Chapter Text
Derek Hale did not enjoy morning classes. In fact, he hated them in all their miserable existence. He didn’t understand how anyone in their right mind could think signing up for 7:30 a.m. lectures was a good idea.
It was important to note that he hadn’t signed up for this. Laura had. Which, in Derek’s opinion, made her evil. A horrible person. (He didn’t actually believe that—except between the hours of 6:00 and 7:30 a.m., when he absolutely did.)
Laura had flitted around their cramped New York apartment all summer, singing the praises of NYU’s English program and how much Derek would enjoy it. She wanted him to start in the fall and, as she put it, “try to make friends.” Derek hadn’t expected her to go so far as to register him and fill out his schedule behind his back.
He wasn’t mad about it. He just didn’t think she’d force him to go.
Laura, however, knew her baby brother better than Derek liked to admit. She knew he’d never willingly choose a morning class, and that he’d complain and protest. She also knew that once he was on campus, he’d go to all his classes. So she rigged his schedule. Made his favorite subject the first one of the day, and packed the rest in such a way that skipping didn’t make sense.
Of course, she was right. Derek loved and hated that she knew him so well.
The class had a long, complicated name, but it boiled down to reading analysis. Derek loved reading. It was his perfect escape. He didn’t care what he read—fantasy, poetry, history, even the occasional romance (not that he’d admit that to Laura). He liked breaking down text. He wasn’t the best writer, but he could do well if he tried. Getting into an author’s head felt like solving a puzzle.
So here he was. Awake far earlier than he wanted to be, dragging himself to class.
Thanks, sis.
***
A few weeks into the semester, Derek had settled into a routine. At least on Wednesdays and Thursdays. Wake up, flop out of bed, wander into the kitchen.
Laura would be just getting back from her morning run, already in leggings and a too-big and too-old Beacon Hills sweatshirt, hair pulled into a messy bun as she cracked eggs into the skillet like she was mad at them.
Derek didn’t eat breakfast. No matter how much Laura wanted him to. All he needed was coffee. No extra flare. No conversation.
He moved past her wordlessly and opened the coffee can, the scent immediately filling their tiny apartment. Muscle memory took over: fresh filter, water, switch flipped. The smell was grounding. Comforting. It made their small space feel more like home. The kind of home he missed every day.
He liked the sound of the pot heating up, the water dripping steadily into the glass carafe. He liked the ritual. The warmth. The distraction.
They used to talk in the mornings. Not always about important things. Sometimes it was just, “You see my hoodie?” or “Do you want the last piece of bacon?” But it used to be something. Now the quiet between them felt heavier than words.
“You know,” Laura said one morning, side-eyeing him from the stove, “we could try to be normal. Say something like, ‘Good morning’ every now and then.”
“Yep,” Derek muttered.
He didn’t look at her. Didn’t need to. The smell of burning eggs told him she was annoyed. She was rougher with the pan than usual, metal scraping on metal, and it made Derek grit his teeth.
It hurt her ears, too. He knew that. So who was she punishing? Him? Herself?
She was tense. She’d been building up to that comment since before her run. Maybe even longer.
“You used to talk to me,” she said finally, low but not quiet. “You used to tell me things. Even the stupid stuff. Especially the stupid stuff.”
Derek stirred his coffee, eyes on the swirl of black liquid in his mug.
“I still listen,” she added, more brittle now. “I’m still here, Derek.”
He swallowed. Tried to speak. Failed.
“I’m not Mom,” she said, more gently this time. “I’m not expecting you to be okay. But you don’t get to shut me out like this and pretend that’s fine.”
He flinched at that. Not visibly—he was good at staying still. But inside, the words landed hard.
Laura sighed and turned back to the stove. “I miss you,” she murmured, like maybe she didn’t mean for him to hear it.
He did.
And it gutted him.
But the words caught in his throat like everything else. The shame. The grief. The guilt that felt welded to his bones.
He couldn't say it back. Not yet.
So he took his coffee to the couch and sat with his silence. Not because he didn’t love her.
But because he did.
She used to pick him up from school, and he’d talk the whole way home. It didn’t matter what about. It just mattered that they talked. With five kids in the family, there wasn’t always space to speak at dinner. But in Laura’s car, he had her full attention. Once a week, she’d take him for milkshakes and fries. Just him. She didn’t do that for the other kids.
