Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

What you have is power: strength, speed, and the capacity to heal. You know where you got it from, Malia? You know who you stole it from?

Malia needed out.

Bear-trap thought: immediate, obliterating. She'd chew through her leg for it. 

Kill her family.

Deep breaths, Ms. Morrell had advised in Eichen. 

Malia breathed.

She was at the heart of the installation. Maybe that was why she wanted out. The walls reverberated, voices overlapping, gibberish as a brook. The plywood creaked under everyone's feet, papier-mâché fluttering their breaths into an echo almost as strong as the one at Eichen.

That was the intent. Malia was pleased with her acoustics.

And she had invited everyone.

But.

Maybe she just needed a second of quiet.

She started down the hallway—only to be blocked by Sydney and Nathan, surrounded by a knot of fellow art majors from Cal Poly Beacon. Sydney had her camera: when Malia had invited her, she'd asked if she could take pictures for her blog.

Malia had said yes, but now, as she turned her head to avoid ruining the photo, the flash in her peripheral vision gave her that hackles feeling, like she'd bear her teeth instead of smile.

"Were you inspired by the works of Henrique Oliveira?" asked Sydney.

"Nope."

Nathan knocked her on the shoulder. "Malia, this thing is the shit."

"Thanks." 

"And 'The Wild Kingdom,'" Sydney pressed, "is that a reference to—"

"Trauma, right?" asked Alex, one of Malia's art friends. Malia liked them but they were kind of a lot. Too much, right now. "That's why some of the tunnels are closed off?"

Another major shushed them. "Dude, you can't just ask if it's trauma."

"Why not?" Malia heard Alex ask, but she was already slipping past.

Trauma. Malia had loathed that term since Eichen, when it had been every other word out of people's mouths. Mostly, she was annoyed they thought it was any one thing. If a piece could be summed up in a word, why make it?

Maybe that was what out was about. This work was personal. Malia had had people in her head before, but never this many.

She'd just step out for a second, and it'd be okay.

Derek was lurking at the next turn. "Braeden says to tell you she's sorry she couldn't come."

"No problem." Malia didn't want to talk about Braeden.

Or anything.

She'd been here for hours: taping arrows to the floor to direct people into the Argent warehouse, nailing excerpts from her thesis to the wall, running agitatedly through the installation itself, like she was going to find something sagging or broken or defying the laws of physics. 

Not like it was impossible; this was Beacon Hills.

But nothing had gone wrong. The piece was good. Malia was proud of it. When her advisor had suggested the additional viewing after the semester ended, Malia had agreed immediately. Some people had seen it already, when they'd helped her put it together—her dad, Theo, Derek—but Malia had wanted everyone there. She hadn't felt this accomplished since she'd been busting her ass for a C+ on her math tests.

She was still proud. That wasn't why she needed to leave. 

She was just… hot, maybe. 

Another feature—the wild kingdom is always warm, she'd written—but all the bodies were heating up the cramped hallways like summer sun on a stone.

Maybe she just needed a second to cool off.

Her dad was next on the way to the exit, befuddled as usual, like he'd thought he was helping her build a deck with all that plywood, and didn't expect to find this here. He had a gaggle of his sobriety buddies with him.

"Eighteen months, most of the time, at least," he was saying to them, which meant he was bragging about how he and Malia's mom only had to wait two weeks after submitting their adoption request. "Evelyn used to call her the 'miracle baby.'"

Malia hated this story. 

So many people here. She could hear Lydia; she'd driven down from the lake house. Scott's mom was near her, along with the sheriff; they'd both taken the evening off. Scott, too: he'd booked it up from Mexico to make sure he'd made it in time.

Even the people who hadn't come had found ways to show up. Kira had demanded a FaceTime tour, and has been sending her poems about labyrinths. Liam sent a thumbs up emoji, Isaac a quick but meaningful text of bravo, Peter a link to some fancy art magazine he must have bribed. It listed her as an up and coming talent. His version of a graduation gift.

Theo's had been to bow out of coming. Because Stiles was supposed to.

She checked her phone. 

Nothing since Stiles' last text: car trouble sorry.

She was so close to the structure's entrance.

She turned one last corner and found Nelson.

"Hey." He was wearing a T-shirt that said Bowlers Have Bigger Balls. "This thing's cool."

"Thanks," Malia gritted out.

Nelson was between her and the exit.

She tried to remember, under the frenzy of out, that she really was happy Nelson showed. The invite had been on impulse, when they'd run into each other at the Safeway. It had taken her a minute to recognize him out of Eichen. 

And with his clothes on. 

He worked at Suburban Lanes now. He seemed happy.

He put his hands in his pockets. "You're, like, really good."

"Thank you." Malia had gotten better at accepting praise, but she still wasn't good at it. She used to be in group with Nelson, back when she was hurling her story at people to push them away. He'd heard some of her past.

And he'd still come.

Malia's eyes threatened to go hot.

What was happening to her?

She darted past him.

Then she was out.

She headed for a corner of brick and shadow, hidden by the structure.

Notice your surroundings, Ms. Morrell had told her.

Plywood, papier-mâché, rebar. The ubiquitous Beacon Hills mildew. The subtle wolfsbane on all Argent property. Voices, movements, heartbeats. Brick dust crunching under her feet against the concrete. Crows on the roof.

People. Ms. Morrell herself was fifteen feet away, standing with Lydia, Scott, his mom, Deaton, and the sheriff. All of them dressed up for the occasion. Scott had slicked his hair back.

They were talking about her. Nice things. Any second, they'd notice her.

Malia didn't want to talk to them.

She missed Kira. She was good at reacting to things.

Or Theo, even. He was obnoxious, but at least it'd be a distraction.

She wished—

She just needed a second to breathe.

That was when she noticed Scott shift, moving so that his back was to her. He had a bag off one shoulder. Lydia's ancient dog peeked out from it. 

Scott had his own head turned to her, subtly. One eyebrow raised in familiar question: did she need something?

Malia shook no. She didn't want anyone getting close.

Scott turned away. Then, slowly, like the first hints of a scent on the wind, he began radiating… something. Something he normally locked up. Malia had never been able to articulate it, except that it was what turned her human, all those years ago.

She could hear the crows flap away from the roof, cawing out harsh warning.

The other guests shifted away from him, giving Malia a wider berth by extension. 

Only Lydia's little dog didn't seem perturbed. It squinted at her sleepily. 

Malia would kill to be a tiny ancient creature in a bag. That kind of peace. She would kill.

She made herself inhale.

Out, the thought persisted. Out, out.

It ended.

The feeling. The show. Scott looked like he wanted to give her a hug, but didn't try. Alex asked if she wanted a date; Nathan, an orgasm. Malia said no to both. She went to dinner with her dad and Lydia and went to sleep and woke up and it was all over. Malia Tate, BA. She was free.

To say yes to Braeden's offer. 

The bounty hunter had reached out to her a month ago.

Once Monroe's gone, her people will still be there, Braeden had explained. Her followers, her suppliers, all over the country. Argent asked me if I wanted to bring anyone else onboard, and I remembered we worked pretty well together against the Desert Wolf. If you wanna tag along, might be a chance to do some good—as long as you don't mind things getting a little rough?

Rough. Dangerous. Boring. Draining.

Malia would say yes. Later. Braeden had given her the summer to think. It was June. She had time.

In the six years since high school, this was only her third summer in Beacon Hills. The first two had been spent traveling with Scott. The next one, just traveling. The rest had been shielded by the whirlwind of Poly Beacon: deciding to go back to school, realizing she liked art, and getting started on the thesis.

No more of that.

Malia cleaned her apartment, took down all the stuff about her thesis or notes for other potential projects. 

None of that took long.

She paced through town, the concrete hot on her paws. Drank from a hose someone had left running. Trawled through the dumpsters outside the mall. Watched TV upside down on the couch, A/C on her belly fur.

Scott texted her about clearing a nest Monroe's hunters had set up outside of town, but that was weeks from now.

Enormous June days, empty as the summer sky.

Malia sent Stiles a few messages: had he gotten in, was the Jeep okay? 

Nothing.

Scott would tell her if something happened, right? They were house-sitting the Martins' place together, while Natalie was off in France and Lydia worked on her dissertation at the lake house.

She could text Scott about it.

She didn't.

She went to see her dad. Every evening, he sat on the porch with Apollo, an O'Doul's, and his sudoku, talk radio a counterpart to the crickets. Apollo sprawled, groaning languorously. Both of them were content to watch the sun go down.

Restless, Malia trailed Theo to Derek's shop.

Theo was used to it, but Derek always seemed surprised.

"Coyote stuff," she explained, which meant that if he had stuff for her to crush, she wanted to crush it. Ever since senior year, she had too much strength for her body. She tried to get it out.

Derek shook his head, so coyote stuff meant she clambered over his heap of junk in the back while Derek and Theo talked shop.

Car-trash didn't have the same pulse as other kinds. She didn't want to root through it so much as conquer it. She tip-toed along its tops, testing her balance, her silence. Cars were noisy. She liked to keep them quiet. 

The smell was blinding. Anything could be on the other side. How did Derek stand it?

She should probably get used to it. Braeden drove that monster. They'd be on the road a lot.

But not til the end of summer. She didn't have to think about it now.

She was annoyed to find Stiles' Jeep tucked into the corner of the lot, rumpled and embarrassed-looking, like the receipts that used to fall out of his pockets.

Car trouble. 

She reviewed their text chain. She hadn't sent him much in the weeks leading up to the show, beyond the directions and stuff she'd sent everybody. She'd been so busy. Maybe it had pissed him off.

