When did you slip through my fingers, did I ever have you?
Was I just a placeholder to fill the hole inside you?
I've been feeling sick, but I should help myself, not call you
Nothing left to say 'cause you're not over her, now, are you?
And you did all that I wouldn't do, erasing lines around us
I held my head, I used to hold you but now I'll walk around us
And I won't lie and claim confused when I know just what happened
You got bored, and I felt used, now I'm all sad about it
Gave You I gave You I by Gracie Abrams.
AN: Here's the next chapter! Hope you enjoy it. I saw Gracie Abrams last week in London and now I've just been listening to this song on repeat ever since lol Thought it went with this chapter quite well x
The steady thunk of the lacrosse ball against the net filled the air as Jamie stepped onto the field. Jackson was shirtless, sweat glistening under the sun as he moved with an ease that felt almost unnatural. Every movement was sharp, precise—more controlled than she'd ever seen from him before. She didn't need to ask why. She already knew.
He sensed her presence immediately but didn't stop, scooping up another ball and launching it into the net with practiced accuracy.
Jamie crossed her arms. "Okay, we get it. You have super strength now."
Jackson exhaled, letting his lacrosse stick drop to his side as he finally turned to face her. There was something guarded in his expression, but it softened slightly when he saw her.
"Hey."
"Hey," she echoed. She nodded toward the net. "Gotta say, the whole werewolf thing is kinda working for you."
He smirked faintly, tilting his head. "Yeah, well. Took long enough, didn't it?"
Jamie huffed, shaking her head. "You were always a pain in the ass. Now you're just faster at it."
Jackson chuckled at that—a real laugh—and for a second, it felt like old times. Just the two of them, snarking back and forth like they used to. Like things weren't so complicated.
His smile faded slightly, though, as he watched her. "How've you been?"
Jamie hesitated. She could've lied—said she was fine, that nothing was wrong—but she knew Jackson. He'd see right through it.
Instead, she just shrugged. "I've been better."
Jackson studied her for a moment. "That because of what happened with Derek?"
Jamie stiffened instinctively. "You heard about that?"
He nodded. "Heard Isaac arguing with him about it."
Jamie exhaled sharply, looking away. She knew Jackon had been spending time with Derek since his transformation, but she didn't think all her secrets wouldn't be hers anymore this quickly.
"I don't wanna talk about it."
Jackson didn't push, just nodded like he understood. Maybe he did.
A beat passed before Jamie spoke again. "So, how are the full moons going?"
Jackson let out a short breath. "Rough."
Jamie tilted her head. "Like… rip your own skin off rough?"
"More like Derek breaking all the bones in my body so I don't kill someone rough."
Jamie recoiled slightly at his words before schooling her feature again. "Classic."
Jackson huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah. Not exactly the best night of my life."
Silence settled between them, not exactly uncomfortable, but not easy either. There was something there—something unsaid. Jamie finally gathered the courage to say it.
"You could've told me."
Jackson frowned slightly. "Told you what?"
Jamie crossed her arms tighter over her chest. "That you're leaving."
His face shifted, more guarded now. "How'd you—"
"Lydia texted me."
Jackson exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair. "I wasn't sure if you'd care."
Jamie blinked. "Are you serious?"
He looked at her then, expression unreadable. "I just meant… things have been weird between us for a while. I didn't know if you'd even want to know."
Jamie scoffed, shaking her head. "That's bullshit, Jackson. You know I care. Even if we're not—" She faltered for a second before regaining herself. "I just thought you would've told me."
Jackson watched her for a long moment before finally saying, "I didn't want to make it a thing."
Jamie's brows furrowed. "A thing?"
He exhaled, shaking his head. "I don't know, Jamie. I figured if I told you, we'd have this conversation, and I wasn't sure if I could deal with it."
Jamie's stomach twisted. "Deal with what?"
Jackson sighed, running a hand over his face before looking at her again. "Saying goodbye."
Jamie swallowed hard. She hadn't really let herself think about it until now —that he was actually leaving. That this might be the last time they talked like this.
"When are you going?" she asked, voice quieter now.
"Tomorrow."
She exhaled, nodding slowly. "Right."
Jackson watched her carefully. "You could've reached out, you know," he says after a beat. "It wasn't just on me."
Jamie glares at him. "You're the one leaving, Jackson."