He’d thought, when he got older, he’d do the same for his younger siblings. But he’d been wrong. Painfully, irreversibly wrong.
The mug in his hands warmed his fingers. That was another reason he liked coffee.
He was always cold now.
Hands. Feet. Chest. Without the constant pack touch he’d grown up with, he felt it. The chill. The absence.
He missed the scent exchanges. The casual touches. The grounding.
He missed the feeling of being part of something.
He wanted to talk to Laura. But how could he? He couldn’t tell her everything. Would never tell her everything. It wouldn’t bring their family back. It wouldn’t make her feel better.
It would only make everything worse.
So he drank his coffee in silence.
When she smiled at him, just a soft little thing full of quiet hope, he looked at her.
He didn’t smile back.
But he wanted to.
She plated her eggs and hopped up onto the counter next to him. They sat there in silence, shoulder to shoulder, and didn’t say another word.
***
When Derek came out of the bathroom, hair damp and clean clothes clinging to his skin, Laura was finishing the dishes.
“Perfect timing,” she chirped, ruffling his hair as she rushed past to take her turn in the shower.
Derek glared after her, stepping in front of the thrifted easel mirror and sighing.
His Chucks were falling apart. The black canvas had faded to a smudged gray, the soles starting to peel. His jeans were okay. Probably. Laura would’ve said something if they weren’t. His olive green Henley was covered by his favorite hoodie—black, worn-in, frayed at the cuffs. It was baggy and soft and easy to hide in.
He tugged the sleeves lower, covering the pads of his fingers.
His hair was hopeless.
He gave up and pulled on a black beanie before grabbing his bag and heading to the door.
He lingered by the door longer than he needed to.
With his travel mug and keys already in his hand, backpack slung over one shoulder. All he had to do was turn the knob and leave.
But he didn’t.
Behind him, Laura had come out of the shower, scraping burnt egg into the trash and running water over the pan like it had personally offended her. Derek still hadn’t said anything else since she told him “I miss you,”.
He shifted his weight, hesitated.
“I’ll be back by six,” he said, voice low.
Laura didn’t turn around. “Yeah,” she replied. “You always are.”
He could’ve left then. Should’ve. The tension between them was thick, and he wasn’t in the mood to peel it back and look at what was underneath. But—
“Laura.”
It slipped out. Just her name. The only word he could get past the lump in his throat.
She froze for a second. Not like she was startled. More like she’d been hoping he’d say something and wasn’t sure how to handle the fact that he had.
She turned halfway, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked down at the floor. The toe of her sock was tapping, just a little. Impatient. Nervous. He used to know what that meant.
“I—” he started, and then stopped. The words twisted in his chest, too raw and too fragile to push through. He didn’t even know what he meant to say. Sorry? I miss you? I don’t know how to come back from this?
Her face softened when she saw his struggle. She took a step toward him. Just one. “You don’t have to say it all at once, Der,” she said gently. “Just… say something.”
He nodded, jaw clenched so hard it ached. His fingers twitched at his side, like they wanted to reach out, maybe grab her wrist like he used to when they were little and scared. But he didn’t move.
“I’ll see you after class,” he murmured instead. Not what he meant. Not even close.
Laura gave a half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes and stepped back. “Yeah. Okay.”
He left. Quietly.
And hated himself the whole way to campus.
***
He didn’t make eye contact when he entered the classroom.
That was part of the routine. Part of the armor. Laura may have wanted him to make friends. To connect. To start over.
Derek didn’t.
He was eighteen with a tragic backstory and too many teeth. He didn’t need people asking questions he didn’t want to answer. Or worse, asking nothing at all and staring instead. Whispering when they thought he couldn’t hear them.
Being a teenage werewolf in college was hard enough. Being a teenage werewolf in college after everything was unbearable.
The lecture hall was small. Older building. Yellowed tile floors that never quite lost the smell of bleach and dust. Rows of desks packed tightly together, the kind with attached chairs that creaked when students shifted their weight. A single wall of grimy windows lined the back, struggling to let in any light past the gray overcast sky. The radiator hissed constantly.
Most students sat in little clusters—people who had found each other within the first few weeks. The way humans always do.
