AN: Here's a new chapter, where Jamie has some questions she needs answering...

Let me know what you think, much love x

Jamie slouched in the chair across from Ms. Morrell's desk, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She stared at the clock on the wall, watching the second-hand tick painfully slowly. The faint scent of lavender hung in the air—probably from the diffuser sitting on a shelf behind the guidance counsellor. It was meant to be calming, but Jamie found it cloying.

"Do you want to tell me why you're upset today?" Ms. Morrell asked, her voice as steady and composed as ever.

"I'm not upset," Jamie replied flatly, not bothering to look at her. She kept her eyes fixed on the clock, willing it to move faster.

"You seem upset," Ms. Morrell said gently, ignoring Jamie's deflection. "You've been quiet since you came in. Even quieter than usual."

Jamie gave a noncommittal shrug, still avoiding eye contact. "I'm just tired."

Ms. Morrell studied her for a moment, her hands folded neatly on the desk in front of her. "Tired or tired of being here?"

Jamie's lips twitched, but not into a smile. "Both."

"Hmm." Ms. Morrell leaned back in her chair, her expression calm but attentive. "You know, these sessions aren't supposed to feel like a punishment, Jamie."

"They feel like one," Jamie muttered under her breath.

Ms. Morrell tilted her head slightly, a hint of amusement in her eyes. "That's because you don't let yourself engage. You sit here, counting the minutes until you can leave, but you're not really present."

"Maybe that's because I don't want to be here," Jamie snapped, finally looking at her. Her eyes were sharp, defensive.

Ms. Morrell didn't flinch. She met Jamie's gaze steadily, her voice soft but firm. "I know you don't. And I know it's hard to trust someone enough to talk about what's really going on. But you're here. That tells me you want something to change, even if you're not ready to admit it yet."

Jamie's jaw tightened, and she looked away again, her fingers tapping restlessly against her arm.

"Do you remember what we talked about last week?" Ms. Morrell continued. "About why you came back to school after you left the hospital?"

Jamie stiffened at the mention of it, her posture growing even more rigid. "I don't know," she muttered. "Because my mom wouldn't stop nagging me? Because everyone was tired of me sitting around at home?"

"Jamie," Ms. Morrell said, her tone gently reproachful. "You told me you came back because you wanted to try. Because you didn't want that to be the end of your story."

Jamie scoffed, but the sound lacked conviction. She looked down at her lap, her fingers tightening around the hem of her hoodie. "Maybe I was wrong."

"Do you really believe that?"

Jamie didn't answer. She stared at the floor, her throat tight.

"Jamie," Ms. Morrell said after a long pause, her voice soft but insistent. "You're allowed to feel angry. You're allowed to feel frustrated and hurt. But you have to let yourself feel those things. Pushing them down, pretending they're not there—that's not going to help you move forward."

Jamie shook her head, her hair falling into her face. "What if I don't want to move forward?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Ms. Morrell leaned forward slightly, her expression gentle but intent. "I don't think that's true. If it were, you wouldn't have come here today."

Jamie's eyes flicked up to meet hers, the smallest crack in her armour showing for just a moment. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again, her walls slamming back into place.

The clock ticked loudly in the silence that followed.

Ms. Morrell didn't push. She sat back in her chair, giving Jamie the space she needed. "I'm here when you're ready," she said simply.

Jamie's nails dug into the fabric of her jacket as her mind wandered back to the night before. Derek. His hands on her wrists, pulling her back from the edge of her pain like it was the easiest thing in the world. The way his touch had calmed her—no, emptied her—left her feeling hollow and light, like a ghost of herself.

She hated how much she wanted to feel that again.

Ms. Morrell was watching her. Jamie could feel the weight of her gaze, patient but unrelenting. It made her skin crawl. She looked down at her lap, trying to avoid the counsellor's perceptive eyes.

"I can see your wheels turning," Ms. Morrell said after a moment. Her voice was steady, but not probing. "Something's on your mind."

Jamie flinched, her fingers tightening around her hoodie.

"I told you, I'm just tired," she muttered, though the words sounded weak even to her own ears.

