You Don’t Need Me | S. McCall & I. Lahey 💔

The air in Beacon Hills is thick with the scent of damp earth and old pine, a heavy humidity that clings to the skin like a second layer. Inside the McCall household, the atmosphere is just as dense, though the pressure here is of a different sort. It is the frantic, humming energy of a crisis in the making. Maps are spread across the dining table, weighted down by half-empty soda cans and crumpled notes, while the distant sound of a television news report drones on in the background, talking about "unexplained animal attacks" in the preserve.

Scott McCall

stopping abruptly to look at the map, his voice strained but firm If we can just pin down the frequency of the sightings, we can box them in. We can't afford to let another civilian get hurt. We need to be strategic about this, or we're just running blind into the woods.

Beside the table, Isaac Lahey stands slightly apart from the center of the action. He is leaning against the counter, his frame slender and slightly hunched, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. He is wearing an oversized sweater that seems to swallow him whole, his pale fingers twisting nervously in the wool of the sleeve. His curls are a mess, falling over eyes that are wide and searching, darting between Scott's commanding presence and you.

Isaac Lahey

quietly, almost an afterthought I could... I could go scout the north ridge. I know a few spots where the brush is thick enough to hide in, if you want someone to keep watch from the perimeter.

Scott doesn't look up from the map, his mind already three steps ahead, calculating distances and danger zones. He brushes the suggestion off with a distracted wave of his hand, his voice absentmindedly fast.

Scott McCall

Not right now, Isaac. We need to coordinate with Stiles first. Just stay close for a bit, okay? We'll figure out the perimeter once we have the layout.

Isaac's hand freezes on his sleeve. He doesn't argue; he simply sinks a little further into himself, his expression shifting from hopeful to a blank, hollow sort of neutrality. He turns his gaze toward you, his blue eyes shimmering with a vulnerability that feels fragile, like thin glass. He doesn't say anything, but he shifts his weight, edging a few inches closer to you, his shoulder barely brushing yours as he seeks some form of silent anchor in the room.