But she'd told him she'd be busy. They'd talked about it last summer. The whole point was that they'd have time after school was done. The chance to turn hanging out into something more serious.

Maybe he didn't want that anymore.

This was dumb. She'd see him eventually.

She circled back to the front.

"How was the show?" Theo asked.

"You didn't go either?" Derek demanded, before Malia could answer.

"Either?"

"Theo's different," Malia filled in, annoyed. "And Stiles had car trouble."

Derek grunted.

Malia didn't want this conversation. She walked away again.

"What happened with Stiles' car?" she heard Theo ask.

"Nothing he shouldn't have expected," Derek muttered.

Whatever.

Malia wandered off to a different part of the lot. She was done with coyote stuff—and being here—but Theo needed to come to her place. Whenever the truck had issues, he said he was fine in the tunnels, but he'd cave if Malia pushed.

It just meant she had to wait.

The vehicles Derek kept on the other side of the lot were his projects, junk he rehabbed for sale.

One of them was a grey-green Altima. 

Flip it upside down and spatter it with branches, and it could be the Tate sedan.

It sat there like a rabbit in leaves. Ready for the pouncing.

Malia licked her teeth, her mouth gone gummy with inspiration. It would be a smaller work than her thesis. Intimate.

She made herself swallow it down. That job was the only thing that should inspire her.

She went back to Derek and Theo, grabbing the loaner keys. The easiest way to get Theo to her place was to drive them there.

Theo usually complained. It was annoying, but most of what Theo did was annoying. His consistency was by far his best quality.

Malia got it, though. It was hard to let someone take you home.

Theo stared out the window, mute and expectant, like he was gonna see something besides the crumbling houses on the fringe of town.

"Well?" Malia asked.

Theo watched the Walmart parking lot go by. "What?"

"Aren't you gonna bitch?"

"Bitch?"

"About going to my place."

Theo flushed. "You mean about you forcing me to sleep in your apartment?"

"Yeah, like that."

"I don't always—I don't bitch."

"What's wrong, though?"

"Nothing."

Malia gave up. Theo wasn't worth it when he was being an asshole.

"Would you just take me back to the lab?" he whined. "I don't wanna deal with Stiles."

Oh. "He's not gonna be there."

"But you guys are—"

"No."

"You said—"

"I don't wanna talk about Stiles."

Theo gave her a narrow look, like he was trying to decide if she'd hid Stiles in her bathroom and he'd leap out when they walked in. But after a moment, he finally loosened in his seat. "No argument here."

When they got home, Theo went to take one of his hour-long showers and pile on all the weird lotions he kept in the vanity. 

Malia grabbed a cookbook from the pile, opened it at random, and went to get the ingredients.

Today's book was from the fifties, which meant the food would be gross, and Theo would like it. He was into processed meats. Malia was trying to come around on them. The books helped; it was their conviction that hot dogs would fix everything, the perfect food for a perfect life.

Theo was lounging on the couch when she came back, frowning at the wall.

"Wieners Royale," Malia announced.

"What makes them 'royale?'"

"They're stuffed with cheese and wrapped in bacon."

"Saturated fats," Theo bitched. He always made what she picked, though. His one condition was that they got everything prepped before they started. Malia couldn't deny it was nice. If only that kind of thing came easier to her. She had a tendency to wing it.

"How was the show?" asked Theo, as she sliced cheddar. 

It stuck to the knife. Claws would be so much easier.

But she persevered. "Good."

"Alex shoot their shot?" 

"Kinda."

"Called it." Theo was smug. "What about the Eichen guy?"

"Nelson?"

"The naked one."

"He's not into me."

"You ran into him in a grocery store and he instantly agreed to go to your show."

"People like art." Malia was done with this topic. "You do the next part, I'll read the directions."

"People like you," said Theo, as he took the knife. "What's the problem?"

Malia ignored him. "But let's start with husky, meat-filled Franks—none of the puny, anemic, cereal stuffed dogs will do."

"… Anemic?"

"With a sharp knife," Malia continued, pleased her distraction had worked, "incise lengthwise about halfway through your Frankfurter, and press from both end to make the gaping wound grin at you."

"No way it says that."

Malia offered up the page as proof.

"Where do you find these books?"

"Goodwill."

"Guess we know why they got rid of it."

But he followed the instructions.

It did sort of look like a grin.

Theo made the weird mouth move: "Come bowling with me, Malia."

"Would you shut up?"

"Let me show you my meat-filled Frank!"

Malia whacked at him with the book, biting her lip.

Theo ducked away from her. "Let me give you my wiener royale!"

Malia broke down and laughed. Theo was fun, sometimes. 

They ate on the couch, watching one of Theo's weird shows about robots. She got them ice pops from the freezer: purple for her, this time; red for Theo, always. 

She tried to relax. She didn't have to worry about the job for now, or her thesis ever again. She could just watch robots be assembled or fixed or something—it was a boring show—and tell Theo to stop chewing so loudly on the plastic edge of the ice pop wrapper, and let herself sink into the mosslike embrace of the couch.

After a couple of episodes, they settled into the late night routine. Theo did the dishes, and she made his bed on the pullout. Hospital corners, like her mom taught her. Some things were important. You had to sleep in a real bed sometimes, or you wound up snarling in a corner, convinced it was your den. 

It had been hard, the first time she'd made a bed for Theo. Malia had been more stubborn that he should stay than sure about it. 

But now it was okay. Maybe someday, processed meats would be too.

"I got a job offer," said Theo.

"Who from?"

"Argent." Theo's voice was fawnlike caution, same as when he'd told her about his GED. "Rounding up Monroe's rogue hunters, now that she's been taken down. People who supplied her, stuff like that. Parrish recommended me."

The same offer Braeden had given her. Malia tensed.

Theo must have noticed. “What, you think the job's fake?"

"No." Why would she think that? "You wanna do it?"

"It'd help a lot of people." Theo started drying. "And he said it was based out of LA, so… if you needed your dishes done, I'd still be around."

She shouldn't have told him about UCLA. "Braeden made me the same offer. Out of Chicago, though."

"But you've got school."

"This is more important."

Theo didn't answer for a moment. "That why you took everything off the walls?"

"It's over."

"You tell your dad?"

"Not yet."

"What about Scott?"

"I haven't told anyone."

Theo was silent. When she glanced over, he looked like he wanted to say something.

But he didn't.

It was nice he cared about her art. He'd complained a lot, but he'd helped her with the project whenever she'd asked, and refused any payment but pizza. Not easy work.

It sucked he missed the show.

Malia finished his bed. "You clearing out hunter stuff with Scott next week?"

"He invited me."

"So you'll be there?"

That evasive shrug. "Stiles is going."

Malia hadn't known that.

But if Scott was inviting both of them, it had to be for a reason. "You should come."

Theo was drying dishes that were already dry, the towel squeaking against the china. "It's not gonna end well."

"Scott thinks it will."

Hard to see how. Stiles hated Theo, and had been avoiding Malia, and she hadn't hung out with Scott since they broke up.

But she did trust him. He usually had a plan.

Could things work out?

It made her stomach hurt to hope for. 

"If I go, and it goes badly, I'm gonna say 'I told you so,'" Theo warned.

He was gonna go.

"I know." She went to help him put the dishes away. "You always bitch."

The hunter spot was a mobile home up by the ravine, the house itself buried in dead grass and goldenrod that crackled under their wheels as they rolled up. Good mousing. Cicadas droned. The sun was about to set, cool creeping in. 

Stiles and Scott were already there, getting out of Ms. Martin's car.

"You guys go to Malibu?" came Stiles' voice. He wore a backwards baseball cap, a faded gray shirt that says Property of BHHS, and a scruff he hadn't had at Christmas, the last time she'd seen him.

"Nah, we mostly focused on work." The mice scattered as Scott spoke, even though he'd locked the Alpha intensity away. His hair, which was longer than she'd ever seen it, ruffled lazily in the evening breeze. He brightened as he saw Malia and Theo. "Hey!"

Stiles made a grunt that barely resembled a greeting.

But maybe that was more about Theo.

"Thanks for coming, guys," said Scott. "I just wanna make sure everything's good to go before July."

He gave them all the friendly smile he used when he wanted to pretend nothing was weird or tense. 

The one that never worked.

Were things gonna be weird and tense?  He was supposed to be the one making things not weird and tense. 

Did he think she'd make them not weird and tense? Was that his plan?

Malia was tense.

Theo was weird, staring at everyone.

Stiles gave him a dirty look.

He didn't look at her.

Scott sketched out the objective as they headed over to the cabin: it was probably full of wolfsbane and some processing equipment other hunters might be looking to salvage, and there could be a few caches of supplies and practice areas nearby. He walked them through what to expect.

His victory over Monroe had involved destroying her supplies, though how that had led to Monroe being arrested at the Mexican border, Malia still wasn't sure. 

She wanted to ask about it. Scott had had to work with his dad. Parents used to be something they could talk about. 

But it'd be weird to ask now.

She should have kept up with it better. School wasn't an excuse. Scott had left for Mexico only a few days after getting his veterinary license. What was an art project compared to that?

Maybe that was why Stiles wouldn't look  at her.

Malia wanted to tear into this cabin already. "Can we get moving?"

"Have at it. Theo and I are gonna see if they left anything by the water."

Stiles started towards them. "I can—"

"We got it." Scott was already walking away, Theo falling in hesitantly behind him.

Was this Scott's plan?

Well. Malia wouldn't say no to a few minutes with Stiles. A chance to talk.