"Tired from what?" Ms. Morrell asked gently.

Jamie's throat tightened. She thought about Derek's voice, low and calm, as he told her to just let him take it. The way she'd wanted to fight him but couldn't, the relief washing over her too fast, too deep.

"Tired of everything," Jamie mumbled, avoiding eye contact. Her fingers tugged at a loose thread on her sleeve, her movements fidgety and restless.

Ms. Morrell didn't respond right away. She gave Jamie a moment, letting the silence settle like a gentle invitation.

Jamie wanted to tell her to stop. To stop being so damn patient, so understanding. It made her want to break something. Or maybe it made her want to break herself.

"Sometimes," Ms. Morrell said softly, "when everything feels too heavy, we find ways to escape. We look for something—or someone—to take that weight off, even if it's just for a little while."

Jamie's heart clenched.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said quickly, her voice defensive.

Ms. Morrell leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the desk. "I think you do."

Jamie's jaw tightened, her teeth clenching as she tried to keep her emotions in check. She wanted to yell at Ms. Morrell, to tell her to back off. But instead, she felt her throat tighten and her eyes sting with the threat of tears.

"Jamie," Ms. Morrell said softly, her voice gentle but firm. "Whatever happened, you don't have to carry it alone. You don't have to keep it locked up inside you."

Jamie shook her head, her hair falling into her face. She felt like a rubber band stretched to its breaking point, ready to snap.

"I'm fine," she said, the words sharp and brittle. "I don't need anyone to take care of me."

Ms. Morrell's expression didn't change. "It's okay to need help sometimes," she said calmly.

Jamie let out a bitter laugh, though it sounded more like a choke. "Yeah, well, I don't," she said harshly. "I don't need anyone."

But as the words left her mouth, they felt like a lie.

She thought of Derek again, the way he'd looked at her last night, his eyes dark and unrelenting as he took her pain. She hated him for it, but she hated herself more—for letting him, for wanting him to.

Her hands were trembling now, and she quickly shoved them into her pockets to hide it.

"Jamie," Ms. Morrell said gently, her voice cutting through the storm in her head. "You don't have to talk about it if you're not ready. But you do have to face it. Whatever it is, whatever you're running from—it's not going to go away on its own."

Jamie's chest tightened, the weight of those words pressing down on her like a vice. She felt like she couldn't breathe.

"I'm not running," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ms. Morrell let the silence stretch out between them, her calm presence like a steady anchor. Then, she tilted her head slightly, her gaze soft but steady as she studied Jamie. "I've noticed you wear that jacket a lot," she said casually, gesturing to the oversized, slightly frayed denim jacket Jamie was wearing.

Jamie's fingers instinctively brushed over the worn lapel, her defences immediately rising. "So what?" she muttered, not meeting Ms. Morrell's eyes.

"It suits you," Ms. Morrell replied calmly, leaning back in her chair. "Is it yours?"

Jamie hesitated. "It's my dad's," she said finally, her voice low.

Ms. Morrell nodded thoughtfully. "Are you close with him?" she asked gently.

The question hung in the air like a live wire, sparking something raw inside Jamie. She stared at the ground, her jaw tightening as her fingers clenched the edge of the jacket.

The seconds dragged by, the silence growing heavier with each passing moment. Just as Ms. Morrell seemed about to speak again, the bell rang, sharp and jarring, signalling the end of the session.

Jamie was on her feet in an instant, grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder.

"See you next week," she mumbled, her voice clipped as she headed for the door without looking back.

Ms. Morrell didn't stop her, but her voice followed Jamie as she opened the door. "Jamie—just think about what I said, okay?"

Jamie didn't respond. She walked out into the crowded hallway, pulling the jacket tighter around her as if it could shield her from the world.

Jamie slammed her locker shut with a sharp clang, leaning her forehead briefly against the cool metal. She let out a slow, frustrated breath, willing herself to keep it together.

"Hey, Jamie!" Stiles' voice broke through the dull hum of the hallway. She turned, spotting him and Scott weaving through the crowd toward her. Great, she thought, the last thing she needed right now.

