaster zone."

"Depends," Octavia said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "You looking for chaos or somewhere you can actually hear yourself think?"

"Chaos," Clementine said without hesitation.

"Somewhere quiet," Mars said at the same time.

The twins glanced at each other and groaned in unison.

"Figures," Octavia said, laughing. They somewhat reminded her of her and Scott. Come on, I'll show you both. Just try not to scare off any more people with your combined energy."

"No promises," Clementine muttered as they stepped beside her, Mars cheerfully chattering about everything he'd learned so far.

Octavia found herself smiling as she walked down the hall with the pair of them. For once, the day hadn't felt so bad.

Stiles all but burst out of the locker room, his steps echoing down the hallway as he adjusted the strap of his gear bag. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, and the smell of sweat and disinfectant clung to the air. He practically shoved Scott's crosse into his hands, his energy impossible to contain.

"Are you not freaking out?" His voice carried even though the hallway wasn't crowded. "Because I'm freaking out."

Scott's response was less than enthusiastic. He sighed heavily, shifting the crosse in his grip without much thought. "What's the point?" he muttered, his voice low and edged with irritation. "It's just a stupid title. And I could practically smell the jealousy in there."

Stiles stopped in his tracks. "Wait," Stiles planted a hand on Scott's shoulder to stop him. "You smell jealousy?"

Scott slightly nodded, his brow furrowing as if even acknowledging it worsened the headache. "Yeah, it's like the full moon's turned everything up to ten."

Stiles let that sink in for a second before his lips twitched into a smirk. He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering as if they were hatching some elaborate scheme. "Can you pick up on other stuff? Like, I don't know... desire?"

Scott squinted at him, clearly confused. "What do you mean, 'desire?'"

"You know, like desire. Lust, passion, arousal," Stiles clarified, his hands moving as if to physically explain the concept. "Could you sense it if someone was, you know... into someone?"

Scott's frown deepened, his tone turning skeptical. "Why are you asking?"

"No reason!" Stiles said quickly, waving it off with a nervous laugh. "Just scientific curiosity." His eyes flicked—briefly, almost accidentally—down the hallway. Octavia leaned casually against the door as she talked to two unfamiliar faces. Her hair caught the light as she tilted her head, laughing at something one of them said. Stiles looked away just as quickly, focusing intently on Scott again. "Broad strokes. Totally not specific."

Scott followed Stiles' gaze instinctively, his expression unreadable as he took in the scene. Octavia seemed at ease, her laughter unrestrained, her presence naturally magnetic. "Uh-huh," Scott murmured, turning back to Stiles with a raised brow. "You're acting weird."

Stiles threw up his hands. "I'm not weird! I'm excited. First line, remember? That's all this is. Pure, unadulterated sports-related adrenaline." He started walking again, his pace quickening as if he could outpace the conversation.

Scott sighed and followed, his crosse slung over his shoulder. "You're way too hyped for someone who's been benched all year."

"That's because I'm a team player, Scott," Stiles replied dramatically, gesturing to himself. "I embody spirit and commitment. Look it up."

"What the hell are you rambling about?" Octavia asked as they approached her.

"Nothing," Scott grumbled. "Can we talk somewhere?"

Octavia looked at her brother before nodding, excusing herself from Clementine and Mars and following Scott to Coach's office.

Inside Coach's office, the air was thick with tension. The only sound was the steady hum of the overhead fluorescent lights, which cast a stark, clinical glow over the room. Scott leaned against the desk, his jaw set, his eyes staring intently at the floor rather than at Octavia.

"What's wrong, Scott?" Octavia's voice was careful, probing gently in the charged silence. "Talk to me. You're obviously not okay."

Scott scoffed, his laugh bitter and cold. "Not okay? That's an understatement."

She took a cautious step forward, her concern palpable. "Is it the full moon? It's affecting you, isn't it?"

Meeting her gaze with a sharp look, Scott's voice was laden with resentment. "Oh, so now you're the expert on how I feel? Typical."

Stunned by the venom in his voice, Octavia hesitated. "What are you talking about?"

