My Roommate Is A Werewolf

The gym felt like it was vibrating. Not the kind of vibration you hear, but the kind that creeps up your legs and pulses through your ribs, like your heartbeat's trying to run away. Screams. Cheers. Sneakers squealing like dying mice. It all smelled like sweat and old linoleum and that one strawberry body spray every girl in school wore even though it reeked like melted candy and desperation. Amara stood on the sidelines clutching her clipboard like it was a shield. Her knuckles went white and then pink again as she shifted her grip. Her fingers twitched like they wanted to throw it across the court. She was supposed to be recording stats, spikes, points, blocks—technical stuff that mattered. But she couldn’t focus. Couldn't take her eyes off him. Leo Vance. God. She hated him. The way he moved, like everything was slow motion for him and everyone else was just trying to keep up. He wasn’t even sweating like the rest of them. His skin glistened like he’d stepped into a sunbeam. Like someone carved him out of marble and drizzled arrogance over him. His hair was messy, not real messy—with just enough undone to seem like he didn’t care, even though his every move said otherwise. Girls stared. Whispered. Sighed, like he was a walking myth come to life. He jumped. Slammed the ball so hard into the ground the damn thing nearly bounced back into orbit. The gym erupted. People stood and screamed his name. His name. Her lips shut together hard. Jaw tight so her ears rang. “Did you see that?” Becky squealed beside her. Best friend. Loud. Always too loud. “Leo’s not human, Amara. I swear he’s genetically unfair.” Amara didn’t answer. Didn’t want to. The crack in her clipboard said enough. That point was Kevin’s. Her boyfriend. Kevin had called the setup. Jumped first. Created the opening. But the cheer, the damn roar, was for Leo. Always Leo. Her eyes slid across the court to Kevin. He’s built like a poster: tall shoulders, dimples, blonde hair. Captain. Star. He wasn’t clapping or smiling. He was staring—at Leo. Letting his glare say things no one spoke. Dangerous things. A cold slap down her spine. The final whistle blew. She moved on instinct. Legs carrying her past bleachers and glitter cheeks, past the girls with rings in their noses and hope in their voices, toward the bench where towels and water bottles lay scattered like war detritus. Kevin brushed past her, didn’t spare so much as a glance. Fast. Dismissive. “Kevin?” she called, nearly choking on the sound of her own voice. He disappeared into the crowd. Amara knelt, picked up his towel. Still warm. Damp. Heavy in her hands, like the weight of everything he wouldn’t say. Then the smell hit her. Too sweet. Sickly. Like flowers coated in sugar. She froze. Rosy Secrets. Limited edition. Sold out in hours. The scent of innocence and seduction and confidence. Tasha’s signature scent. Always around that girl. Always. Amara never touched it. But it was all over Kevin’s towel. Her hand shook. Fingertips cold. She bent to sniff again in disbelief. Still there, blistering strong, like Tasha had just been there and rubbed it on his skin for fun. Her pulse thundered. Her breath snapped in and out. “You okay?” Her body stiffened. Instantly. She turned to see him there. Leo. Clipboard in hand, standing a few feet away like she was an afterthought. His expression, unreadable. She snatched the clipboard and shoved it against her chest. “Didn’t ask for your help,” she spat, voice rough and small. He didn’t flinch. “Didn’t offer,” he said, voice clear and cool. Just those three syllables. No mocking, no teasing. Flat. Like he didn’t care. She blinked. Stung. He turned and strode away—not one step closer, not one glance back. Her chest twisted watching him leave, the hall of fans and noise crowding her. She stood in that half-empty gym still, breathing too fast, clenching her jaw. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream at him for not saying something. For not asking if she was okay. Catching the towel, noticing the perfume, anything. But he didn’t care. That much she saw clearly now. At home, the world was quieter in the worst way. No after-game banter, no smells of sweat and triumph. Just emptiness and a TV talking to itself. Her mom was gone, her dad parked in front of the screen, drunk and drooling over some rerun. She tiptoed past him upstairs, shutting her door softly against his snore. Her room was dark. Moonlight carved her vinyl posters and her mess of clothes into shapes she barely recognized. She paced. Should have texted Becky back. Should’ve thrown that towel out, done anything else. But she needed answers. By nine, she was on her bed, tangled in sheets. By ten, she was dressed: tight jeans hugging her legs, black top cut low enough, lip gloss glistening in the moonlight like a challenge. She didn’t want to go to Mason’s party. She needed to. Mason’s house was alive in the dark. Music thumped against the walls, lights blinked red and blue, people pressed in like they needed to breathe. Punch spilled on the floor, people laughing too loud or too fast. She pushed, searching. Passed Becky laughing with half the volleyball squad by the kitchen. Then her eyes caught Leo at the far wall—leaning with two girls draped over him, pretending to matter. His back was turned, but she could sense his aura: untouchable. Kevin? Gone. Heart thumping, she glided through the crowd and turned a corner. There he was. Kevin, pressed against the wall, Tasha’s hand tangled in his hair as she kissed him. Their tongues, their eyes shut. His hands on her waist. The beer in Amara’s hand blurred. She felt the cold liquid spread across her fingers. But she didn’t care. Her palm lifted before her mind could stop it. It landed against his cheek with a crack. Loud. Echoed. The music didn’t stop. But the world did. People froze. Eyes wide, mouths open. Kevin’s face twisted. Shock and rage and something else she didn’t recognize. Behind him, Tasha stared bloodless. Amara didn’t wait. She shoved forward, breathing hard, eyes red. She bounded out the door. Slamming it behind her. Cool night air hit her chest. She gasped for it. Drinks probably sloshed down her jeans but she didn’t feel it. Footsteps behind her—slow. Measured. “Amara.” He sounded... calm? Too calm. She didn’t turn. Her chest heaving. Heart racing. She closed her eyes for a second against the panic. “You really thought he was different?” His voice, low in the dark, no pity. Her spine stiffened. She didn’t move. “I mean, come on. You’re not that dumb, right?” She tasted blood, or maybe it was her lip. Thirsty. She opened her eyes. There he was. Just standing there, no sign of hiding. Cold. Cruel. Smug. “Do you even see how gullible you look?” His gaze flicked over her, not soft, like he was appraising a broken thing. His words were ice, slicing. She swallowed. Something inside her snapped at that look. “Maybe I don’t want to be smart,” she said, voice shaking. He smirked, head tilted like she’d humored him. She hated him. But she needed him to say something else. To fight for her. To make this… mean something. He didn’t. He just shook his head and walked back inside. No hesitation. No guilt. The door shut solid behind him. She inhaled once—big and shaky—then sank to the pavement. Her clipboard still in her bag. Kevin’s towel gone to god knows where. The party noise filtered out but the itch of betrayal and humiliation stayed. She pressed her palms to the bricks behind her and slid down until she sat. Alone. Her chest tightened. Her palms tingled. She closed her eyes and whispered to the night. He didn’t care. He didn’t fight. He didn’t even bother. That realization spread inside her like poison. A minute passed and the party was still up there—lights, laughter. She didn’t move. But somewhere inside, the rules shifted. The war had only just begun.