Stiles reached her first, his expression caught somewhere between his usual humour and genuine concern. "So, uh… are you okay? After yesterday, I mean."

Jamie gave him a flat look, her lips curving into a dry smirk. "Are you asking if I'm okay after we watched the guy who got me hooked on pills get crushed to death by your jeep?"

Stiles swallowed hard, his face going pale. He opened his mouth as if to respond but thought better of it.

Jamie shook her head, brushing past them as she muttered, "I'm fine."

Stiles stepped back awkwardly, but his voice followed her. "You know, I'm starting to think 'I'm fine' is like your catchphrase or something."

She paused, glancing over her shoulder. "Fake it till you make it, right?" she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm before she started walking again.

Scott caught up to her, his brow furrowed with concern. "Jamie, wait—what about the meeting with Ms. Morrell? Did it go okay?"

Jamie rolled her eyes as she stopped, turning back to face him. "Sure, it went great. She said I'm a shining beacon of mental health, and we're probably going to hang my picture in the guidance office."

Scott sighed, his voice gentler now. "Jamie, come on. I'm just trying to help—"

"Yeah, well, don't," she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut. She shouldered her bag higher, shifting uncomfortably. "I'm gonna bounce. Cover for me in chemistry or don't. I don't care."

Scott reached out, catching her arm lightly. "Jamie, you don't have to do this alone."

She stiffened, shaking him off with a sharp glare. "Watch me," she snapped, her tone leaving no room for argument. Without another word, she turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving them standing in her wake.

Scott watched her go, his jaw tightening. He ran a hand through his hair, clearly upset.

"You can't force her to talk about it," Stiles said softly, his usual snark replaced by sympathy.

Scott shook his head, his voice low. "It's not just the garage. I thought… I thought her finding out about all of this would bring us closer. But I feel like we've never been more distant." He exhaled, his frustration palpable. "I feel like I'm pushing her away."

Stiles hesitated before speaking. "You mean pushing her towards Derek?"

Scott's eyes snapped to Stiles, a flicker of frustration and guilt flashing across his face before he looked away. His silence said everything.

"It's not just that," Scott admitted, his voice heavy. "She doesn't trust me. I lied to her, and she got hurt."

Stiles frowned, his brow furrowing. "Scott, you can't blame yourself for what Kate and the hunters did to her."

Scott's shoulders sagged. He shook his head, staring down at the floor. "I'm not talking about Kate," he murmured.

It took a beat for the meaning to hit Stiles, but when it did, his expression shifted, realisation dawning. "You're talking about the overdose," he said quietly. "Scott, you've gotta stop blaming yourself for that. None of us knew what was going through her head."

Scott shook his head, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "I knew she was in pain," he admitted. "Ever since I turned, I could feel it, like… like something gnawing at the edges. It was suffocating just being in a room with her." He paused, admitting the words to himself only fuelling his guilt more. "I knew something was wrong with her, but I didn't do anything. I didn't say anything. I was too busy to care."

Stiles didn't interrupt, watching Scott carefully as he went on.

"And now," Scott continued, his voice breaking slightly, "I feel like I'm losing her again."

Stiles placed a hand on Scott's shoulder, grounding him. "She's your sister, Scott. You could never lose her."

Scott swallowed hard, his eyes following the direction Jamie had left.

"It feels like she's already gone," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Stiles didn't have a response to that. They both stood in silence, the weight of Scott's words settling over them, their thoughts filled with Jamie and the growing distance between them.

The woods were alive with the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze, the faint trill of birdsong punctuating the stillness. Jamie moved carefully along the overgrown path, her footsteps soft on the earth, her thoughts louder than anything around her. When she finally reached the Hale House, she stopped, staring.

The sun poured through the gaps in the trees, painting the crumbling, blackened remnants of the house in a golden glow. For a moment, she thought it looked almost beautiful, the afternoon light softening the sharp, charred edges of its broken frame. The remnants of its former grandeur were still there—the wide porch, the heavy beams of wood that had withstood the flames, even the faint outlines of ivy that had once climbed the walls before fire and time had stripped them bare.