He'd hugged her so tightly before he left for the airport at Christmas.

Now, he was popping his cap up and smoothing down his hair. He smelled like anxiety, the kind he got when he had to be around people.

People didn't used to include her.

Malia kicked down the door to the cabin.

"No, hey, let me—"

The air was soupy with wolfsbane. Malia coughed, her nose raw and stinging.

"Careful!" Stiles was tugging at her shoulders, his long fingers digging into her clavicles to pull her back out. He pushed past her, his boxy elbows banging against her ribs. "Would you just let me go first? So I can clear out the poison? That will poison you?"

Malia made herself quit hacking. "Go, then."

Stiles went silent. He slammed open the windows, shooed out air with big waves, grabbed the scattered boxes of powdered wolfsbane and bagged them for removal. 

Malia followed him into the house after. It was old, piles of junk against fake wood paneling half out of joint. It reeked of cigarette smoke. She'd always hated the smell.

She'd have to get used to it. Working with Braeden would probably involve a lot of places like this.

Behind her, Stiles cleared his throat. "How was… the show?"

"Good."

"Good. I mean, great. I mean, that's…" She could hear him gesturing. "Sorry I couldn't make it."

"No big deal." He didn't have to be weird about it. That was what Malia didn't get. "You're here now."

"… Right."

Did he not want to be here?

Compulsively, she sniffed the air for the scent of blood, in case there was another wound that would explain why he was being so distant.

Nothing.

There were a couple cases of empty cartridge in the corner, stashed in cardboard boxes. Malia pressed the whole box against the corner with both hands, feeling the cartridges collapse into each other. 

It felt good. Like pouncing, the same gotcha glee.

And it was so simple. Pressure; crushed. Physics even she could follow.

Unlike whatever was going on with Stiles.

Behind her, he made one of his unhappy noises. "Malia, I'm—"

In the distance, there was a crash.

Malia whirled. 

Stiles tensed. "What?"

Splashing noises. "Someone… fell in the water?"

"From the ravine ?! Was it Scott? Is he okay? Did he—"

"Ssh."

Picking out someone's vitals from the chorus of the world had never come easy to her, but she'd gotten better at concentrating on her own.

Except Stiles had crept closer to her, like she was on the phone with Scott and he wanted to listen in.

Breathe with me, he'd urged in Mexico.

He still breathed the same, anxious little huffs.

Look at my eyes, he'd said.

 His stark bottom lashes had always made his eyes seem wider than other people's. Like the whole world startled him. But he wanted to see.

He was finally looking at her. 

Malia swallowed.

Focus on the sound of my voice.

"Thanks." Scott was laughing—a little breathless, a few groans. Theo was pulling him out of the water. "Fuck."

"Your leg's broken."

"Not for long." Scott hissed. "See? Ah. All good."

Stiles was so close to her, close as he'd been in that filthy bathroom in Mexico, her calm in the storm. She could still feel the soft press of his lips against hers, the way the world had disappeared around them.

"Anything?" Stiles was asking in his low voice.

"Um," Malia hoarsed. She cleared her throat. "All good. Scott fell, but he's okay."

Stiles' wide eyes went wider.

Then he stepped back, scratching his nose. "Uh, good, so, I'll just go. Wait for them. I guess."

He skittered away faster than the mice.

Malia stomped around, kicking at empty boxes and the broken wall, trying to unhook herself from the anchor of Stiles' heartbeat outside the cabin. It pattered anxiously.

Fuck him. Fuck this place. Fuck the cicadas and the sunset and the stupid scared mice. Like Scott would ever hurt them.

Malia wanted to hurt something.

She only came out when Scott showed, Theo trailing behind him.

"You good, dude?" Stiles was demanding. "What happened?"

Scott grinned. "I'm great."

That healing rush, probably: after the injury had healed, but before the adrenaline and endorphins had gone. It hit hardest on the full moon, but was always potent. Scott's smile was the real one now, where he actually felt like nothing was weird or tense. 

Malia could go for that.

Like he'd read her mind, Scott turned to her. "You wanna knock this thing down?"

"You want to?" Scott rarely let loose.

Scott's eyes narrowed to a sliver of red. "Hell yeah."

Malia wasn't about to say no. Maybe she couldn't keep up with Scott's plans or ask about his dad, but she could do this with him.

And destroying the cabin would definitely involve a healing rush.

They hurled themselves through the wall. 

The pain was brutal but exhilarating, then swallowed up in the euphoria of healing. She pulsed with adrenaline and endorphins. She was in her body, in the present. Pressured, crushed, gotcha. The world made sense.

Scott tore through things jockishly, smiling big. For a moment, they had no history. It was just the two of them, only a few breakable walls between them, and then out at the end, shaking off dust and debris and spatters of blood.

She didn't know what she'd hurt, only that it was all healed up. Her body felt like one big exultant stretch, wrapped in cooling summer air. Malia breathed deep.

Syrupy chemosignals pulsed off Scott. For a second, it seemed like he might try to kiss her, but before she could tense, he'd draped himself across Stiles instead.

"Hey, buddy." Stiles slung an arm around him. "You have fun storming the castle?"

Scott sloped into him harder. "Tacos?"

"I was promised."

Scott turned to her and Theo, all dimples. "Tacos?"

"We ate," said Malia. This high wouldn't last, and she didn't want to ruin it with whatever Stiles was doing.

Scott let them go with promises to see them on the fourth. He seemed happy.

If nothing else, she'd done that.

The loaner car had nicer seats than Theo's usual truck, and the hills were waking into dusk. The bliss of healing was fading comfortably, the breeze through the windows cooling. Malia was content, for once, to be exactly where she was.

"I have to tell you something," said Theo.

Malia sighed. "'I told you so?'"

"No." Theo ran his hands up and down the steering wheel. "I'll tell you, but you—you can't—"

Malia sat up. "What is it?"

"I… pushed Scott. Off the ravine."

Malia's high evaporated. "What?"

"I didn't mean to!"

"It was an accident?"

"No, I—I pushed him, but then he… jumped?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"I don't know."

What was that supposed to mean? 

"He was joking." Theo's voice had gone squeaky. "Like I should push him."

The thought of Theo hurting Scott while Malia was busy elsewhere made her heart pound. The car made it worse. The seatbelt dug into her chest unbearably. She took it off.

Made herself inhale.

She could smell the hills on the breeze. Bits of Derek and the shop from the car.

Distress from Theo. Nothing like the empty cool when he'd bragged about killing Scott, or the regret when he shot her. 

"I didn't think it was real," he bleated.

And Scott hadn't acted like someone who'd been pushed. 

So maybe he hadn't been?

"Scott said thanks," she remembered. "He asked about the party. People don't do that if you push them off a cliff."

If Scott had jumped, it had been the same urge to crash through the hunter's cabin, the same high they'd gotten together. He'd been happy. Malia had made sure.

"… You think he jumped?"

"We could ask him," Malia realized. She reached for her phone.

"No, don't—" Theo batted at it.

"What?"

"Isn't it worse?" Theo hissed. "If he jumped?"

"How?"

"He jumped off a cliff! Then threw himself into a building!"

"It was a mobile home." Now Theo was just being dramatic. "And so did I!"

Theo looked at her sideways. "And that had nothing to do with Stiles?"

Malia was done with that topic. "We're talking about Scott."

Theo made a cranky noise.

Malia growled at him. "You never have fun breaking stuff?"

"He broke his leg !"

"That's part of it!"

"How? "

"It just is! You don't get it because you're not a werewolf!"

Theo looked away.

Crap. She tried not to throw it in Theo's face like that.

Because he was different now. He was freaked out at the idea that he might have hurt Scott, that Scott had been hurt at all.

"I can just ask him what happened," she offered again. "It won't be weird."

No more than anything else with him, anyway.

"No, it'll sound—" Theo cut himself off. He was digging his thumbnail into a groove on the wheel where two bits of plastic paneling meet. "Please don't."

Malia deflated. 

She'd never really been good at assuring people. What did Theo even need to hear?

"You really don't think it's bad if he jumped?" he murmured.

A question Malia could answer. "One time I asked him why he did lacrosse with all the asthma, and he said, 'Fuck my lungs.' He does stuff just to prove he can."

"He did say he wanted to prove something," Theo admitted.

"See?"

Theo made the sulky noise he made when he knew she was right.

Malia reached for her seatbelt.

"Wanna talk about Stiles now?" asked Theo.

"Nope." 

"I can go back to the labs. Derek said he'll be finished in a few days, no big deal."

"You're not the problem."

"Malia, what else could it be?"

Another thing Theo didn't get.

"Trust me," she said. "It's not you."

If Stiles had a problem with her, the problem was her.

Malia lasted two years with Scott. When they weren't traveling around California to fight Monroe, they were going back and forth between Davis and Beacon Hills. Malia hadn't known about art, then, just that a degree was a good thing to have. A person-thing to do, unlike running off to France.

Fighting Monroe had been hard. College had been harder. Loving Scott had been hardest of all. Scott was the nicest guy in California: endless trips to see her, romantic surprises, that boundless faith in his big doe eyes.

The day Malia dumped him, she'd booked a ticket to Paris.

Argent had let her stay in the chateau. She'd met Isaac. Had a fling with him. Ended it. 

She'd run to Tokyo, where Liam and Kira were babysitting the nogitsune 's box. It had been good to see Kira again after so long. The two of them had easily rediscovered the well-worn trail of their friendship. Kira's time with the skinwalkers had left her broodier, so they used to roam the streets until Liam caught up to them, let him drag them to yet another noodle place he swore was the best in the city. Good times.