"And you're the one who acted like you didn't care anymore."
That stung. Mostly because he had been the one to make her feel like she didn't matter anymore. So she had pulled away, acted like she didn't care. But that didn't mean it was true. That didn't mean this didn't hurt.
Jamie clenched her jaw. "I didn't think you wanted me around."
Jackson stepped closer, his voice quieter now. "I always wanted you around."
Her breath caught in her throat, but she didn't know what to say to that. She knew it wasn't true anyway. It felt too late for this conversation. Like it should've happened before. Before everything got so complicated. Before he became something else. Before she did.
Jackson exhaled, watching her carefully before he lifted a hand, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. The touch was soft, familiar.
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
Jamie swallowed against the lump in her throat. "For what?"
He hesitated. "For not being what you needed."
She wanted to tell him that wasn't fair, that she never expected him to be anything other than himself. But the words didn't come. Because maybe, deep down, she did need something else—someone else—and Jackson had never been that person.
A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it, and Jackson saw. He leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead, his lips warm against her skin.
Jamie closed her eyes, letting herself have the moment. Just for a second.
Then he pulled away, and it was over.
She blinked up at him, pulling herself together. "Bye, Jackson."
He looked at her like he wanted to say something else—something final—but instead, he just nodded.
"Bye, Jamie."
And then he turned, picking up his lacrosse stick and walking away, leaving her standing there alone.
Jamie watched him go, feeling like something inside her just shifted.
Like something just ended.
It was late by the time Jamie finally got home. She'd gone straight to her shift at work after seeing Jackson, and spent the last few hours forcing herself to smile at customers and pretending everything was fine.
Which it was. That's what she kept telling herself at least.
But coming home now, Jamie knew something was wrong the second she stepped into her house.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
Her pulse stuttered as she shut the door behind her, the weight of her conversation with Jackson still pressing heavy on her chest. She was exhausted—mentally, physically—but something in the air sent a chill up her spine, dragging her back to full alertness.
She swallowed hard and took a slow step forward. The floor creaked beneath her, and she hated the way her breath caught, how every nerve in her body suddenly felt raw, exposed.
It wasn't until she reached the hallway that she saw it.
Her bedroom door—open.
Jamie's stomach dropped. She knew she had closed it when she left.
The air felt thick, suffocating. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the light switch, but something stopped her. A presence. Heavy. Waiting.
She wasn't alone.
Her breath hitched as she stepped closer, her heart hammering against her ribs. She could see the outline of someone inside, standing by her window. The dim glow of the streetlights cast a long shadow across the floor.
She knew who it was before he even turned around.
Derek.
A sharp, cold fear sliced through her, pinning her to the spot. He was just standing there, his back to her, like he had every right to be in her room. Like he was waiting for her.
Jamie's breath came short and fast.
No.
She didn't think—didn't hesitate.
She turned and bolted.
Her feet pounded against the floor as she ran, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. She dove into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind her, her back hitting the wood hard. Her hands shook as she fumbled for the lock, twisting it into place.
Her breathing was ragged, the panic clawing up her throat like a wild animal.
A beat of silence.
Then—
"Jamie."
His voice was low, steady. Right outside the door.
Jamie pressed harder against the wood, her nails digging into the paint. "Go away," she choked out.
A pause. Then, softer—almost pleading, "I'm not going to hurt you."
She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. "You need to leave."
"I need to talk to you."
Jamie let out a sharp, bitter laugh, though it sounded more like a sob. "You lost the right to talk to me the second you—" She cut herself off, her throat closing up.
A long silence.
Then, more carefully, "I let you go."
Jamie's chest ached, something sharp twisting inside her. "You shouldn't have had to," she whispered.
Derek exhaled, heavy and tired. "I know."
She swallowed, gripping the edge of the sink behind her, knuckles white. Her reflection in the mirror looked as wrecked as she felt—eyes red-rimmed, face pale.
"Did Scott tell you to come here?" she asked. She didn't get an answer, just a pained sigh.
"Open the door, Jamie," he said quietly, like he still had some kind of hold over her. Like he could still tell her what to do and she'd do it without question.
She didn't want this. She didn't want him here, didn't want to hear his voice, didn't want to feel this unbearable pull toward someone who had destroyed her.
But still.
She unlocked the door.