Jamie climbed the steps slowly, her fingers trailing along the railing as she approached the door. She paused, her hand resting against the rough, charred wood. It was cooler than she expected, even in the warmth of the late afternoon. She let her fingers press against it, thinking about the fire that had gutted the house years ago, leaving behind nothing but ash and memories.

Then, she thought about when she'd been here before. She thought about Peter's demonic form as he approached her, snarling and angry. She remembered how it had reminded her of her attack all those months ago. As she pressed her eyes shut, trying to remember, her breath hitched in her throat at the figure she'd thought was a man seemed to morph into something animalistic, the knife in his hand curling into claws as cobalt eyes bored into her soul.

She lowered herself to sit on the porch stairs, the wood creaking beneath her weight. The scent of pine and smoke filled her nose, and she thought about the stash of vodka she used to hide under these very stairs when things got bad. She wished she had some now. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached into her pocket, pulling out a cigarette.

Lighting it with practiced ease, she took a drag, the smoke curling upward and dissipating into the air. She sat there, watching the light filter through the trees, unsure why she had come. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was something else, something she couldn't name.

A voice broke the stillness.

"Still getting strangers to buy those for you?"

Jamie stiffened, startled. She turned, her heart skipping a beat as she saw Derek leaning casually against one of the trees, his arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, though his eyes flicked briefly to the cigarette in her hand.

She exhaled a slow stream of smoke, narrowing her eyes at him. "Didn't know you cared," she said, her voice edged with sarcasm.

Derek smirked faintly but didn't reply. He moved closer, his boots crunching softly against the gravel. He didn't stop until he was standing at the edge of the porch, looking down at her.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The tension between them hung heavy in the air, an unspoken weight pressing down on them both. Jamie flicked the ash from her cigarette, refusing to look away from him, even as her stomach twisted uncomfortably.

"Were you in the house?" she asked finally, her voice quieter now. "When it burned?"

Derek's jaw tightened, and he hesitated, the first crack in his usual stoic demeanour. His gaze shifted, momentarily distant, before returning to her. "No," he said. "I was at school. With my sister."

Jamie nodded, the silence stretching out again. She took one last drag of her cigarette before stubbing it out on the step, grinding it into the wood.

"You didn't come here to ask me about the fire," Derek said. It wasn't a question.

"No," Jamie responded. He stepped closer, and Jamie shoved her hands into the pockets of her father's denim jacket as though it could protect her from the weight of his presence. "I've been remembering things," she began, her voice trembling slightly. "Stuff I got wrong in the past."

His brow furrowed slightly, but he said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

"When I was attacked…" She trailed off, her throat tightening as the memories surged to the surface. She swallowed hard, her hands curling into fists in her pockets. "I think it was a werewolf that attacked me. A werewolf with blue eyes."

The words hung in the air like a challenge, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife. Derek's expression remained unreadable, but his body tensed, a subtle shift that didn't escape her notice.

"So, you came to ask if it was me," he said finally, his voice calm, almost detached.

Jamie's breath caught, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Was it?"

Derek's gaze bore into hers, unflinching. For a moment, he said nothing, the silence stretching unbearably. Then, slowly, he shook his head. "No."

Relief flooded her chest, but it was short-lived. She narrowed her eyes, studying his face, searching for any hint of deceit. "Do you know who it was?"

His jaw tightened, and he turned his head slightly, his gaze shifting to a distant point in the woods. "It could have been anybody."

The nonchalance in his tone made her bristle. "Anybody?" she echoed, frustration creeping into her voice. "That's all you've got?"

Derek's eyes flicked back to hers, sharp and cold. "You think it's that simple? There are more of us out there than you know—wolves I've never even seen."

Jamie's stomach churned at the implication, but she pressed on. "Could it have been Peter?" she asked, the name feeling heavy on her tongue.

Derek's expression darkened, the air around him seeming to grow heavier. He didn't answer right away, but the faintest flicker of something—regret, anger—passed across his face. "Maybe," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "It's possible if it was before he became an alpha."

Jamie stared at him, the weight of his words settling on her like a stone. Her chest tightened, her hands trembling in her pockets.