But Kira and Liam had wanted to stick around in the city. Malia had bought a pass for the Shinkansen and traveled Japan. 

Then she'd gone to Seoul.

Shanghai.

Taipei.

Peter had found her in Bangkok. He'd just appeared one day, one hostel bed over, raising his eyebrows at her with a little ah, like they'd happened to be in line next to each other at the store. 

Malia hadn't been in the mood. "What do you want?"

"To see Wat Pho," Peter had drawled. "It's on my bucket list."

Ignoring Peter was the best way to get rid of him, so she'd gone on her way.

He'd followed her.

When she couldn't shake him, Malia had pushed. Peter was a patient predator, but not an enduring one; give him bait and he'd bite every time.

He hadn't bitten. He'd gone wherever she'd picked, tried whatever she'd wanted, eaten everything she'd ordered. The most he'd done was complain about their accommodations.

"Feels like a hospital bed," he'd sniffed.

Not a complaint many werewolves made.

It had occurred to Malia that he'd lost years of his life too. If Peter was here, he had at least three reasons for it, but one of them might be that he wanted to see the world as much as she did. 

It might be the one thing they had in common. 

After she'd picked the itinerary, she'd let him book their hotels.

Eventually, she'd been standing at the side of the road in Jaisalmer, crunching through flaky layers of onion kachori, and realized a year had passed since she'd left home. 

She hadn't wanted to go back.

A red flag.

"Should I go back to Beacon Hills?" Malia had wondered.

"Why?" Peter had wrinkled his nose. "What's that hellhole ever done for you?"

He hadn't said it strange—none of the slant of his angling, or the syrup of winning her over. It had been genuine: if the place didn't give her pleasure, why would she go? Peter was driven by want.

Exactly why Malia had been on a plane the next morning.

Peter hadn't chased her. He was probably even happy, in his vain way, that she ran. Running was Peter's speciality, Malia's birthright.

She should hate him for it, but she didn't. Hating her birth-parents took a lot out of her. She pitied him.

Stiles wasn't the pitying type.

He probably thought that Peter was using her. That she was stupid for letting him.

Maybe that was why he'd been so weird. It had all caught up to him: dumping his best friend, traveling with his worst enemy, ditching the war for an art major. Who'd want someone like that?

Malia ran through the preserve at dusk with that thought. She drank from her favorite stream, snapped up manzanita berries. Sat by the summer-sludgy river, at the bend where she used to wait for deer.

Now she waited for anger. If Stiles had a problem, he should tell her.

But the feeling only lurched up unevenly, like bubbles in the river. Anger at Stiles had never come easy.

Once upon a time, he'd taught her to like pizza. Friday night was pizza night at the Stilinski house, a sacred ritual and more of an event than any dinner with her own dad. Malia had been dazzled by it: the habitual fight over pepperoni for Stiles' dad, its undercurrent of affection; the insistence on real plates instead of paper; the sheriff's Sierra Nevadas arranged on the side table like pigeons on a power line. Beer made her dad quiet but Stiles' dad loud. There was always a movie, and he and Stiles always talked through it, half to the screen and half to each other. An argument every time, but no one was angry.

Stiles had turned to her throughout the night, to get her more soda or another slice or ask her if she liked the toppings they'd gotten, if she wanted something different.

"Kira said pineapple is good," Malia had once ventured. She'd had it with her the week before. She'd liked the tang.

"Ugh, no, Kira's wrong," Stiles had retorted through the wad of pizza in his mouth. "Pineapple is unholy."

From then on, it had never tasted the same.

Peter did still lie, but sometimes he told the truth.

You have an unhealthy attachment to Stiles, he'd once said.

Malia wished that was a lie.

Theo got his truck back, but didn't move out. Once he was at her place, he usually stayed for a while. It was the routine. If he wasn't at the Y or at the lab with his plants or out making deliveries, he mostly lay around, watching videos on his phone and being annoying. He cleaned, though, and didn't try to make her talk. 

Or he didn't used to.

Every day, he found a way to bring up UCLA. What had she done with the acceptance letter she'd shoved in his face? Which classes had she been thinking about, again? What was the name of that professor she'd been looking forward to meeting?

It was grating, like Theo was brushing her fur the wrong way. She hadn't realized how much she'd told him about applying until now.

"What about your advisor?" he asked.

"What about her?"

Her advisor was on a long list of people Malia had to figure out a lie for. It wasn't like she could tell her she was gonna go fight hunters.

"She said UCLA would be a good fit, right? Got you to apply? Wrote you a recommendation? Have you told her you're thinking of ditching it?" 

Malia had had enough. "I didn't tell you that stuff so you could use it against me." 

She made eye contact until he looked away. Why wouldn't he let it go? She didn't want to be pissed at him.

Or anyone. Why wouldn't Stiles just text her? June was almost over. Almost a third of the summer. Her last free one.

She couldn't sleep. She paced through town. 

Wound up at the Martin house. 

Stared up at the window that smelled like Stiles. He still slept with it open.

Not even Scott could hear her, when she tiptoed. She could find out what was up with Stiles the way she used to.

She went home instead. It was six a.m., so Theo was at the gym.

She lay upside down on the couch, feet against the wall. She used to lie like this to stare up her notes. 

But she'd taken them down.

She was still staring up at the wall by the time Theo got back.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, while he fished out powders for one of his protein shakes.

"Coyotes are nocturnal."

"Never stopped you before." 

Maybe she could distract him again. "Those shakes are gross."

"Is it your notes?" Theo barreled on. "I could help you put them back up."

"I don't need your help, Theo."

Theo turned the blender on in what could only be described as a pissy fashion.

Malia sat up to glare at him.

Theo turned the blender off. "You just seem… stressed."

"Well, I haven't been sleeping," Malia grumbled. She didn't want to fight.

Theo was studying her. "You wanna watch something?"

"Not really." She was too restless.

"We could cook."

"Not hungry." If Malia tried to follow a recipe right now she'd wind up shredding the cookbook.

"Then… how about a trash day?"

A peace-offering almost too good to be true. Theo was never the one to suggest it.

"It's gonna be ninety degrees by noon," she reminded him warily.

He poured his horrible concoction. "We'll go soon as I'm done with this, if you want."

Malia did want.

Trash was how Theo wound up at her place, in a way.

Before Malia left for France, Theo had been a frustratingly blank space. That initial crack about shooting her had been his only one, and he'd taken her anger with nothing but wide eyes. Whenever he'd joined her and Scott for a mission around Beacon Hills, he'd been helpful, to the point, and polite.

Malia had gotten that it was a kind of apology. 

But it hadn't made her less pissed.

He'd wormed under her skin so effortlessly and kept her out of his so thoroughly. She'd thought she'd understood him. The distance had been more proof she never had. Humiliating.

She'd tried to think of him like rain: useful, unknowable, inevitable. Not worth getting worked up over.

After she'd come back from abroad, she hadn't thought about him. What else was there to think?

She hadn't run into him again until Parrish had asked if she'd help roust some of Monroe's people, who habitually descended on town. Her first mission since coming back. Stressful, but it hadn't been that bad. She'd heard that Scott had stopped coming home or gathering the pack there, in order to make Beacon Hills a smaller target, but that had been the first time she'd seen the effects. There'd only been a few hunters, none of them prepared.

Parrish, Derek, and Theo had been. It had been easy to fall in with their rhythm. Within a few minutes they had all four hunters unconscious in the back of a patrol car.

Theo had still been in the house. 

"What's he doing?" Malia had wondered.

Parrish hadn't even looked up from his phone. "Oh, I let him take stuff. Won't be long." 

With that, he'd started going over fantasy baseball stats with Derek. Like it was all routine.

Curious—and a little suspicious—Malia had gone inside. 

She'd found Theo in the kitchen. 

He was standing at the counter, in front of an aluminum tray of… food. Not a dish she recognized.

Theo had sunk his hand in it.

"What is that?"

Theo had flinched.

For a moment, he'd given her the same look Kylie used to when Malia had found her digging through her stuff. Caught.

Then he'd sneered. "What's it look like?"

The last time he'd dared her to come closer, he'd been waiting to hurt her, smirking about it. Malia hadn't denied herself a pleasure in his discomfort this time, the way he obviously wanted to move but was too proud to.

He'd put his hand in… a casserole. The top layer of potatoes had eroded around his palm into crinkled layers, like shale.

Not what she'd expected. "Huh."

Theo had yanked his hand away like he'd been pressing it down on a hot stove.

Why had he done it at all? 

Malia had put her hand down. 

Starchy resistance crunching in on itself, a springy film of melted cheese, and then, at the base, the wet velvet of ground meat. A few peas had burst under her fingers.

Like digging through trash, almost. Harmless thrill. Coyote stuff.

"What are you doing?"

Derek had been at the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows at his hairline.

Theo had raised his own at her, aping Derek's expression, like this had all been her idea.

Malia had shrugged. "This."

Derek had shaken his head and turned away.

Theo's mask had been back up by the time they'd left the house, but it was too late. Malia could tell she'd gotten under his skin.

She'd hopped in his truck instead of Derek's for the ride back to town. Not a vengeful impulse, exactly, just an old one. She'd gotten a hold of Theo, and years of hunting had left her with certain instincts: once she'd sunk her teeth in it, it was instinct to hold on.

Theo had watched her get in with no expression and refused to look at her or say anything for the entire ride. 

Malia had let the silence build.

Finally, when they got to her building, Theo had screwed up his whole body, like what he was about to say was water to shake off. "Used to eat a lot of it."

