By the time I made it home, my legs felt like wet noodles. The front porch light flickered the way it always did—like our house couldn’t decide if it wanted to welcome you or warn you away.
The smell of spaghetti sauce drifted through the cracked kitchen window, and my stomach grumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since… well, since before I found out werewolves were real.
I pushed the door open, trying to walk in casual, like I hadn’t just had my entire worldview shattered.
“Hey, kiddo.” Mom’s voice floated from the kitchen, over the sound of a wooden spoon scraping against a pot. “You’re late.”
“Yeah, uh, study group.” My mouth said it automatically, even though I’d never been to a study group in my life.
Mom poked her head out, a smudge of flour on her cheek from whatever baking pr