After a moment, she stood, brushing her hands against her jeans. She turned to face Derek fully, meeting his gaze with a steadiness she didn't entirely feel.

"You were right about me," she said, her voice low but firm. "I don't like feeling weak."

Derek tilted his head slightly, watching her intently.

"I don't want to feel like this anymore," she continued, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "I want to be strong." Her hands clenched at her sides as she held his gaze. "Teach me how."

Derek's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her, his head tilting just enough to give him a predatory edge. "You don't just learn to be strong," he said, his voice low, calm. "Supernatural strength isn't something I can teach you, Jamie."

Jamie shook her head, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. "I'm not asking you for the bite," she snapped, her tone sharper than she intended. She took a step closer, her fists clenched at her sides. "I just want to know how to fight. How to defend myself."

Derek arched a brow, crossing his arms over his chest. "You think self-defence is going to stop a werewolf?"

Jamie's eyes narrowed, her frustration boiling over. "Why do you always have to talk down to me?" she snapped, stepping closer to Derek, her voice rising. "If you're not going to help me, fine, I'll figure it out on my own."

Derek stepped off the porch, moving towards her. His expression was a mix of seriousness and something darker, almost teasing.

"Alright," he said, gesturing with his hand. "Give it your best shot."

Jamie stared at him, her brow furrowing. "What?"

"You wanted me to teach you, right?" His tone was sharp, almost mocking as he approached, his eyes starting to glow red. Jamie froze.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, taking a step away from him.

Derek took a deliberate step toward her, his movements slow and careful, like a predator stalking prey. "Defend yourself," he said flatly.

Her stomach dropped, but she squared her shoulders, refusing to back down. "What? You're serious?"

"Dead serious," Derek replied, his expression unyielding. "You want to know how to fight? Then fight me."

Before Jamie could respond, Derek lunged. She barely had time to react, sidestepping clumsily as he reached for her. Her heart pounded as she stumbled back, her fists instinctively coming up.

"Come on," Derek said, his voice calm but edged with challenge. "You want to be strong, don't you?"

Jamie gritted her teeth and swung her fist at him, aiming for his jaw. Derek dodged easily, stepping to the side as if her attack were nothing more than an annoyance.

"Is that it?" he asked, his voice low, almost amused.

Jamie scowled, her frustration boiling over. She swung again, harder this time, aiming for his jaw. Once again, Derek dodged, his movements quick and fluid, as if he were toying with her.

"You've got to do better than that," he said, his smirk widening, though his eyes glinted with a darker intensity.

Anger flared in Jamie's chest. She wasn't sure if it was at him or herself—or maybe both—but it pushed her to try again. She pivoted quickly, throwing another punch with all her strength.

This time, Derek caught her wrist mid-swing, his grip like iron. Before she could react, he twisted her arm behind her back, spinning her around and pinning her against a nearby tree.

Jamie gasped, her free hand bracing against the rough bark as Derek pressed against her back, his grip firm on her still-recovering wrist. His body was close, too close, and she could feel his breath against the back of her neck.

"You're too predictable."

Jamie's heart pounded, her anger and embarrassment tangled with something else she didn't want to name. She struggled against his hold, her breath coming in quick bursts, but he didn't let go.

"Let me go," she snapped, her voice edged with defiance.

Derek leaned in slightly, his tone soft but with an edge that made her shiver. "You asked me to teach you."

Jamie twisted her head to glare at him over her shoulder. The space between them felt electric, the tension humming like a live wire. She hated the way her pulse quickened, hated the way he looked at her—like he could see through her defences, straight to the vulnerability she was trying to hide.

She pushed harder against his grip, but his hold didn't falter. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" she bit out, her voice laced with accusation.

Derek's lips curled into a faint smirk, though his eyes remained dark and unreadable. "You're the one who wanted this, Jamie."

Her breath hitched at the way he said her name, and she hated how it made her feel—off-balance, exposed.

"Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "You've made your point. Now let me go."

Derek held her there for a moment longer, his gaze boring into hers as if he were weighing her words, her resolve. Then, slowly, he released her wrist and stepped back.