That had obviously meant something, even if it wasn't clear what. Theo had been holding himself stiffly. Braced for impact.

Malia had softened. 

She'd always had a weakness for people afraid of judgement: Stiles in Eichen, Kira on the dance floor. Theo's shamelessness had once made him infuriatingly magnetic, then just infuriating. Finding awkward shame in him here—over something so silly—had disarmed her. She'd loosened her jaws.

"I used to eat garbage."

Theo had goggled at her.

"I still do sometimes, at the dumpsters by the mall," she'd added, just to see those eyes widen more. She'd liked surprising him after all the times she'd done exactly what he'd expected.

The next time she'd gone to the dumpsters, she'd invited him.

They walked over, because Malia didn't want to borrow a car and Theo didn't want the truck to smell like trash. Once they got to the creek by the mall, they hid their clothes, then trotted over in shifted form to the dumpsters. Malia leapt in first in case there was something sharp. Theo was clumsy in this form. It made her feel fast, dangerous. She pawed with excitement, pressing her snout down as she dug.

She could still remember the first time she'd eaten garbage. It had been long enough after the crash that hunger had broken through the numb. Hunting had terrified her, and even sneaking past the streetlights to the dumpsters had set her tail between her legs. But she'd done it, and the trash had all been hers. 

Eventually, she'd stopped being so scared of killing things and spent less time eating garbage, but the sense of accomplishment had never faded. Garbage was something you could win, a victory against starvation.

When she'd turned back into a human again, trash had been something else. Eating rats upset people, but they only seemed bemused when she smelled like a dumpster.

You're an artist, I guess, said her dad.

Theo rarely did much, once she got going, besides crouch on his haunches and watch her with a squint out of place on his wolfish face. Sometimes Malia wondered why he still came. The first time had been to prove something, but it couldn't still be that, right?

Probably to make fun of her. At least he was quiet about it.

For her, it was just routine. She liked knowing what to do with people. They crashed around in the dumpsters until she was satisfied, then rinsed off in the creek, changed back into clothes, and headed home. There was a stop at the 7-Eleven on the way ever since the first time, when it had been so hot that she'd worried Theo would overheat. He had a shaggy winter coat no matter the season, and didn't seem to understand how to use his tongue to regulate.

Plus, Slurpees were fun. Malia had missed them when she was traveling. 

The guy at the 7-Eleven knew Theo. Tom, said his name tag. He always waved with his good hand. The other one looked like it was smashed by a hammer.

Malia was pretty sure he'd been Theo's fake dad, back when he first came to town. He had the air of dreamy confusion that came with the Doctors messing with your head, and Theo had told them his dad's hand had been injured.

Theo took a few minutes to talk to him so Malia grabbed Slurpees for both of them. Theo was easy: red always. He was like a little kid sometimes, with how picky he was.

Kylie had been insistent about new flavors. Whatever she got, Malia had to get something else, and they had to switch halfway through, or, if she was feeling extra adventurous, combine them. Out of habit, Malia got a new mix every time.

Theo always tried hers and made a face.

He was such a bitch.

After the dusty walk back to her place, Theo took first shower. Malia admired her Slurpee-stained tongue in her phone's selfie-mode, then went to pull up Crunchyroll. She had a new anime to watch from Kira, who liked shows about monsters in love. Only some of them were interesting, but it was fun to text Kira about them, and she loved lying around. She'd sprawl across the couch while Theo curled up in the corner. He'd be napping by the end of the first episode, while Malia marathoned, head half in her phone. 

It was comfortable. Relaxing. Malia looked forward to it.

Did Braeden like anime? Did she nap on the couch? She didn't seem the type. 

She definitely wasn't dumpster diving.

It wouldn't be the same, anyway. This was the routine with Theo, no one else.

A routine which was always going to end. If not for the job, then for school, when she moved to LA.

A routine she'd...

Miss.

The realization was embarrassing, like a guinea pig had snuck up on her. She wanted to break its stupid squeaky neck. Theo was so annoying. 

But they had a routine.

I'll still be around, he'd said. Had he been counting on her being there? Was she letting him down? 

Has he become the kind of person she could let down?

Malia rolled up off the couch and began to pace.

That was how Theo found her. He had a towel around his neck still, and he smelled like all the stuff he kept in her bathroom. He had his own drawer in her vanity. How had she missed this?

"What's wrong?" he asked.

How did she talk about it?

"I don't think Braeden likes Slurpees."

It was the kind of stupid thing Theo usually mocked.

But he only watched her calmly. "Probably not."

Malia paced. "I didn't think about that til now."

"It's okay." He took the towel off his neck. "I don't think she knew about your plans when she offered that job, either—your real plans."

Malia didn't know what to say. All of a sudden, she didn't want to say anything. She just wanted to clean off and watch anime. "I'm gonna take a shower."

"All you have to do is tell her." Still that calm tone. "She won't be mad."

"You better not have used all the hot water again."

"You think she'd be happy if she knew you were throwing your future away?"

Malia went to head for the bathroom.

But Theo got in her way. "You haven't talked to anyone about this plan. That doesn't seem like a bad sign to you?"

Malia couldn't handle this. "Move."

"It's because you know what they'd say, right? What your dad would say? Or Lydia? What Scott would say?"

"I did talk to someone," Malia growled. "You."

"And I'm saying it's a bad idea!"

Malia physically moved him out of her way. 

As he tried to stop her and fails, his face twisted. "What would Tracy say?"

Malia froze. They'd never discussed Tracy—anything from senior year. "Theo, shut up."

He went to his duffel bag, dug out some papers. "You need to see these."

He smelled the same way he once did at Fort Jewett: regret. 

For turning her into collateral damage.

Malia tensed.

Theo offered the pile.

They were Tracy's drawings.

Malia hadn't seen them in so long. 

"I found them in the tunnels," she heard Theo say, "when I was clearing them out."

He sounded far away. The rest was rushing back. Malia stared.

They were just like she remembered. Lydia and Kira had come back with them from Tracy's house. Drawings of her dreams. They'd terrified Malia: the swathes of black dominating the pages, the masked figures lurking in them. A mirror for her own nightmares. The drawings had been everything she'd been trying to stutter about the Doctors, effortlessly beyond her scope.

But now she'd been to art school.

Tracy's lines were uncertain. The proportions were off. Under the desperate attempts to get out of her own head had been an artist just starting to learn.

She never would. Not the way Malia had.

Malia was so much older than her now. She'd get older every year.

Such a familiar pain. She might as well be holding Kylie's doll.

She glared at Theo, her eyes hot. "Why would you show me these?"

Theo tapped the drawings, his finger harsh against the frail paper. "Don't you think she'd kill for a chance at UCLA, if she were here?"

"And why isn't she here, Theo?" Malia demanded. Her throat was sore. She wanted to hurt Theo so badly. Any second, she was going to. "Why isn't she here?"

Theo was calm. "Because I killed her."

Malia snarled. She was furious. The deep kind, the one that had haunted her since she was nine: I wish you were all dead. 

She couldn't think. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't stay.

She shoved the drawings at him and stormed out.

A few blocks down the road, it hit her that she'd left her own apartment.

But fuck going back.

She paced through town until she was at the old strip mall, from before the big box stores took over. Where Suburban Lanes was.

Malia missed bowling. 

She kept walking. Listened to an album Lydia recommended. Texted her about it.

Lydia didn't text back. Probably working.

Malia used to work like this, wandering and listening to music, hashing out projects in her head. It was how she made herself focus, how she'd turned herself into someone who could focus.

You turned into what you needed to be. Malia had known that ever since she'd turned into a coyote.

She needed to be someone who did the right thing. Theo of all people should get that. 

Eventually she was at Derek's shop. She'd love to crush something right now. "Coyote stuff?"

But Derek shook his head. "Why do you smell like a dumpster?"

People were always asking her dumb questions. "Because I was in a dumpster."

Derek shook his head more, but at least the interrogation ended. She didn't want to talk to anyone.

That doesn't seem like a bad sign to you?

Fucking Theo.

Malia brooded through the yard. 

The Altima was still there. 

It'd be a good piece. Doris Salcedo meets futurism, by means of automobile. 

But she didn't do that anymore.

Malia climbed on to the roof of the car.

The sun was starting to set. 

She hadn't eaten anything today except garbage. Hunting sounded great. Venison. She'd clamp down on its throat and feel it suffocate.

Dirty, ravenous, violent; everything she'd tried to leave behind. Might as well be back in Eichen.

Of course that was when, for the first time since car trouble, Stiles texted her: Pizza? Your place? I'll pick it up

"You don't want it," said Derek.

Malia startled. "What?"

"The car." Derek nodded at it. "Thought I could fix it, but the transmission's toast. It's better in parts."

Better in parts. The title.

Malia thumped the roof with one foot. "Scrap it, then."

Derek frowned. "Malia, are you okay?"

"Yup."

Derek didn't look convinced.

Malia couldn't stay here. 

From where? she asked.

His reply was instant: Fratelli's, the pollo loco?

Her favorite place, her favorite kind. His way of saying sorry.

She'd always loved how he’d say things without wringing them both through a conversation. His was the easiest language to learn, when she'd first come back to the world. He talked like an animal.

She wanted the relief of him, the pavlovian certainty of seeing him behind the wheel of the Jeep: that she'd be okay, that whatever the problem was, Stiles would help her with it. She was starving for it. I'm at Derek's shop, could you pick me up?

Omw.

When he arrived, the sound of the Jeep's engine was warm, enveloping as a fur coat.