They knew not to include Derek.
He took his usual seat in the far corner of the room, back row, right next to the radiator. The warmth helped dull the edge of the ever-present ache in his bones. His hoodie was up. Sleeves pulled down to cover his hands. He curled into himself until he felt small. Quiet. Contained.
He didn’t think about Paige.
He didn’t think about Kate.
He couldn’t afford to. Not here. Not anywhere people could see him bleed through the cracks.
Professor Thomson’s voice began to murmur at the front of the room. Derek latched on to the rhythm of it—monotone but steady. Something to focus on. A lecture about literature and modern narratives. Something about deconstructing traditional hero archetypes.
A project. Partner work.
Derek flinched.
Partner work meant talking. Meeting someone’s eyes. Sitting too close. Explaining himself.
Maybe the professor would let him work alone. Maybe someone dropped the class and they were uneven. Maybe—
“I’ve already gone through and assigned partners,” Thomson called from the podium, his voice cracking slightly as he adjusted his glasses. “So no clique pairings. A little mingling will do you all good.”
Derek felt the back of his neck heat beneath his hood.
Kill me. That would be easier.
His stomach churned. His travel mug of coffee—lukewarm now—suddenly felt too heavy in his hands. He wrapped his fingers tighter around it. Anchor. Steady.
The professor began handing out papers—assignment rubrics, partner lists. The scrape of desks. Shuffling of feet. A low hum of voices filled the air as students found each other, chattering, laughing, sliding their desks together. Several pairs immediately moved toward the front or out the door, eager to start early.
Derek stayed put.
He kept his gaze trained on the desk. Focused on the scratches etched into the laminate. Years of bored students had carved names and initials and one aggressive depiction of what might have been a spaceship. He ran his fingers over a loose thread in his hoodie, pulling it slowly, unraveling it by millimeters.
It was a routine. Familiar. Soothing. One thread at a time, one breath at a time. He didn’t have to look up.
He didn’t have to see the normalcy around him. The lives untouched by fire or screams or the scent of blood soaked into old floorboards.
“You’re Derek Hale, right?”
The voice was soft. Tentative. Too gentle for how hard he flinched.
He jerked his head up, startled. His heart skipped before it stuttered into overdrive.
A girl stood beside his desk, clutching her assignment paper with both hands. She looked vaguely apologetic.
“I think we’re partners. I’m Hannah,” she added quickly, like she didn’t want to wait for him to ask.
“I—” Derek started, throat suddenly dry.
“Oh, shit—sorry,” she backpedaled, one step, then two. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
Her heart rate ticked higher. She was nervous. Not frightened—he could tell the difference—but uncertain. Trying.
“It’s fine,” he managed.
He looked at her properly.
Tall-ish. Athletic. Her hair was braided, but several curls had already broken free, framing her face in soft spirals. There was a streak of graphite smudged along one cheek, like she’d forgotten to wash all the way after art class.
Her flannel was oversized. Sleeves too long. Her jeans were full of intentional holes, and her Converse were scuffed near to death. There was a strip of old yellow paint dried into the laces.
She didn’t look like a threat.
They never do.
Derek shifted uncomfortably. “I wasn’t paying attention. Don’t read into it?”
Her lips parted—surprised, maybe—but she nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
She glanced away, giving him space. Not prying. Not pressing.
He didn’t know how to feel about that.
“Well… we have a lot to do. Want to go somewhere that isn’t here?”
Derek blinked.
“We still have, like, an hour of class.”
She tilted her head. “Wow. You really weren’t paying attention. Thomson said we could leave. The project’s self-led.”
He looked around. The room had mostly emptied. A few stragglers lingered, but most of the noise had spilled out into the hallway already.
He needed to work on that.
“There’s this little coffee shop just off campus,” she offered. “It shouldn’t be too busy. You like coffee, right?”
Derek glanced down.
He was still holding his travel mug like a lifeline.
“Um. Yeah. How did you—”
“You’ve never come to class without a cup,” she said with a smile that touched her eyes. “Not once. So I figured.”
She said it like it was a sweet habit. Like it made sense to know something about him.
He didn’t know how to feel about that.
“Look,” she added, softer now, “I can tell you’re uncomfortable here. I don’t mean to be pushy. You don’t talk to anyone, and I talk a lot. So… I’ll talk. You can listen.”