Jamie spun around to face him, her chest heaving as she rubbed her wrist. Her glare was fierce, but she couldn't ignore the way her body still thrummed with adrenaline, her skin prickling with the memory of his touch.

He was still close. Too close.

Jamie's chest heaved as she glared at Derek, her wrist still tingling from his grip. The distance between them felt non-existent, the air heavy with unspoken words and something more primal. She pressed her back against the tree as though it could ground her, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, a barrier between them.

Derek stepped closer. Her breath caught, the weight of his gaze pinning her in place as much as his hands had moments before. His movements were deliberate, each step slow and calculated, his eyes never leaving hers. The faint glow of red in his irises had faded, replaced with something equally intense, something that made her pulse race.

Jamie's fists tightened instinctively, but Derek didn't stop. He reached out, his fingers brushing against hers with surprising gentleness. Her stomach twisted as he pried her hands apart with a calm but insistent pressure, his touch firm yet careful. He guided her hands downward, placing them by her sides. The action felt strangely intimate, his calloused palms warm against her skin.

She stared at him, her breath shallow, unsure of what was happening or why she wasn't stopping him. Her body betrayed her, standing frozen under his scrutiny as his hands left hers.

Derek's focus shifted downward, his jaw tightening slightly as he reached for the hem of her shirt. He paused, his fingers lightly brushing the fabric. His eyes flicked back to hers, searching her face for permission. The moment stretched, taut and trembling, as Jamie's pulse thundered in her ears.

Her lips parted as if to protest, but the words never came. She gave the faintest of nods, unsure of herself but unable to look away from him.

Derek's fingers curled around the edge of her shirt, and he lifted it slowly, his movements measured and deliberate. The cool air kissed her skin as the fabric rose, exposing her side. She flinched slightly, not from fear but from the vulnerability of it all. The jagged, pale scars on her ribs stood out starkly against her skin, three parallel gashes that had long since healed but never faded.

He didn't touch them, his hand hovering inches from her skin. His expression hardened, his eyes darkening as he stared at the scars. For a moment, she thought she saw something flicker in his gaze—regret, maybe, or anger. His jaw clenched, and his throat worked as if swallowing something he couldn't quite say.

"If I knew who it was," he whispered, his voice low and rough, "I'd tell you."

Jamie's chest tightened, her heart aching at the quiet sincerity in his tone. His hand remained suspended over her skin, so close she could feel the warmth radiating from it, but he didn't cross the line. The restraint in his movements made the moment all the more intense, the tension between them crackling like a live wire.

Her voice, when she found it, was barely above a whisper. "Why do you care?"

Derek's gaze snapped to hers, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that stole her breath. "Because it shouldn't have happened to you," he said, his voice rough, like gravel scraping against stone.

Jamie's throat tightened, the weight of his words hitting her like a physical blow. She looked away, her eyes burning with emotions she didn't want to name. Her hands trembled at her sides, but she refused to move, refused to give in to the vulnerability threatening to consume her.

Derek released her shirt, letting it fall back into place, the fabric brushing against her skin like a final caress. His hand lingered for a moment longer before he stepped back, giving her space to breathe.

The absence of his closeness was almost as overwhelming as his presence had been. Jamie's hands moved to her ribs instinctively, her fingers brushing over the scars as if trying to hide them from view. She glanced at Derek, her chest still rising and falling with uneven breaths.

"You're still in pain," he said quietly, his tone softer now.

Jamie looked at him, her defences wavering as she met his gaze. She wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she nodded, just barely, her lips pressing into a thin line. She didn't know what he would do in response. Maybe he would take her pain away again. She wasn't sure if she wanted him to.

Derek held her gaze for a moment longer before he turned, stepping away and giving her the space she hadn't realized she needed. His movements were quieter now, less predatory, as if he'd made his point and was content to leave it at that.

Jamie stayed rooted to the spot, her hands still clutching at her ribs as she watched him retreat a few steps, the tension between them lingering like smoke after a fire. She wasn't sure what had just happened or what it meant, but she knew one thing—Derek Hale had a way of shaking her to her core, and she wasn't sure if she hated it or craved more of it.