Slowly, carefully, she opened it just a crack.
Derek stood on the other side, close but not too close, watching her like he was afraid she'd run again. He looked—God, he looked wrecked. There was a tension in his jaw, in the way his hands clenched at his sides like he was holding himself back. His eyes—dark, burning—held something she couldn't name.
Jamie stared at him, heart pounding, the weight of everything pressing down on her all at once.
Derek looked desperate. Not in the way she had ever seen before—not out of anger, or frustration, or some sense of duty—but like something inside him was unravelling. Like he knew he had done something unforgivable, and yet he was still here, still standing in front of her, hoping for something she didn't have to give.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the door, nails digging into the wood. Her breath was shaky, uneven.
Then she shut it again.
Firm. Final.
A beat of silence.
Then—
"Jamie," Derek said, his voice rough. "Peter got in my head." It was exactly what Scott had told her. Rehearsed. An excuse.
Jamie let out a bitter laugh, sharp and broken, her forehead pressing against the door. "I don't want to hear it."
"I wasn't thinking straight." His voice was tighter now, like he was forcing the words out. "I—he pushed me into a corner. He made me believe—" Derek cut himself off, exhaling hard. "I didn't want to hurt you."
Jamie clenched her jaw, her nails scraping against the paint.
She could still feel it. The weight of him. The moment his hands had pinned her down. The way he had hesitated—too long, too late.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
"You still did," she whispered.
Silence.
Derek didn't argue. Didn't try to make any more excuses.
Because he knew she was right.
Jamie swallowed, her throat burning, her grip tightening against the door handle to keep her fingers from shaking. She didn't know what he wanted from her. Forgiveness? Understanding?
She didn't have it.
Not for him. Not for this.
"Go home, Derek." Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the weight behind it was heavy, cold. She pressed her forehead against the door. "I can't do this."
A long pause.
Then—soft, quiet—
"I wasn't thinking. I let Peter—"
She cut him off, growing frustrated with his excuses. "Right, I got it. Peter got in your head, and told you to turn me." Her nails dug into the doorframe, her voice like ice. "Did he tell you to fuck me first too?"
Silence.
Jamie's breath hitched. She could practically hear the way Derek's body tensed at the question, the way his breath stalled like she'd hit something raw. But he didn't say anything.
He couldn't.
Jamie's chest ached, but she forced herself to breathe through it. "Didn't think so." Her voice was quiet but razor-sharp, laced with something that felt too much like heartbreak.
She heard the shift of his weight on the other side of the door. He was still there. Lingering.
"I didn't want to hurt you," he said, his voice strained.
Jamie squeezed her eyes shut. "You said that already."
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. For a moment, she thought he might say something else. That he might finally tell her why—why he let it happen, why he let Peter push him so far, why he didn't stop sooner.
But he didn't.
Instead, she heard the floor creak, heard the faint rustle of movement. And then—footsteps, heavy and reluctant, moving away.
Jamie kept herself locked in place until she was sure he was gone. Then, finally, she let out a shaky breath and let her body slide to the floor.
She didn't cry. Not yet.
She just sat there, staring at nothing, listening to the sound of her own ragged breathing.
Alone.
Jamie wasn't sure how long she sat on the bathroom floor, the cold tiles pressing against her back, her knees drawn up to her chest. Her hands trembled against her legs, fingers still curled like they were ready to fight, even though Derek was gone.
She was fine.
That's what she kept telling herself.
It didn't matter what he said. It didn't matter how he looked at her, or how his voice had cracked just slightly like he actually felt something. None of it mattered. Because no matter how much he regretted it, no matter how much he tried to explain—it still happened.
She clenched her jaw, her fingernails digging into her skin. She felt wrong. Like her body didn't belong to her anymore. Like Derek had touched something inside her that she couldn't scrub away, no matter how hard she tried.
Her throat was dry.
Her fingers twitched.
Jamie shoved herself up off the floor.
She needed something.
Her first thought was a cigarette—she needed to smoke, needed something to keep her hands busy, to keep her lungs burning so she didn't have to think about him. But when she reached into the pocket of her hoodie, her fingers met nothing but fabric.
Empty.
Her stomach clenched.
She could go out and buy more, but that would take time. And right now, she didn't need time—she needed something now.
Her eyes flickered to her desk.
Then the closet.
Then the bottom drawer.