That wasn’t how people usually spoke to him.
There wasn’t an agenda in her tone. No false enthusiasm. No pity.
Just—space. Like she was offering it. Holding it open.
And maybe that was the strangest thing of all.
Derek looked up at her again. His instincts buzzed at the edges of his thoughts, but there was no threat in her scent. No fear. Just warmth and cinnamon.
He didn’t want to go anywhere with her.
But somehow, without making the choice consciously, he stood. Packed his things. Slid his mug into the side pocket of his bag. Followed her out the door.
Maybe it was momentum.
Maybe it was curiosity.
Or maybe it was just that—for the first time in a very, very long while—someone had asked and not pushed.
***
The coffee house was quiet when they arrived. Not empty, but close. Just a barista behind the counter and someone restocking baked goods in the back. Plants filled every surface that touched a window—ivy trailing down from shelves, succulents crowded into corners, leafy ferns reaching toward the sunlight that streamed in through the tall glass storefront. Golden light warmed the space like a hug.
A small bell jingled overhead as the door closed behind them. Derek didn’t hate the sound. He just didn’t like it.
In the far back corner, plush couches invited conversation and too-close contact. Derek steered clear. Hannah led him toward a tall four-person table tucked into the opposite corner, half-hidden behind a potted monstera. Derek’s shoulders loosened when she took the seat that faced the door, leaving him the one that faced the windows.
She unpacked her things and smiled at him before heading toward the counter.
She was shorter than him. He’d noticed that while they walked. She’d talked most of the way—not about anything important, just soft, steady chatter. She hadn’t expected him to reply. And that was nice.
"I’m gonna get a coffee. Want one? First round’s on me."
“You don’t have—”
“I’ll pick something for you if you don’t tell me.”
Her tone was playful, but firm. Derek hesitated.
“Just… black coffee. If they even do that here.”
“Any sugar?”
“No.”
“Okay then.”
She tossed the words over her shoulder and left him there, travel mug still gripped between his hands.
Maybe she was okay.
***
An hour passed with scattered conversation and minimal progress. The assignment was straightforward: choose a book, select a passage, break it down individually, then critique each other’s work.
They’d made it through step one.
Neither wanted to pick the book. They each kept insisting the other should choose, both of them liking too many to settle. Eventually, they agreed on Where the Red Fern Grows . A children’s novel, technically—but one they both remembered fondly.
Now they were on their third cups of coffee.
And Hannah was still trying to sneak sugar into Derek’s.
“I just don’t think I need it,” he said again, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she wiggled a sugar packet in the air. “I like how it tastes without it. Coffee isn’t supposed to be sweet.”
She grinned, clearly unconvinced.
“You have no idea what you’re missing, Eyebrows.”
She’d dubbed him that about five minutes into sitting down.
He didn’t like it. But he also didn’t ask her to stop.
She wasn’t flirting—he would’ve picked up on that. No lust, no tension. Just happiness. Curiosity. Contentment. And a little nervousness.
It was almost enough to make him feel safe.
“I think it’s just bothering you that I enjoy something without needing to dump sugar into it.”
“Maybe I just want you to live a little,” she shot back. “You look like someone who’s allergic to joy.”
“That’s not a real allergy,” he muttered.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
He glanced sideways, the barest twitch of a smile threatening the corner of his mouth. Her eyes were on her notebook again. She was doodling absentmindedly—this time a row of pine trees, then a swooping mountain range. There were soft graphite smudges across her knuckles, one on her cheekbone too, like she’d scratched her face earlier without noticing.
“You always draw during class?” he asked quietly.
She didn’t look up. “Helps me think. I don’t usually finish them. My brain just… doesn’t like to sit still, I guess.”
He watched her flip back through earlier pages. Half-formed sketches littered the margins—hands in motion, animals caught mid-run, a fox curled asleep in a hollowed log, eyes closed in peace.
“You should keep going,” he said, softer this time.
She blinked and looked at him, almost startled. “Was that a compliment?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
But she smiled. Bright. Like sunshine filtered through coffee steam.