Scott straightened, his frustration spilling out. "I'm talking about you, Octavia! Always the hero, always the savior. Don't you get tired of it? Don't you ever just want to stop meddling?"

"Meddling?" Her voice rose, a mix of hurt and anger. "I'm trying to help you!"

"Help?" He echoed mockingly, his tone escalating. "Or is it that you need to feel needed? Is that it? You insert yourself in every crisis, every situation. It's exhausting, Octavia. You're exhausting."

Her face flushed with a mix of shock and anger. "I do these things for you, for all of us. How can you twist that into something selfish?"

Scott's anger seemed to crest like a wave, driven by the lunar influence. "Because it is selfish! You soak up every problem like it's yours to fix. What about what I need? What about what I want? Maybe I don't need saving, Octavia. Maybe I just need a sister, not a martyr."

The harshness of his words cut deep, and Octavia's stance hardened. "A sister? Is that what you see, Scott? Because right now, I don't recognize my brother in any of this."

"You might not like what you see because it's the truth," Scott retorted sharply. "Maybe if you weren't so busy being everyone's guardian angel, you'd see how alone that actually makes you. No one asked you to be a hero, Octavia. You just assumed we all needed one."

Her heart pounded in her chest, her voice barely containing her hurt. "If that's what you really think of me, then maybe I should step back."

"That might be the best idea you've had in months," he snapped back, the full moon's pull twisting his words into daggers.

She recoiled as if struck, her eyes brimming with tears that she fought to hold back. Without another word, she turned and left the room, the door closing with a soft but final click.

Scott remained alone, the echo of his own harsh words bouncing around him like ghosts.

Octavia shoved the rag into her apron pocket, muttering under her breath as she moved toward the espresso machine. Scott's behavior earlier still simmered in her mind—insulting her one moment, then kissing Lydia the next. It felt like the universe was piling on, and she was one snide comment away from snapping.

The familiar comfort of Deja Brew should have been her saving grace. The café, with its warm lighting, eclectic furniture, and faint scent of vanilla and roasted coffee, had always been her refuge. But today, even the whimsical fairy lights seemed to mock her mood.

She ducked behind the counter, tying her apron more forcefully than necessary. Rhiannon, the café's owner and resident whirlwind of eccentricity, stood at the pastry display, arranging croissants on a vintage tray shaped like a crescent moon.

"Rough day?" Rhiannon asked, not looking up but somehow still managing to hit the nail on the head.

"Brutal," Octavia muttered, grabbing the cloth tucked into her pocket. "Scott's lost whatever brain cells he had left, and I've spent the day resisting the urge to throw my chemistry book at someone's face."

"Ah, sibling drama," Rhiannon said knowingly. "Well, cheer up. I've got some news that might distract you."

Octavia frowned, wiping the counter absently. "Unless it involves a giant brownie and free coffee, I'm not sure it'll help."

Rhiannon chuckled, placing the tray in the case before turning to her. "My nephew's in town. He's going to be helping out here for a while."

"Nephew?" Octavia blinked. She hadn't realized Rhiannon had any family nearby, let alone someone willing to dive into the chaos of Deja Brew. "Since when do you have a nephew?"

Rhiannon shrugged, her dark braid swaying. "Since always. He's a bit older than you, but I think he'll fit in."

Before Octavia could ask more, the door to the back storage room creaked open, and someone who had made her stomach drop walked in.

It was him. She'd already encountered the dark, brooding boy twice—once in the music room, where he'd left her flustered, and again in the library, where his sarcasm had made her want to throw a book at him.

He stepped into the room, his sharp eyes scanning the space with a mix of disinterest and familiarity. His tousled dark hair and annoyingly perfect jawline gave him an effortlessly cool look like he belonged on the cover of a moody indie album. When his gaze landed on Octavia, his lips curved into a faint, infuriating smirk.

"Octavia, meet Fox," Rhiannon said brightly. "He's my nephew."

Octavia's jaw tightened as she processed the news. "Fox," she said flatly. "Of course your name is Fox."

