Cape Cod Regional Technical High smelled faintly of sawdust and cafeteria coffee — an odd mix that somehow worked. The main hallway was a low thrum of chatter and slamming lockers as I followed my schedule to the far end, where my assigned homeroom was tucked away behind the carpentry shop.
The door was open, and most of the class was already inside. A cluster of kids lounged near the back corner, their laughter sharp in that way that told you someone was the punchline. I stepped in, scanning for my seat, and that’s when I saw him.
Gabriel.
Same boy from outside, same hooded sweatshirt, black guitar case now leaning against his desk. He was slouched in his chair, long legs stretched out, arms folded. His head was tilted just enough that I caught a glimpse of his eyes — deep blue, like the ocean right before a storm. The same color as mine. Except his didn’t have the dark wolf ring circling the iris.
We were the same height, I realized — both standing at a solid 6’3” — but that’s where the similarity ended. He was thin, wiry, built like a runner who’d skipped too many meals. I, on the other hand, carried the kind of muscle you didn’t get from gym class. The kind that came from shifting — over and over, year after year — and snapping back into human form with the wolf still humming in your blood.
“Hey, guitar boy.” One of the kids from the back — a broad-shouldered junior with a letterman jacket — flicked the edge of Gabriel’s hood. “Play us something that doesn’t suck for once.”
Gabriel didn’t look up. “Not in the mood,” he muttered.
The second one leaned over his desk, grinning. “Aw, c’mon. What’s the matter? Strings break again? Or are you just scared we’ll laugh harder this time?”
Something in Gabriel’s jaw tightened. Not fear. Annoyance. He’d heard this before — probably every day since freshman year. The bullies looked comfortable in it, like they’d been doing this long enough to know there wouldn’t be consequences.
They were wrong.
I was already moving before I’d thought it through. My shadow fell over their little circle, and when the first one turned toward me, I let the wolf bleed into my gaze — not enough for fangs or claws, just enough for my eyes to go colder, sharper. Predatory.
“Why don’t you back off,” I said, my voice low and steady.
The letterman jacket kid gave a laugh, the kind people give when they’re not sure if they should be afraid yet. “And who the hell are you?”
“Someone who doesn’t like repeating himself.”
He took half a step back without realizing it. The second one’s smirk faltered. Predators recognized predators, even if they didn’t understand what they were seeing. A few beats of tense silence passed before they muttered something under their breath and retreated to the other side of the room.
I straightened, glancing down at Gabriel. He was looking at me now, those blue eyes sharp and searching.
“…Thanks,” he said quietly.
I gave a single nod, sliding into the empty seat behind him. Neither of us spoke again before the teacher walked in, but I could feel his attention flicker back toward me once or twice. Like he’d noticed something he couldn’t quite name — the same way I had with him.
The wolf in me was certain: this wasn’t going to be the last time we ended up on the same side.