Liam

The lacrosse field buzzed with shouts and the clatter of sticks. Liam, still not used to his wolf nature, tried to focus, but the air felt strange—heavy, saturated with damp earth and a scent so familiar it made him shiver. Liam's fear had always been his own aggression: he was terrified of losing control, especially around Mia.

He froze, letting the ball pass. His nostrils flared. Mint. Coffee. That specific shade of fear and tenderness.

"Mia," he breathed.

His heart hammered in his throat. Liam ripped off his helmet, his yellow eyes scanning the bleachers. The full moon hung over Beacon Hills, but all he felt was relief.

He saw her by the fence—a small figure in a denim jacket. Mia was looking at him, nervously tugging at her sleeve. Liam wanted to rush to her, but he stopped dead. During the last full moon, he had nearly killed her. His eyes glowed yellow, and he stepped back, afraid of causing harm.

She stepped onto the field. He opened his mouth, not knowing what to say.

"Liam, I..." she began.

But he had already swept her up in his arms, pressing her greedily against him. His helmet hit the ground. Liam buried his face in her neck, his shoulders trembling.

"Quiet," he whispered. "Just give me a minute."

Memory flashed back to Mexico: a dusty street, berserkers, steel poised over her head, the sheer horror of the thought that he might not make it in time. And now she was here—warm, alive, looking at him with brown eyes.

"I missed you too," Mia exhaled, cupping his face in her palms. "Look at me. Just control it, okay?"