Stiles had an arm hanging out like always. She used to go up and kiss him at the window. She hadn't gotten that far, last summer, worried about going too fast, but the instinct was there.

As if he knew, Stiles leaned away, reaching across the console to open the other door for her. "Hop in."

It seemed too easy, after all this time.

Easy was good.

"I smell like garbage," she thought to warn.

"Only an improvement for this thing, trust me." 

More relief. Stiles had never cared if she was dirty or smelly or wanted to lean her head out the window to sniff the wind. 

"Can we not go to my place?"

Malia didn't want to be back in her apartment.

"Shouldn't be an issue," Stiles said distractedly, digging out his phone. "Scott's been spending time with his mom so… yeah, we're good, he says he'll be out. Should we swing by your place for clothes?"

"Can I just use your shower?"

And wear his clothes.

"No problem," Stiles replied too casually. He knew what she was asking. "That place has so many towels."

He took her to the Martin house and left her to clean up while he went to get pizza.

After she was clean, she rifled through his drawers. Everything he had was worn to fuzz from how hard he was on his things. It used to feel like a cocoon in the Stilinski house. She'd curl up with him on the faded couch, in his clothes and next to him, and end the night with her head in his lap, his fingers tracing against her head and neck as he petted her hair. Quiet, easy moments.

This wasn't the same couch, but it was shaping up to be a quiet moment. The pizza was nothing compared to the stuff she had in Paris but it tasted better anyway. They watched Die Hard. Stiles talked the whole time and chewed on his soda straw and stretched the mozzarella as far as possible with each bite. Malia choked on her pizza when he did impressions of Alan Rickman.

They started off on opposite sides of the couch and ended up next to each other, his arm slung along the back. She'd put her legs across his, claiming she wanted to stretch out. It was like last summer, or winter break, when every moment had been a bubble they were inflating, something that would break if you breathed on it wrong, so neither of them had. 

Malia didn't want to break this moment. Stiles' long fingers were playing with the collar of her flannel, and he kept glancing over at her. His gaze didn't usually rest long in one place, but when he looked at her, he really looked. He'd gotten leaner since she saw him last. His gaze was narrow and heated. He smelled amazing—like himself, the good stuff.

She swung up onto his lap, straddling him. 

"Hey." His hands went around her waist. "Hi, hello."

She leaned in, lowering her voice to do her best Bruce Willis: "Welcome to the party, pal."

"Yippee-ki-yay," he joked, pulling her in closer. He looked so good, staring up at her like this. She wanted to bite him, to claw him up. She wanted those restless hands around the back of her head, holding her the way he liked, the way he'd done ever since he'd taught her how to kiss.

She was going to kiss him. She leaned in.

"Uh," said Stiles.

Malia froze. "Uh?"

"Yeah, uh, I—" Stiles cleared his throat. "I just wanted to say, y'know, sorry. For ghosting."

"Right now?" No one could ruin a moment like Stiles. 

It was cute, even if it was also annoying.

Really annoying.

"Shouldn't we?" Stiles' fingers kneaded at her waist. "Right now?"

Malia didn't want to do anything right now except make out on the couch.

But Stiles was probably right. 

"It's okay if you were upset with me."

"I'm not upset." Stiles frowned. "Who said I was upset?" 

"No one. I'm just saying, it's okay if you are."

"Malia, I'm not upset." Stiles was starting to get an edge to his voice. 

The way he did when he was upset.

Malia slid off his lap. "You didn't talk to me for a month."

"And I said I was sorry about that. I didn't handle it well. Sometimes I fuck up."

"Handle what well?"

Stiles glanced at her, then away.

"Stiles. It's okay."

"Would you stop saying that?" 

"What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing!"

Malia stiffened. 

"I mean, whatever—I don't know." Stiles' leg was twitching. "I was just trying to tell you I'm sorry."

"I didn't ask you to do that."

How had things gone wrong so quickly? Why did this day keep being so terrible? Why couldn't Stiles just make it better, or at least tell her how to? He used to be so good at it.

All she wanted was for him to hold her.

"Well, why not?" Stiles demanded. "Seriously, Malia, after a month? What's wrong with you?"

Malia flinched.

Stiles scrubbed his hair with his hands. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Whatever." Her eyes were hot again. How was this happening twice in one day? Fuck Stiles, and fuck Theo, and fuck this. 

Stiles startled as she got up. "What are you—Malia, I didn't—don't—"

"You're right. It's not okay." Malia was done. It was different from needing out. She wasn't running away. She was leaving.

"Malia, come on!"

She slammed the door in his face.

It was past dusk, into the dark of the night. Malia's time to be alive, once. 

She was tired.

If she went back to her apartment, Theo would be gone. He disappeared when they argued. She'd find the sheets and blankets a neat pile on the couch, the pullout tucked away.

She called her dad instead.

He picked her up at the corner and didn't ask her why she was there or looked like she was crying. He spent the drive to his house grumbling about the contractors he worked with and the latest conspiracy theories he'd gotten into. Malia nodded along.

Apollo wiggled figure eights between them as soon as they got in the door, wheezing and woofing softly. He loved when she came home.

"You know where everything is," said her dad. He kept her room made up. He loved when she came home too. 

He'd never asked her how she managed, that first time. 

My miracle baby, he'd wept. No questions about how she'd survived. 

Nothing when she'd wanted to go to Mexico out of the blue, or told him she had a trust fund, or that she'd be flying to Chicago for the trial of an infamous contract killer.

Kylie's bed was still next to hers, like she might also wander out of the woods one day, as long as her dad didn't question the miracle.

He lingered at the door to her room. "You'd tell me if there was someone I needed to shoot, right?"

He smelled so anxious, like even that might be too much.

"I'd tell you," Malia lied, and gave him a hug.

She was exhausted by the time she crawled under the covers.

But the silence at her dad's house was oppressive.

She didn't sleep well.

She was still at her dad's place when Lydia texted her:

Can you pick up a few things for the party?

And bring them here

Today

I'll send you a list, please and thank you!

Lydia had been roping her into buying food for her parties since she discovered Malia had the best nose for produce. With the fourth of July only a few days away, Malia had been waiting for it.

She should say no—you had to, with Lydia, or she escalated—but it was something to do. Better than stillness, a reason to leave her dad's place. She borrowed his car and set out.

At the Safeway, she saw Nelson again. He was holding a carton of strawberries that smelled like mold.

"Here." Malia offered him a better one. "Take these instead."

"Malia, uh, hey."

"Yours are rotten."

"Okay." Nelson put the new one in his cart. He always was good at keeping up with her. He grinned. "You wanna, like, stand lookout?"

To steal, he meant. Their old Eichen game.

She wanted to. She always would. It was the same urge that propelled her through the trash: something from nothing, sudden feast, pounce-joy. Most people didn't understand it. Nelson did. That was why he ran around naked.

But you couldn't steal in a Safeway. Stiles hadn't needed to explain that to her. That had been her mom, way back when. Malia had been five, her pockets full of stuff she'd taken. She can't remember what she took, only how her mom had laughed as she'd emptied Malia's pockets, her no-no-no hiccuped with giggles.

How did you even get all this stuff? she'd wondered, after she'd caught her breath. I didn't see you grab any of it.

Her dad had been so proud. Miracle baby.

Malia selected her own strawberries. "I don't do that anymore."

"Yeah, me neither, really." Nelson grabbed more cartons, holding up each for her approval. "But sometimes it all feels like stealing, I guess. 'Nothing leaves the cafeteria.'"

Eichen had been strict about food between meals or outside of designated areas. Nelson had been in a lot longer than her. 

"You ever been back?" he asked. "To the site, I mean. That park."

"Just for the opening." 

Ken and Noshiko's final act in Beacon Hills had been to lobby for the demolition of Eichen House, which had been closed ever since the anukite had wreaked havoc in it. In its place now stood the Oak Creek Memorial Garden. Malia had gone for the ribbon-cutting. She'd lasted twenty minutes. Then she'd needed out.

 "I wondered if that was part of what your piece was about." Nelson looked around, like someone might catch him describing it. "Or, like, about Eichen still being underneath. Did you ever hear any of those rumors about the secret floors in the basement, where they kept government experiments?"

Malia grabbed grapes. "Nope."

"I guess you weren't there long. And there were a lot of rumors."

"How many of them did you start?" Malia asked, to change the subject.

"Maybe a couple." Nelson smiled, but it was weak. "You know, one time I told Oliver that Brunski was a serial killer? He wouldn't stop listing all the people who thought they were Jesus, so… Can I ask you a question?"

"What?"

"Do you think it really was suicide, or did Brunski kill him?"

Malia remembered waking in the basement, still strapped to the chair, looking over to find Oliver's dead body. "I don't know."

"It just never… most of the others, you looked back, you saw it coming. He was a surprise, I guess." Nelson laughed. "Maybe that's all it was."

"Maybe."

"Sorry, I'm probably talking about it too much. Fucking echo house, right?"

"Yeah." Malia didn't want to be here. "Fucking echo house."

Nelson gave her the same look he had at the art show. "It's just… good to see someone else who got out."

He meant it, was the worst part. He didn't know how good she was at getting out.

Malia was sick of people telling her things she didn't want to hear.

"It was good to see you too."

In ten minutes, she was out of the store.

Then the parking lot.

Then town, up into the mountains.

Lydia was picky about unpacking: everything had to be put away according to some invisible system. Drinks went in their own refrigerator in the garage, vegetables got prepped just so. Malia didn't get it and didn't care—no one was coming to this party for the celery—but she chopped and washed anyway. Not getting it was part of it, with Lydia. Of everyone who'd taught her how to be a human again, Lydia's life had always seemed the most removed.

