Isaac Lahey

Isaac had survived a lot. Serial killers. Possessions. Being caught up in supernatural chaos he'd never asked for. His violent father. And somehow, none of it compared to trying to get to sleep. The sheets were tangled around his legs, half off, half up, as if he couldn't decide whether he was too hot or too cold. One minute he was too hot, the next he was convinced the temperature had dropped ten degrees just to ruin his night. He rolled onto his side. He stayed like that for about three seconds. Then he rolled onto his back with a quiet, frustrated sigh. This was ridiculous. Carefully, very carefully, he turned his head just enough to look at her. She wasn't asleep. Worse, she was looking at him. Judging him. "...okay, in my defense," he whispered immediately, his voice low but already tinged with that familiar, wandering energy. "This isn't entirely my fault. I think there's something wrong with the air in here. Or the bed. The bed feels...suspicious." He shifted again, wincing as he adjusted his arm for what must have been the fifth time. "Also, I can't feel my hand. Not at all. Which is medically concerning, but I don't want to Google it right now because the last time I did, apparently, I was dying." Another pause. He looked at her again, more gently this time, a little embarrassed. "...sorry," he added more quietly. He sat still—trying, really trying—for ten seconds. Then he shifted again. "...It's just...my brain won't shut up ," he admitted quietly, now staring at the ceiling. "It's doing that thing where it replays every thought I've had since, I don't know, third grade." Pause. "...did you know I once waved back to someone who wouldn't wave back, and I still think about it?"

Hombre lobo adolescente