“Art’s just… something I’ve always done,” she said, fingers absentmindedly smearing a shadow across the page. “My mom tried to get me to take it seriously. Galleries. Portfolios. Deadlines. But it kills it, y’know? I like messes. Half-finished things. Chalk that washes away in the rain. Finger paints and canvas drop cloths and mixing colors that aren’t supposed to go together.”
She paused, then laughed a little under her breath. “Sorry. I talk too much when I’m comfortable. Or when I’m nervous. Which is also now.”
Derek didn’t respond right away. His fingers idly traced the edge of his coffee mug. The rim was chipped.
He should’ve shut her down. That was safer. That was the routine.
But something about her—her voice, her presence, the way she didn’t push or pry—made his chest ache in a way that wasn’t entirely painful.
“I like books,” he said suddenly.
She blinked. “Yeah?”
“I mean—I read a lot. Growing up.”
“What kind?”
Derek hesitated. “My mom… she read poetry. Classic stuff. Neruda. Rumi. She used to say it mattered how the words tasted in your mouth.”
Hannah smiled. “That’s kind of beautiful.”
“Yeah,” he said, then added, “She’s—not with us anymore.”
Her smile faltered—just for a moment. But she didn’t reach for a soft ‘I’m sorry,’ didn’t murmur condolences. Instead, she nodded. Like she was acknowledging it without trying to smooth it over.
“I read too,” she said. “Not as much lately, but when I do, I like fantasy. Stuff with dragons and old maps and secret doors.”
“Escapism,” he said knowingly.
She grinned. “Exactly. Or maybe hope. Depends on the day.”
Derek tilted his head slightly. “Hope?”
“Yeah. That the story isn’t over yet. That even after the dragons burn down the village, the main character finds a reason to keep going.”
His throat tightened.
She glanced at him, catching the shift in his expression but not calling it out. Instead, she went back to her notebook, adding texture to the mountains, little shadows where snow would fall.
“I like that one,” he said, pointing toward a sketch of a lone wolf on a rocky cliff. The animal’s head was tilted upward, howling at a crescent moon.
She smiled, flipping the notebook shut like she didn’t want him to look too long. “Maybe I’ll finish that one.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that felt full, not awkward. Derek sipped his coffee. Hannah scribbled something on the corner of her paper. The windows beside them rattled softly as the wind picked up.
“You really think I look allergic to joy?” he asked eventually, glancing at her.
“I think,” she said carefully, “you look like someone who’s forgotten what it feels like.”
He stared at her, heart thudding slow and heavy in his chest.
“I also think,” she added gently, “you deserve to remember.”
And for reasons he didn’t understand—reasons he wasn’t sure he wanted to understand—Derek didn’t look away.
He didn’t shut down.
He just nodded.
Once.
Silently. Carefully.
Like it might matter.
“You know, we’ve got like four weeks to do this project,” she said eventually. “We could meet here again? If that’s something you’d be okay with?”
There it was again—nervousness. Like his answer really mattered.
He liked that. That she cared how he responded. That she hadn’t asked why he didn’t talk to people. That she hadn’t made him feel like a spectacle. No questions about where he was from, or who he lived with, or why he was always alone.
She didn’t comment on his hoodie or his posture or his silence.
He liked the pace she set.
“Yeah. I might be open to that.”
He met her gaze for the first time.
Her eyes were soft. Light blue. Her nose dusted with freckles. A silver hoop glinted from her right nostril. He hadn’t noticed that before.
“Derek Hale, are we becoming friends?”
She was trying to sound casual, but he caught the hope behind it.
He gave a half-nod. A half-smile. He didn’t know how long it would last. He didn’t know if she’d still like him once she knew him better. If she ever knew all of him.
You don’t start friendships with, Hey, I have claws, fangs, glowing eyes, and once a month I fight the urge to tear things apart.
But maybe she’d handle it well.
Maybe she’d last.
He let himself wonder.
What it would look like—if she found out. If he told her.
Would she flinch? Would she run?
Or would she just look at him the way she was looking at him now—curious but calm, like she saw something interesting and not terrifying?
He imagined her asking, What does it feel like?
Not in fear, but fascination.
He imagined trying to explain it—that sharp edge of instinct always humming under his skin.
The way the full moon made everything louder. Brighter. Harder. The ache of teeth he couldn’t show, claws he had to hide, rage he had to press down.