Malia watched her rinse grapes in a colander and lay them out on paper towels to dry. She was the first person Malia saw do that, after she came back—after she'd spent years stealing grapes off the vine from the shitty vineyards south of the preserve. She'd been living with her dad, who didn't eat fruit, when she wasn't crashing at the Stilinskis', who never washed it. Lydia had been the height of refinement.

But in Tokyo, Kira had made her try Shine-Muscat grapes, a kind so fancy you gave them to people as presents.

Weird, to think that now Malia had been places Lydia hadn't.

An orange peel thought, inedible.

"How's your thesis going?" Malia asked, to get the taste out.

From the look on her face, Lydia knew Malia wouldn't follow, but she talked anyway, smelling first frustrated—problem in her work, gristle over bone—and then more content as she chewed through to the solution. Malia felt full by proxy.

Afterwards, Lydia picked at a grape, leaning against the kitchen counter. "Now, do you wanna tell me what's bothering you, or do you wanna keep pretending you care about the Riemann-zeta function?"

"I care."

Lydia looked at her.

"I want to," Malia protested. "I can."

She had to try harder.

"It's okay," said Lydia, around a grape bulging in her cheek. "I don't really care about art theory. Now would you just tell me?"

It was tempting. Lydia was brilliant. 

But what could Malia tell her? That Stiles hadn't given her something he'd never promised her? That she didn't want to help people, doing work she was good at? 

"It's complicated."

"Because it's Stiles?"

"Not really."

"Then what's complicated?"

"The Riemann-zeta function."

Lydia choked on her grape. When she finally swallowed, she pretended nothing had happened. "I'm just trying to help."

"I know." Malia felt horrible. She didn't want to push Lydia away, but she couldn't talk about Stiles. She didn't want to think about him.

She wanted to stop thinking. 

"You wanna do my hair?"

Lydia put her grapes down, straightening. "Really?"

"Yeah."

Lydia washed her hair in the sink, same place as the grapes.

Malia relaxed.

In high school, Kira would let her sniff through her collection of earrings and makeup and nail polish, the little sparkly things she liked to put in her hair. She never wanted to tell Malia what to do, so the two of them had always done what Malia wanted, which was mostly make a mess.

Lydia had played with her like a doll. Those had been peaceful hours: Lydia's polished fingernails in her hair, combing and braiding and curling, tilting Malia's head from side to side. Lydia always worked in silence. There'd only been the sound of Ms. Martin, downstairs or down the hall, smelling like a more sophisticated swirl of perfume and hairspray and floral shampoo. An inheritance of girly scents, mother to daughter. The kind Malia could lose herself in, at least for a little while.

Malia did feel lost.

She let Lydia rub something slippery in her hair, her fingers scraping satisfyingly along Malia's scalp.

Back in high school, Lydia had always made her feel grounded, like maybe it wasn't such a big deal that she never knew what to do, because no one knew as much as Lydia.

Maybe that was the problem now. She knew what she was supposed to do. Embrace the job. Get over Stiles.

But she couldn't.

Lydia would always help her style her hair, but Stiles had been the one to brush it when it got really tangled. He'd bought a brush just for her; the Stilinski men hadn't had one in the house before. 

When she'd decided she wanted to shave her legs, he'd done it for her, running his face-razor along her shin in the cramped Stilinski tub. When he nicked her, he'd put little bits of toilet paper on the cuts, even though they healed over instantly.

She could still feel it, if she concentrated, under the lull of the hairdryer and Lydia's comb: the blotting of his finger, his guilty eyes.

She couldn't stop feeling it.

"Pretty," Lydia declared. She shuffled Malia to the mirror, arranging her tendrils proprietarily.

Malia saw a coyote with nice hair, who didn't know how to shave or smell like a girl or be good.

She'd been human for eight years now. Shouldn't she be better at it?

"Come early for the party and I'll do it for you again," Lydia suggested. 

Malia made a non-committal noise.

Lydia's grip on her locks froze. "You are coming."

"I'll come," Malia agreed instantly. She didn't want Lydia to worry. Lydia was her friend. Malia wouldn't run from the party. She wouldn't try to get out.

No matter how bad she wanted to. Everyone was gonna be there: Scott, Theo, Stiles. 

"I'll come early," she promised. "You can do my hair."

Lydia was watching her through the mirror, rubbing the strand of hair back and forth through her soft fingers like she could determine the quality of Malia's lie by feel. "You really can talk to me, you know."

"I know," Malia replied, and said nothing.

Lydia let her go.

Malia said goodbye awkwardly.

She drove home uncomfortably.

She fantasized, as she started the decline, that she'd float up, away from the car as it went down. Up and up, like a raptor on a thermal, feathers spread wide, until no one squinting up at her could make her out.

Then she'd hang there, reaching at nothing, a blot in the sun.

Stiles had never locked his window.

He'd never been upset, when he'd rolled over at two in the morning and found Malia lying next to him.

He'd never known about the other times.

Malia used to sneak into his room all the time, quiet as a ghost because Stiles' dad was often home, watching TV. She'd smell Stiles' clothes, sleep in his bed, eat his food, open the books he kept dog-eared on his desk. He wrote in every margin. She'd loved it.

She'd known he wouldn't approve. Stiles always had a lot of opinions about what to do: math homework, daily showers, not leaving people to be eaten. It had been so comforting, once, knowing that he'd tell her what she needed to worry about, soothing as the thick cotton blankets slouched around the Stilinski house. It hadn't always stopped her but it had delineated her life, Stiles' reaction the difference between acceptable and unacceptable.

Breaking into his room at the Martin house was unacceptable. She didn't need Stiles to tell her that anymore. She just wanted his reaction.

All he had to do is tell her that the job was the right choice, and she'd stop stressing. 

Or if he told her he wasn't interested, she'd stop hoping.

If he wouldn't talk, maybe he'd tell her some other way. He was obsessed with writing things down, tying his thoughts up with string. There had to be a board somewhere about her, a margin where he'd scribbled her.

But there was nothing in his room.

Or the next one over, where he kept his laptop.

Maybe in the living room? There had to be something.

Malia descended the stairs, and turned towards the room.

Only to smack right into Scott.

"Malia!"

He looked as shocked as she felt. How had she not heard him? When had he come in? "What are you doing here?"

"What am I—?" Scott blustered. "I live here! With permission! What are you doing here?"

"Creeping around." She tried to ignore the heat on her face. This was humiliating enough without Scott asking obvious questions. 

Had he been here the whole time? 

He'd never been the type to skulk. "Why are you hiding your scent?"

"What?"

The only time she remembered him disappearing was when the anukite had been terrorizing everyone. "Are you afraid of something?"

Scott was starting to look annoyed. "Maybe that someone's creeping around my house?"

"But you didn't know about that."

"Malia, enough." He started to herd her to the door. "I'll tell Stiles you were looking for him, okay?"

"No, don't—" Malia stopped in the foyer, bringing Scott up short against her. "Don't tell him."

This had been a dumb idea. Stiles had already given her his reaction. She couldn't handle any more. "Please?"

Scott looked away, the irritation sinking into discomfort.

"Please?"

He tongued his cheek. "I'll stay out of it." 

"Thank you." Malia wanted to shake off her embarrassment like wet fur. "Sorry."

"No, I—" Scott waved her apology away, deflating. "I got too involved, before. That thing with the cabin, leaving you with Stiles…"

Malia didn't want to think about that. How close she'd been to Stiles, how he'd walked away.

But she wasn't mad at Scott about it. He'd tried to give her what she wanted. 

"Tearing it apart was cool," she offered.

The exhilaration, the release. A few minutes' freedom from the mess of her life. 

That had been so good.

"Yeah." Scott finally relaxed a little, looking less flustered and irritated and more… him. "You don't have to sneak in, you know. Front door's always open."

He'd let her in, he meant.

That was the thing about Scott: he always tried to give people what they wanted. Things with him had been tense and weird—and painful and embarrassing—but she'd never doubted that. 

He was looking at her with his dark eyes.

"I know," she said quietly.

Another look, before he cleared his throat. "Uh, hey, you know anywhere good to eat around here? I was just getting ready to go."

"To eat?"

"Deaton and I were supposed to have lunch, but he had to cancel. Figured I'd still get out of the house."

Malia could understand that. She didn't want to stay here, and she knew what it was like not to find who you were looking for.

And to want somewhere new. If Scott was asking, he meant somewhere to eat besides the same three places that had been around since high school. Which meant one of the novelty snack places that were always cropping up on campus. "You like bubble waffles?"

"What's a bubble waffle?"

"A waffle." Malia didn't know how else to explain it. "With bubbles."

"Should've guessed," Scott said dryly. "Where can I find one?"

"It's by the quad, Bubble U."

"Bubble me, got it."

He was cute when he thought he was cute.

It got worse when he noticed it was working. He smiled.

She could eat.

"You want one?" she offered. "On me."

"Nah." Scott ducked his head. "I can get my own bubble waffle."

"Call it a graduation present."

"Shouldn't I be getting you one of those?"

"Come with me, and we'll call it even."

"Okay." Scott broke into one of his blinding grins. "Take me to your bubble waffle."

"I'll use the front door and everything," Malia joked.

"Too bad," quipped Scott, as he opened it for her. "Was kinda looking forward to jumping out the window."

Scott used to bring her food when he'd come up from Davis. When they'd gone somewhere for a mission, he'd always found a place that was open, even when it had been three in the morning. Her last memories of him were mostly those places: bad food and halogen lights, him sallow under them, trying so hard.

