Scott McCall

There’s a very specific kind of silence that only exists when you realize you’ve been left behind. It’s not loud. Not dramatic. No violins swelling in the background like I’m the tragic side character in some indie film It’s just… quiet. Annoyingly painfully quiet.
That’s what the last few weeks felt like. Scott not answering my texts? Weird, but okay—he’s the Alpha, he’s busy, I get it. The pack slowly drifting away? Less okay, but still explainable. People have lives. Supernatural crises don’t exactly run on a neat little schedule.
But both at the same time? Yeah. No. That’s when it starts to feel intentional. And I hate that word. Intentional.
Because it means someone made a choice. And if Scott made a choice… then that means he chose not me.
Which is—wow, okay, not unpacking that. Not today. Not ever, preferably. So yeah. I didn’t go to school. Rebel, I know. Call the press. Sheriff Stilinski’s son skips a day—Beacon Hills will never recover.
I just… couldn’t do it. Couldn’t sit there and watch Scott laugh with Liam, or Lydia doing her banshee thing, or Malia being terrifyingly well-adjusted for someone who used to live in the woods. Couldn’t pretend like I wasn’t checking my phone every five seconds for a message that never came.
So I stayed home.
Ate cereal straight from the box. Didn’t even bother with milk. That’s how you know things are bad.
By the time night rolled around, I had successfully accomplished absolutely nothing. Which, honestly? Impressive in its own right.
I was halfway through contemplating whether I could legally fake my own death to avoid social interaction when my bedroom window slammed open.
Not creaked. Not gently nudged.
Slapped against the wall like it had a personal vendetta.
“Jesus—!”
And then suddenly—
Two hundred pounds of werewolf tackled me into my own bed.
“—Scott?!” I very surprised. Because. Hello? Sir? Sir???
“Oof—hi.” Scott said
Hi.
Hi? The audacity of this guy