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Lucas's Perspective

The clang of the locker door echoed sharply, louder than it needed to be in the near-empty hallway. I paused for a second, letting the sound hang in the air before I slung my bag over one shoulder. My books were stacked neatly inside, the same way I always left them. Organized. Predictable.

The hallway had mostly cleared out. Most of the students had already scattered to the parking lot, their voices fading behind the swinging doors at the far end of the building. The low hum of conversation, the scuff of sneakers, the occasional laugh—they were all drifting further and further away. I adjusted the strap of my bag when a shadow fell over me.

Malia.

She leaned her shoulder against the lockers like she belonged there—arms crossed, eyes sharp, expression unreadable. Her gaze wasn't on me, though. She was staring straight ahead, jaw tight.

"What are we going to do about that?" she asked.

I followed her line of sight.

Down at the other end of the hallway, Isaac was leaning casually against the lockers, one hand buried in his hoodie pocket. He looked relaxed, smiling easily at whatever Allison Argent had just said. She laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear in that way girls do when they want to seem like they're not trying too hard. But she was. And Isaac noticed. His grin deepened.

He looked happy.

I wasn't used to seeing him like that.

"Do we have to do anything?" I asked, shutting my locker with a dull thud.

Malia turned her head sharply toward me. "Did you forget that she's an Argent?"

I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. "I didn't forget. But your family's history with the Argents doesn't mean Isaac can't talk to Allison. Six years ago, she was, what, eleven? She wasn't part of any of that."

Malia's jaw tightened. "I know that. But do you think Isaac should be involved with the Argents at all?"

Her voice was sharp, but I caught the flicker beneath it—fear. Not for her. For Isaac.

I leaned back against the lockers, crossing my arms. "Did you tell Isaac about… everything? About the supernatural community, shapeshifters, hunters, all of it?"

Malia hesitated before nodding once.

"But," I said carefully, "he doesn't know Allison is a hunter."

Her silence was enough of an answer.

I exhaled slowly. "Malia… this doesn't look like it has anything to do with hunters or werewolves. He likes her. She likes him. That's it."

Her eyes flicked back toward Isaac and Allison, still lost in their own bubble at the end of the hall. She didn't like it. Not one bit.

"Let's just leave them be," I added.

For a moment, I thought she might argue. Instead, Malia pushed off the lockers, her shoulders stiff. "Fine. But I'll tell him about Allison and her family during training. He deserves to know the truth."

I gave her a small nod. "Fair enough."

She turned and walked away, her boots clicking against the floor. I stayed where I was for a moment, watching Isaac and Allison laugh together. They looked… normal. Normal in a way that felt a little foreign to me now.

Part of me wanted to step in, warn him, prepare him for the complicated mess that could unfold between werewolves and hunters. But another part of me—the part that remembered what it was like to want something simple—told me to let him have this.

I pushed off the lockers and was about to head for the parking lot when someone stepped right in front of me.

Jackson.

Arms crossed, chin high, jaw set in that cocky way of his. He blocked my path like he owned the hallway. "Stay away from Lydia," he said bluntly. His voice had the hard edge of someone trying—and failing—to sound more dangerous than they really were.

I blinked at him, thoroughly unimpressed. "I'm not interested in Lydia."

"Don't," he snapped sharply, his arm muscles flexing though he stayed glued to his spot. "Don't play me. I see the way she looks at you."

I exhaled heavily, already drained at the thought of entertaining this. "She looks. That's on her, not me. I'm not interested in her, Jackson."

But he wasn't listening, his eyes narrowing into accusations. He stepped closer, shifting his stance so he loomed just a little, though I had a few inches on him. His smirk curved sharper. "You think you can just walk in, act all mysterious, hang around Lydia, and I'll let it slide? You don't know who you're dealing with."

That was the last straw.

I felt the patience drain out of me like sand through fingers. I reached out and clamped a hand firmly down on his shoulder. His smugness vanished instantly. I didn't need glowing eyes or claws; pressure was enough, slow and steady, sinking into bone. His breath caught, muscle jerking beneath my grip as stiff panic replaced bravado.

I leaned in slightly, my voice calm, almost casual. "If you bother me again, I'll do a lot more than just squeeze."

He swallowed hard, nodding quickly. The tough act was gone.

I let go, and he staggered back a step before straightening, trying to salvage some pride. Without another word, he turned and walked quickly down the hall, disappearing around the corner.

I rolled my shoulders, grabbed my bag, and finally made my way toward the parking lot.