Had he found anything good to eat while he'd been traveling to stop Monroe? 

She'd first tried egg waffles in Hong Kong, where they came crispy and steaming off the griddle, her favorites stuffed with pork floss.

Scott seemed intimidated by Bubble U, shyly curious about flavors he didn't recognize but reluctant to take up the time to ask. After a few questions, he let Malia order for both of them. She got a variety and, once they'd gotten their food, took them to the roof of the science building next door. It was off limits but Malia had been breaking in for years. There was never anyone here but a cluster of sparrows. They cheeped fluffily on the ledge.

As she'd hoped, Scott relaxed once they were away from the crush of the cafe, settling happily on the ground with their food. Malia made him try the takoyaki—he'd never had octopus—and laughed at the face he made over the texture. They alternated between bits of popcorn chicken and Taiwanese sausage and the waffles. She’d always liked sweet and savory together. Scott played along, lighting up at the combination of cinnamon and shredded coconut on the waffle she'd picked for him, trying the taro on hers excitedly. 

She'd forgotten how bright his grin was. How it made it seem like the whole world was smiling at her. He smiled at her like she’d made the whole world smile at him.

They didn't talk about anything but the food. Like, for the moment, nothing else existed, like they could disappear together.

She'd missed that feeling. 

But eventually the food was all gone, and with it the conversation. Malia braced herself; there'd been a lot of tense silence towards the end of their time together.

This quiet seemed more hesitant—a deer hesitating in the field, hoof in the air as its ears twitched. Hoping for a moment's certainty.

Malia was tired of being on edge.

Scott had settled with his knees up and his arms loosely around them. As he looked over at the sparrows, they scattered.

He watched them with a longing Malia recognized. It was the same look he'd had the anukite had come to town, the only time she'd ever seen him cut and run.

Scott wanted out.

Of what? The anukite was gone. So was Monroe.

It had been too long since they'd talked about anything for her to ask.

Malia hated the distance between them. That Scott probably resented her for it. That she'd been the one to put it there.

Her whole life felt like a bear-trap sometimes. One she'd set.

"Did you like traveling?" asked Scott, his eyes still on the spot where the sparrows had been.

"Yeah," Malia admitted. She picked at the last bits of shredded coconut. "The world's really big."

One of the few things big enough to free her from herself.

Derek's cars, trash with Theo, Lydia's hands in her hair. None of them had freed her in the end.

"It's so big," Scott sighed. "Just going around the states…"

"What was it like?" Malia asked cautiously, hoping he understood.

"I always knew Beacon Hills was a small town, but I guess… the Alpha pack, the dead pool, the Dread Doctors, the Wild Hunt. Felt enormous."

"Until you leave," Malia agreed. 

Scott stared out at the ledge. "And then come back."

So he did understand.

Traveling had made her see just how tiny her life was—the size of the Tate sedan. The box of it had defined her since she was nine. 

The job with Braeden would put her at the wheel of that car, give her the chance to make sure it didn't crash again. That people lived this time.

It was what she had to do. 

But why did it have to be so small?

She wished it could make her happy, the way it seemed to make Theo, or that it gave her perspective, the way art did. 

She wished she didn't want Stiles so badly.

If wishes were fishes, we'd all have some fried, her mom used to say. Evelyn. 

She wished Evelyn had given birth to her.

But would things have been that different? Corinne had told her she was selfish because she was a werecoyote, but maybe it was just her.

"Malia, are you okay?" asked Scott.

Malia realized he'd said something before that, and she hadn't been listening. Her knees had gone up by her chest, and she huddled around them.

"I'm good." She made herself uncurl. "What were you saying?"

Scott looked like he didn't believe her. That soft discerning gaze. "Should we get out of here?"

It didn't matter where she went. "Do you want to?"

"Yeah, kinda." Scott squinted, scratching the back of his neck. "Sometimes it's like, if I sit too long, I just start to think."

Malia knew exactly what he meant. 

She'd missed that about him. When the silence had been all the things they both understood. 

How easy he was to move with, even for something as stupid as gathering wrappers and containers. The way he always seemed aware of her.

How he used to share space with her. How it had blotted out thoughts of anything else but what they were sharing. The way he'd seemed just as lost in it as she'd been.

He was as handsome as he’d been four years ago, leaner from his time on the road. His long hair looked soft. Grippable.

The trash can was in the stairwell.

After they'd thrown their stuff out, it was just the two of them. In this quiet dark place.

Maybe he'd understand this too.

Malia stepped into his space.

Watched him react to it: his pupils widening, then a slight frown, like he had to be misreading things.

She looked him in the eye. "Hey."

"Uh." Another assessing gaze as he realized he wasn't. "Hey."

Slowly, giving him plenty of time to react, she hooked her fingers in his belt loops. 

When he didn’t move away, she settled her knuckles on his tight hips. 

Scott's eyes were big and dark. "Um."

Malia raised her eyebrows.

Scott licked his lips. "Is this… about Stiles?"

"It's about everything." Malia shrugged. "I don't wanna think. Thought maybe you didn't either."

"I really, really don't," Scott said slowly, his focus intent. He cleared his throat. "But, uh, this—seems like—a bad idea."

"Probably." Malia leaned in. "Wanna do it anyway?"

Scott’s eyes were on her mouth. "I really, really do."

Malia kissed him. 

Then Scott was pulling her in close, pushing her up against the wall.

For the first time that summer, Malia wasn't thinking about the past or the future or the right choice. Her mind was totally, finally, blissfully blank.

For a few firecracker moments, she was free.

But afterwards, as the buzz faded into a body satisfaction, reality returned, alighting quiet as an owl and just as gripping. 

Nothing had changed.

Except now she’d hooked up Scott while pining over his best friend.

Again. 

And now Scott was giving her that gooey look he used to. Like everything would be all right as long as they were together.

"I missed you," he said quietly.

Malia panicked. "I don't wanna get back together."

Scott made a face.

"Mali-uh," he groaned. "Can you at least wait until I'm not inside you anymore?"

Whoops. 

Malia's face was on fire. "Sorry."

Scott took his hand out of her pants.

He hadn't actually looked that besotted, in retrospect. She'd just wanted to make sure she wasn't hurting him. Again.

She put her clothes back right.

Scott fixed himself up with a little raise of his eyebrows, like see, this is good manners. Then he flopped back against the wall. "I don't want that either, okay?"

"Do you hate me?" Malia blurted out. Not like she could put her foot any further in her mouth at the moment. "For running away?"

"You're really asking me that?"

Malia shrugged uncomfortably. "I let you put your dick away first."

Scott let out a noise of pure aggravation. He also hadn't answered her.

Which was, from Scott, an answer.

Malia picked at the hem of her shirt. "I know I ruined things."

"No one 'ruined' anything. Sometimes things don't work out. You didn't need to leave the country about it."

The sulk in his voice grated. It meant he didn't get why she'd left.

"That wasn't fair," Scott amended, before she could say anything. "You deserve space if you want it."

"Thanks."

"I mean you don't owe me anything."

"I know that."

"Then why are you asking me if I hate you?"

Malia hated this. She'd just been trying to say sorry. "You don't like when people leave."

Scott set his jaw. "It was four years ago."

Sometimes he was like a brick wall. "You said you missed me."

"I do." Scott let out a frustrated breath. "You're the only person I was friends with before I dated them. I miss that. We're both finally in the same place and I've barely seen you."

"I don't know how to do that," Malia admitted, wringing her shirt. "I've never..."

She'd never mastered being friends with her exes. Her fling with Isaac had never been serious enough for hard feelings, but things with Stiles had been awful—lost without him, worse when he was there. Just one more thing other people had figured out and Malia hadn't.

"We were friends for years," Scott reminded her, on the edge of sullen again. "It's about doing what we did before. Being part of each other's lives."

Malia crossed her arms. "How?"

She wanted Scott to tell her and she didn't at the same time—wanted him to magically make things better instead, the way she always sort of wanted him to. He'd once changed her life with a roar. She wanted him to do it again.

Scott's exhale was exasperated, like he was on the verge of walking away instead of dealing with her.

She was being unfair. Asking too much.

A little bit, she wanted to go back to making out with him. Make things simple again.

"How's your summer been?" Scott asked with forced levelness.

Miserable. 

But she couldn't tell him that.

Could she tell him anything?

She did want to have him in her life. 

And she hadn't forgotten what Theo had said. You haven't told anyone about this plan.

She'd assumed Scott wouldn't understand. But maybe she was being unfair again. He'd understood so far, more than she'd anticipated.

"I got a job."

Scott lit up, surprised, like he'd expected her to say miserable. "That's great! At UCLA?"

"With Braeden. Going after Monroe's people still out there."

Scott frowned. "I thought you had grad school."

"I'm doing this instead."

"Okay."

He was doing that thing with his brow.

"What?" She couldn't help the way the word bristled in her mouth. 

Scott looked so uncertain. "You just don't seem psyched about it."

Malia deflated.

Scott would never get it. He'd always wanted her to be happy—if she didn't want to do something, why should she?

"That's not what it's about."

"Then what's it about?" 

So earnest. He could ask a question like the answer was all he wanted in the world.

But if she gave it, he'd never accept it. 

It was about why she'd been stronger than other werecoyotes since senior year. Why she'd let Peter travel with her. Why her dad was alone. Why her hair never smelled like Lydia's. Why she'd never settled anywhere. Why she'd always wanted out.

"I'm doing it."

Scott looked like he wanted to hug her. "If that's what you want."

He really didn't understand.

Malia should never get what she wanted.