Jamie swallowed hard, her pulse pounding in her ears as she moved across the room. She crouched down and yanked the drawer open, shoving old sweaters aside until her fingers brushed something cold and smooth.
Her hand curled around the neck of the bottle.
Vodka.
She'd forgotten it was even there—she must've stashed it away months ago. Back when things were simpler. Back when she could just drown it all out, let herself go numb in the way that only alcohol ever let her.
She hadn't done this in a long time. Not like this.
But she needed it.
Jamie unscrewed the cap and tipped the bottle to her lips, wincing as the alcohol burned its way down her throat. It was cheap and strong and it hit fast. That's what she wanted.
Another sip.
Another.
She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, exhaling shakily. The warmth spread through her chest, numbing the edges of everything sharp inside her.
It wasn't enough.
She took another drink, longer this time, swallowing hard even as it made her stomach twist.
She could still feel Derek's hands on her. She could still hear his voice, low and rough on the other side of the door.
"I didn't want to hurt you."
Jamie let out a bitter laugh, tipping her head back against the wall.
He hadn't wanted to hurt her.
But he still had.
And she still felt every fucking second of it.
She took another drink.
And another.
The bruises wouldn't fade fast enough.
Jamie stared at them—dark, fingerprint-shaped marks wrapping around her wrists, a cruel reminder of the way Derek had held her down. She pressed her fingers over them, testing the tenderness, feeling the dull ache beneath her skin. Her stomach turned at the memory.
She thought about how it felt—the weight of him, the heat of his breath against her neck, the sharp press of claws against her skin. How he hesitated just long enough for her to get away. How she had looked into his eyes and seen nothing of the Derek she thought she knew.
Her chest tightened. Her hands shook. She couldn't breathe.
She took another swig from the bottle, wincing as it burned down her throat. She coughed but took another anyway. And another. It was disgusting, but she forced it down because this—this she could control. This was easy.
She climbed onto her bed, back pressed against the headboard, pulling her knees to her chest as she drank. She put on music, something loud and drowning, something that numbed the silence in her head.
It didn't take long for the alcohol to settle in her veins, for the edges of the world to blur. The pounding in her chest slowed. The shaking in her hands stopped. She closed her eyes, the room spinning, her limbs heavy.
Her mind was still trying to drag her back to him—to Derek, to that night, to everything she'd been trying so hard to push down—but it was slipping away now, drowning under the alcohol's haze.
She kept drinking until the bottle was empty. Until the world felt far away. Until she didn't have to think anymore.
Then, finally, everything went dark.
Jamie woke up to a pounding headache and a mouth as dry as sandpaper.
For a moment, she didn't know where she was. Her body felt sluggish, heavy, like she was sinking into the mattress. Then, the nausea hit, rolling through her stomach like a wave, and she barely had time to sit up before she was stumbling out of bed, half-dragging herself to the bathroom.
She barely made it to the toilet before she was throwing up.
Her hands clutched the porcelain bowl, her body shaking. Each heave felt like it was tearing through her, like her body was rejecting more than just the alcohol. Like it was trying to purge everything—the memories, the fear, the helplessness.
When it finally stopped, she slumped against the cold bathroom tiles, pressing her forehead against them. The coolness helped, but only a little.
She felt disgusting.
Her room still smelled like vodka. The bottle was lying on its side on her nightstand, empty. Her phone buzzed somewhere in the sheets, but she ignored it.
Everything from last night felt distant, hazy. She remembered Derek coming over, drinking too much, remembered lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, remembered the way the alcohol made everything quiet for a while. But it didn't last. The nightmares still came. The panic still clawed its way up her throat.
And now? Now she just felt worse.
Her phone buzzed again. She groaned, dragging herself to her feet and stumbling back to her bed, grabbing it. A text from Stiles.
Are you okay?
Jamie blinked at the screen. What kind of question was that? She looked down at herself—yesterday's clothes, wrinkled and damp with sweat, her entire body aching from the inside out.
No. She was not okay.
But she didn't know how to say that.
She typed out a response.
Fine.
It was a lie. But it was easier than the truth. And anything else would invite more questions, and she didn't want to speak to Stiles. Not after what he did.
She tossed her phone aside and buried herself under the covers, curling into herself. The weight of everything pressed down on her, suffocating.