He pictured her fingers brushing his jaw, tracing the lines of his cheek after he shifted and changed and showed her what he really was. No screaming. No turning away. Just… curiosity.
Maybe even acceptance.
Would she still smile at him?
Would she still ask if they could meet up again?
Would she still joke and tease and call him her friend?
Or would her eyes shift, just a little, like she was seeing something other, something dangerous? Something wrong ?
He didn’t know. He’d been wrong before. About people. About trust.
But there was something in the way she didn’t push. The way she let him be quiet. The way she met him where he was and didn’t try to drag him out of it.
It made him wonder if maybe, just maybe…
He wouldn’t always have to be alone with this part of himself.
Not forever.
Maybe.
He blinked, pulling himself back into the room, back to the here and now—her notebook open, her pencil tapping lightly, her eyes still fixed on him with that easy sort of patience that made his chest ache.
“You space out a lot,” she said softly, not unkindly.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have to tell me what you’re thinking about. I think it’s nice to be with someone who’s quiet.”
He looked at her, brow drawn.
“Most people don’t think that’s nice.”
“Most people suck.” She grinned.
He actually laughed.
Quietly. Just a huff of air from his chest. Like his body had forgotten how and was trying it on for size.
It surprised him. Startled him, even.
And then it was gone.
Burned away in an instant.
He smelled it first.
Fear.
It rolled off her in waves. Not the kind that lingered beneath the surface. No—this was a spike. Sudden and overwhelming. Her heart stuttered once, then pounded like it was trying to break free of her ribs. Her pupils dilated. Her breathing hitched.
Derek stiffened before he even knew why. Instinct overtook logic, ancient and unshakable. Danger. Something was wrong.
He followed her gaze.
Or tried to.
“Derek,” Hannah whispered, voice razor-sharp and quiet. “I’m going to cause a distraction. You need to get up and leave. Calmly.”
His stomach dropped.
“Hannah?”
“Don’t turn around. Don’t freak out. I know who that is. I know what he is.”
Her voice wasn’t scared. It was measured. Controlled. But he could still feel it leaking off her—terror barely contained.
“He’s a hunter. And they don’t just wander into tiny New York coffee shops for fun.”
Ice slid down Derek’s spine. It flooded his veins, froze the breath in his lungs.
No.
No. No. No.
Not here. Not now.
Not when things were almost… okay. When he’d almost let himself feel normal for one hour. He could still taste the coffee on his tongue, could still feel the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips—and now?
Now his throat was dry. Now his fingers curled so tightly into his palms that he felt the pinch of half-formed claws against his skin.
How does she know what a hunter is?
Why does she recognize him?
Why is he here?
A thousand questions crashed into each other in his skull, too loud, too fast. They clashed like cymbals, disorienting and sharp.
He couldn't breathe.
He couldn’t breathe.
This was a mistake. He should’ve stayed home. Should’ve kept his head down. Should never have walked out that door or followed her here or laughed or—
“You’re the only one I know of in the city,” Hannah murmured. “It can’t be a coincidence.”
Derek blinked at her. His body had gone still, but his brain was screaming. This was wrong. It was so wrong. The air felt heavy. The world felt off-kilter, like the floor had tilted beneath him.
He dropped into autopilot.
His voice, when he found it, was dry and cracked. “Hannah, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I—”
She cut him off. Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just one quiet sentence.
“Derek, I know that you’re a werewolf.”
Time stopped.
Everything froze. The clink of mugs behind the counter, the shuffle of someone’s boots on the floor, the soft hum of a broken refrigerator—it all became background noise. Meaningless.
He stared at her.
And for a terrifying second, Derek wasn’t in the coffee shop anymore.
He was back in the locker room, scrubbing his skin raw. He was fifteen and shaking in the backseat of Kate’s car. He was breathing smoke and ash and loss. He was every version of himself that ever got caught. That ever got hurt.
She knew.
She knew.
His world spun on its axis.
He couldn’t tell if he was more afraid of the hunter, or of her.
Because what if this was a trap?
What if the warmth, the doodles, the slow smiles and coffee jokes—what if that had all been part of it?
What if letting her in had already been the mistake?
And still—
Still—
She hadn’t looked at him like he was a monster.
Not yet.
And that terrified him most of all.