"Good to see you again," Fox said, his voice smooth, his smirk widening.

"You two know each other?" Rhiannon asked, surprised.

Octavia crossed her arms. "You could say that."

Fox leaned casually against the counter, his smirk unwavering. "We've crossed paths."

"Crossed paths," Octavia echoed. "Sure. Let's go with that."

Rhiannon seemed oblivious to the tension as she handed Fox an apron. "Great! You'll both be working the evening shift. Play nice." She disappeared into the back, leaving them alone.

"Play nice," Octavia muttered, grabbing a tray of mugs. "I'll show him nice."

With Octavia's work schedule ramped up, Stiles had taken on more responsibility for Scott. He approached the McCall residence, feeling the familiar weight of his navy blue duffle bag as he fumbled with the key. The door clicked open, revealing the dimly lit interior, punctuated by the faint glow of a television in the living room.

"Scott?" Melissa's hopeful yet tired voice echoed from the sofa where she sat in her purple scrubs.

"Stiles," he corrected with a sheepish grin, stepping inside.

Her eyes darted to the key in his hand. "Key?" She asked, her tone half-amused, half-concerned.

"Yeah." He held it up, missing the slight furrow of her brow. "I had one made, so..."

"That doesn't surprise me. It scares me, but it doesn't surprise me," she quipped, watching Stiles drop his duffle bag with a heavy thud. Chains rattled from within, piquing her curiosity. "What is that?"

"Uh," he hesitated, the corners of his mouth twitching nervously. "School project..."

Melissa hummed, her expression showing a blend of disbelief and resignation. "Stiles, he's okay, right?"

"Who, Scott?" His reply was quick, too quick, and his voice cracked slightly. "Yeah, totally."

She sighed, the sound heavy with unspoken worries. "He just doesn't talk to me that much anymore. Not like he used to."

"Well, he's had a bit of a rough week..." Stiles offered, shrugging as he searched for the right words.

"Yeah. I get it. Be careful tonight, okay?"

"You, too," he said, pointing awkwardly to bring some levity to the conversation.

"Full moon," Melissa remarked casually as she dug through her bag for her keys.

"What?" Stiles blinked, caught off guard.

"There's a full moon tonight," she explained, oblivious to Stiles's sudden tension. "You should see how the ER gets—brings out all the weird cases."

"Oh," Stiles released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

Melissa smiled wryly. "Yeah, it's actually where they came up with the word 'lunatic.'"

By the time the café hit its evening rush, Octavia was in full swing, balancing trays of drinks and pastries with practiced ease. The hum of conversation and the soft clatter of dishes filled the air, but her focus drifted to Fox. He was behind the counter, frothing milk for a latte with maddening precision. For someone new, he was entirely too good at this.

"Don't mess it up," she called as she passed him, unable to resist.

"Don't trip," he replied without looking up.

She bit back a scowl, dropping her tray off at a nearby table. She didn't have the energy for another sparring match with him. Not tonight.

The door jingled, and in walked two familiar faces. Octavia froze mid-step.

"Clementine? Mars?" she blurted, blinking in surprise.

Clad in an oversized hoodie and ripped jeans streaked with dried paint, Clementine arched an eyebrow. "Octavia. Fancy seeing you here."

Mars, the polar opposite in a Beacon Hills Lacrosse hoodie and sneakers so clean they practically gleamed, beamed at her. "Hey! What's up? Wait—don't tell me you work here! That's awesome!"

Octavia recovered quickly, balancing the tray against her hip. "Yeah, I work here. What are you two doing here?"

Mars gestured enthusiastically toward the pastry case. "Rhiannon's our aunt. She told us to stop by and check the place out."

"She also said we might have to start working here," Clementine added, her voice dry. "Apparently, it builds character or something."

Octavia blinked, processing the new information. "Wait—Rhiannon's your aunt?"

Before either could answer, Fox appeared beside them, leaning casually against the counter as if he'd been listening the whole time.

"They're also my siblings," he said, his tone annoyingly casual.

Octavia turned to him, incredulous. "You're related to them?"