She wasn't sure how much longer she can do this.
Jamie must have drifted off again because the next thing she heard was a knock at her bedroom door. The sound was sharp, cutting through the dull pounding in her skull. She groaned, rolling onto her side, her stomach twisting.
"Jamie?" Stiles' voice.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Go away.
Another knock, more insistent. "Jamie, I swear to God, if you don't open this door—"
She didn't answer. The door creaked open anyway, and she felt a rush of irritation. "Seriously?" she muttered, her voice hoarse.
Stiles stepped inside, and she could hear his footsteps hesitate before he moved closer. "Jesus, Jamie…"
She didn't want to look at him. Didn't want to see the expression on his face. But she didn't need to—she knew what she must look like. Hair a mess, face pale, eyes sunken in. The empty bottle on the nightstand, the stale scent of vodka still clinging to the air.
There was a long pause.
"You wanna tell me what the hell this is?" His voice was sharp, edged with something that sounded like anger, but underneath it, there was concern.
She forced herself to sit up, her movements sluggish. "It's nothing," she mumbled.
Stiles scoffed. "Nothing? You smell like a freaking liquor store. How much did you even drink?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. Not enough."
He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "Jamie, what are you doing?"
She bristled at the question. "What does it look like?"
"It looks like you're trying to drink yourself into a coma," he snapped. "Which, by the way, stupid idea. You could've—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "What the hell were you thinking?"
She glared at him. "I was thinking I wanted to forget for a few hours."
Silence stretched between them.
Stiles' jaw tightened. "And did it work?"
Jamie looked away. She didn't answer.
"Yeah," he said bitterly. "That's what I thought."
She heard him move, the sound of him pacing. He was mad. And she didn't blame him. But what was worse—what made her chest tighten—is that he sounded worried. Like he actually cared.
She didn't want that.
She didn't want any of his pity.
"I don't need a lecture," she muttered. "So if that's why you're here—"
"Jamie, I'm not—" He cut himself off, exhaling. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "I'm not here to lecture you, okay? I just—" He hesitated, struggling for the right words. "You scared me."
She swallowed hard.
"I texted you last night, and you barely responded. Then you didn't answer this morning. I thought—I don't know what I thought, but—" He dragged a hand through his hair. "I just—don't do this."
Jamie clenched her fists. "I can handle myself."
"Yeah? Well, that's what you told me last time, right before you -." He stopped himself, but the unspoken words hung in the air.
Right before you overdosed on Lydia's prescription meds.
She glared at him, anger flaring in her chest. "What, so now you're my babysitter?"
"No, but someone has to give a damn!" he snapped.
That hit harder than she wanted to admit.
She gritted her teeth, looking down at her hands. She could see the bruises on her wrists, the ugly reminder of everything that happened.
Stiles noticed. His voice softened. "Jamie…"
She pulled her sleeves down over them, avoiding his gaze.
"I just want to help," he said quietly.
Her throat felt tight.
"I don't need your help."
Stiles studied her for a long moment. Then he exhaled, stepping back. "Fine," he muttered. "But just so you know? I'll still be here when you realise you can't do this alone."
And with that, he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
Jamie let out a shaky breath, pressing her palms against her eyes.
She stayed sitting on the bed long after Stiles left. The room was too quiet now, the silence pressing down on her. She rubbed her hands over her face, trying to push away the ache behind her eyes. Her head was still heavy from the alcohol, her body sluggish, but her thoughts—her thoughts wouldn't stop.
You scared me.
Stiles' words echoed in her head, and she hated the way they made her feel. Like she was some fragile, broken thing. Like she needed saving.
Her gaze flickered to the empty bottle on the nightstand. The temptation was there—just drink until you don't feel anything. But she knew it wouldn't help. It didn't help last night. It didn't stop the memories.
She shifted, pulling her knees up to her chest. She shut her eyes tightly, trying to shove it all away.
It didn't work.
She pushed off the bed, suddenly needing out of her room, of the house. Her skin felt too tight, her body restless with something she couldn't name. She needed air.
She grabbed a hoodie—one that still smelt faintly of Tucker's old cologne—and pulled it on, shoving her feet into her sneakers before slipping out of the house.
The air outside was cool, crisp, but it didn't help the tightness in her chest. She started walking, hands stuffed in her pockets, no real direction in mind. She just needed to move.