Teen Wolf: Second Howl

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Lucas's Perspective

I slipped a hand into my pocket, fingers brushing against the cool glass of my phone. Malia stood in front of me, her posture steady, eyes fixed on me with that familiar combination of stubbornness and quiet expectation — the kind that told me she wasn't going to move until I did what she wanted.

Without another word, I scrolled to Isaac's name in my contacts, pressed the call button, and lifted the phone to my ear.

It rang only once before I heard his voice. "Yeah?" His tone carried an easy casualness, but I could hear the faint echo of background noise — probably the locker room or the hall outside the gym.

"Don't go to lacrosse practice," I said immediately, skipping over any formalities. My voice was firm, leaving no room for discussion. "If anyone asks, tell them the doctors said you need to take it easy for a week. Clear?"

There was a short pause on the other end, the kind where you could almost hear the wheels turning in someone's head.

"Uh… okay," Isaac replied at last, his voice edged with mild confusion. "Sure. Coach has me benched anyway."

"Good," I said simply, and before he could ask the questions I knew were waiting on his tongue, I ended the call. I didn't have the energy for explanations — not right now.

Malia gave a single approving nod, as though that one action had ticked an item off a silent checklist only she could see. She started to turn away, her hair catching the faint breeze, but I stopped her.

"Since you're worried about him losing control," I began, letting my tone slow and deliberate, "go teach him. You've got a week. Use it. Make sure we don't have to worry about him snapping in the middle of a game."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of resistance flashing across her face — the kind of look that said she wanted to argue, to challenge my reasoning. But just as quickly, the moment passed. She gave another short nod and walked off without replying, her footsteps purposeful against the pavement.

I inhaled deeply and headed toward the parking lot.

The late afternoon air wrapped around me like warm water — the kind of heavy, lingering heat that hinted at a day slowly surrendering to evening. The sun was sliding down toward the horizon, painting the sky in pale strokes of gold and tangerine, casting long, spindly shadows across the rows of parked cars. Most of the school grounds had emptied out by now; the background noise had dwindled to only the faint chatter of the few stragglers waiting for rides, and the distant thud of a basketball from the courts.

That's when I saw her.

Erica was sitting alone on the low curb at the far end of the lot, near the patch of cracked asphalt where the lines had long since faded. Her bag rested at her feet, its fabric frayed in places, and she was absently running the zipper back and forth in small, distracted motions, her gaze fixed on the ground.

I walked over, slowing my steps so I didn't startle her. "Everything okay?" I asked.

Her head lifted a fraction, eyes flicking up to mine. For a split second she looked startled, almost caught off guard by the question, before quickly looking away again. "My mom usually picks me up," she said quietly. "She's running late. Said it'll be a while."

I nodded in understanding. "Want a ride?"

For a moment she didn't answer. I could see the hesitation in the way she shifted her weight, in the subtle tightening of her shoulders. She was weighing something — whether to accept, whether to trust. Finally, she nodded, her voice soft and almost reluctant. "…Yeah. Thanks."

We walked together toward my car, her eyes trained downward as if the cracks in the pavement were the most interesting thing she could focus on. There was something in her posture — a slight stiffness, a guardedness — that told me she wasn't used to people offering help without expecting something in return.

When we reached the Porsche, I stepped ahead and pulled open the passenger door for her. Her brows lifted just a fraction, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before she schooled her expression back into something unreadable and slid into the seat.

I shut the door, the click sounding louder than usual in the stillness of the lot, and moved around to the driver's side. A twist of the key brought the engine to life, the low purr filling the quiet space between us.

"Where to?" I asked.

She gave me her address in a clear but subdued tone.

I eased the car out of the lot, choosing a careful, steady pace. No need for the kind of reckless speed that made passengers grip the armrest. This wasn't about showing off; this was about getting her home.

The road stretched ahead in long, smooth lines, the passing scenery sliding by in slow, deliberate frames. Erica sat with her hands folded in her lap, gaze fixed on the blurred outline of houses and trees slipping by her window. She didn't speak, and I didn't push her to.

Not every ride needed conversation.