Mars grinned. "Cool, huh? Now we're all connected!"

"Great," Octavia muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "This is just what I needed."

Clementine glanced between Fox and Octavia, her lips quirking into a faint smirk. "You don't look thrilled about this revelation."

"I'm thrilled," Octavia replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Fox crossed his arms, his smirk firmly in place. "Don't worry, Octavia. This is just the beginning."

The room was shrouded in darkness, with only the pale light of the moon spilling through the blinds, casting long, foreboding shadows across the floor. Stiles entered with a half-empty water bottle, his steps echoing slightly on the wooden floor. The air was thick, charged with the latent energy of the full moon, which exacerbated Scott's brooding demeanor.

"I brought you some water," Stiles said, his voice laced with a smug satisfaction as he shook the bottle. He poured it into a dog bowl labeled 'Scott,' the irony not lost on him. He placed it deliberately on the tattered rug beside Scott, the sound of water hitting metal sharp in the silent room.

Scott's eyes glinted dangerously in the dim light. "I'm gonna kill you!" he seethed, hurling the bowl. It clattered against Stiles' back, water splashing onto the wooden floor, mirroring the tension in the room.

Stiles whirled around, his features hardening. "You hurt her, Scott. You hurt Octavia, then went and kissed her best friend." His words were clipped, each one delivered with pointed accuracy.

Scott shifted uncomfortably, the handcuffs clanking ominously against the radiator. "And, you know, for the past three hours, I've been sitting here thinking, 'It's probably the full moon, he doesn't know what he's doing. Tomorrow, he'll be back to normal, won't even remember what a complete dumbass he's been—'"

"She kissed me," Scott cut in, desperation creeping into his voice.

"What?" Stiles' confusion was palpable, a brief flicker of uncertainty crossing his face.

Scott's voice hardened, defensive. "I didn't kiss Lydia—she kissed me. She was all over me, Stiles. She would've done anything I wanted. Anything."

Stiles shook his head, a mixture of frustration and disbelief washing over him. "That's so not the point, Scott." He paused, his anger simmering as he took a step closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "This isn't about Lydia or what she did. It's about you, man. It's about how you're dealing with this—all of this." He gestured around him, encompassing the dark, oppressive room. "You're letting it turn you into something you're not. You're not just hurting yourself; you're hurting Octavia. Can't you see that?"

The air hung heavy between them, charged with unspoken words and pent-up frustrations. Stiles' chest heaved as he struggled to control his breathing, his gaze piercing into Scott, who looked away, guilt beginning to gnaw at his resolve.

"Think about her, Scott. Really think. How do you think Octavia felt, seeing you with Lydia like that? How do you think she feels now, knowing her brother doesn't even have her back?"

The café had emptied out, leaving only the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft crackle of the speakers playing a low, jazzy tune. Octavia wiped down the tables while Fox restocked the pastry case, the tension between them lingering like a stubborn storm cloud.

"You're really not going anywhere, are you?" she asked, breaking the silence.

"Nope," Fox replied, glancing at her over his shoulder. "You're stuck with me."

She let out a frustrated sigh, throwing the rag into the sink. "Great. Just what I needed—a walking ego boost to ruin my safe space."

He chuckled, leaning against the counter. "You'll survive. Besides, I'm not so bad once you get to know me."

Octavia crossed her arms, arching an eyebrow. "I'll take your word for it."

"Don't worry," he said, his smirk returning. "I plan to grow on you."

"Like a fungus?"

Fox laughed—a low, genuine sound that caught her off guard. For a split second, his aloof exterior cracked, and she saw something else beneath the surface.

But then he straightened, that familiar smirk slipping back into place. "Goodnight, Octavia."

She watched him leave, the bell above the door jingling softly as it closed behind him.

"Great," she muttered to herself, grabbing her bag. "This is going to be a nightmare."

But deep down, she wasn't entirely sure if that was true.

┗━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━┛

this chapter had me giggling and kicking my feet 99% of the time writing it so besties please interact

i love love love the may siblings so much

𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚘𝚝𝚎