Getting back to the house with Scott after leaving his mom's place was quick and easy. The drive was quiet, the kind of silence that's comfortable, not awkward. Scott sat in the passenger seat, his duffle bag wedged between his knees, fingers drumming absently on the zipper. Outside, the late morning sun filtered through the windshield, painting shifting patterns across the dashboard as we turned onto my street.
I parked in the driveway, the engine ticking as it cooled. Scott glanced at the house, then at me, a little uncertain. I gave him a reassuring nod. "Come on, let's get you settled."
Inside, the house felt lived-in but not cluttered—clean lines, a faint scent of coffee and pine cleaner, the hum of the fridge in the background. I nudged the door shut with my hip as Scott stepped inside, his sneakers squeaking faintly on the hardwood.
"Did you pack workout clothes?" I asked, heading for the kitchen to drop my keys in the bowl by the door. "Sweatpants, shorts, light tops—stuff you can move in?"
He hefted his bag, giving me a sheepish grin. "Yeah, I've got a few things. Didn't know how long I'd be here, so I just grabbed a few items."
"Good," I said, smiling. "You're going to need them. We'll work out every morning—train your body, then supernatural training at night. You can see, hear, and smell better than any human now. Wolves can track prey for over thirty miles a day—forty-eight kilometres, give or take—and can scent something for about a mile and a half. I'll teach you how to use that, and don't forget I want to know your grades as well."
Scott set his bag down by the stairs, glancing around. "You're really going to help me with all this? Not just the supernatural stuff, but… school, too?"
I leaned against the banister, arms folded. "Yeah. I expect homework done before the end of each day. If you're struggling, you need to ask me for help. I was good at school, but only because my uncle pushed me. You don't have to do this alone."
He looked at me, surprised. "You actually care about my grades?"
I shrugged, grinning. "Do you know how you join the FBI below the age requirement? First, you show talent that's never been seen. Second, you know someone high up. Third, you get into a department where skills and knowledge matter more than age. Outside of this division, it would've been impossible. The stuff I did to get in… let's just say it wasn't easy."
Scott laughed, shaking his head. "So, you're saying I need to finish school if I want to survive the supernatural world?"
"Exactly," I said, pushing off the banister. "Look, The supernatural will only affect you twenty, maybe thirty percent of your week. The rest is life—school, work, figuring out who you are. Your mom mentioned you work at the animal clinic. If you want to be a vet, you'll need to step up there, too. I'll push you to be your best, but only because I know you can be. I know this is weird and I know what I have just told you and this only matters when your under my roof. I'm not your dad. Hell, right now I am not even dating your mom. I'm just an older guy who cares about what happens in your life."
He nodded, a little overwhelmed but grateful. "Thanks. I mean it. I won't waste this. And… yeah, it's a little weird. You dated my mom, being only a few years older than me."
I laughed, the sound echoing in the hallway. "Yeah, it's weird. But I'd do anything for your mom. That means looking out for you, too. Not because I'm in charge of you—just because I care."
Scott smiled, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Alright. So, where am I staying?"
I led to the stairs, and step onto the first one, the floorboards creaking softly under my feet. "Top of the stairs, to the right—my room. I've got an ensuite, so I don't use the main bathroom. That's directly opposite my door. Next room is yours. The room at the end is for case stuff—unless you plan to endanger yourself, don't go in there. The other room's a spare."
He nodded, counting off the doors as I spoke. "Got it. And, uh, thanks for letting me stay."
"No problem," I said, clapping him gently on the shoulder. "We can go shopping later for more clothes. I know you brought a few, but I'm going to run you ragged. You'll need shorts, vests, new sneakers, maybe some muscle relaxants for the bath. Trust me, you'll thank me later."
He rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. "You can't just buy me stuff."
I grinned. "Scott, shut up. Are you still hungry, or are you full of the pastries?"
He hesitated, then shrugged. "A little hungry, actually."
"Good. Get settled, and I'll make us omelettes. After food, get dressed in something comfortable. I'm going to show you how to use all that strength you have. You don't need to be scared of it."
Scott nodded, heading upstairs. I watched him go, the sound of his footsteps fading as I moved into the kitchen. The house was quiet, sunlight slanting through the window, dust motes dancing in the beams. I cracked eggs into a bowl, the rhythmic tap of shells against the counter grounding me. The sizzle of butter in the pan, the scent of onions and peppers—simple, comforting.
Scott came down a few minutes later, dressed in sweatpants and a faded t-shirt. He leaned against the doorway, watching as I flipped the omelette.
"Smells good," he said, voice soft.
"Food's important," I replied, sliding the omelette onto a plate. "You burn more energy now. Eat up."
We ate at the kitchen table, the clink of forks and the distant hum of a lawnmower outside filling the silence. Afterward, Scott rinsed his plate, setting it carefully in the sink.
"Ready?" I asked, grabbing a duffel bag from the hall.
He nodded, following me out the door. The air outside was crisp, birdsong threading through the quiet. We walked to the preserve, the path winding through tall grass and dappled sunlight. Leaves rustled overhead, the scent of earth and pine sharp in the air.
At the edge of the woods, I turned to him. "Alright, first things first. You've figured out your sense of smell? And hearing?"
Scott nodded, hands in his pockets. "Yeah, I know how to use them. Sort of."
"How far can you smell?" I asked, pausing to let a squirrel dart across the path. "I dropped three items on the way here—two for smell, one for sound. They're close together. I need you to tell me what they are. You'll know when you find them."
He looked at me, a little sceptical, but nodded. "Alright. Let's see."
I leaned against a tree, arms folded, watching as he closed his eyes, brow furrowed in concentration. The forest was alive with sound—the distant drone of traffic, the chirp of crickets, the soft whisper of wind through the branches.
Twenty minutes passed. I watched a pair of bird fly between the branches, their wings flashing bright against the green. Scott's eyes snapped open, and he groaned. "Scott, oh Scotty boy," he muttered.
I grinned. "That's the sound. What about the smells?"
He sniffed the air, nose wrinkling. "You left the smells right with the sound. Bacon and a piece of cinnamon roll from breakfast. They're covered in your scent."
I nodded, impressed despite myself. "Good. That should've been faster, but you got there. I'm surprised you used your hearing before your smell—wolves usually lead with scent. We'll train that."
We walked deeper into the preserve, the ground soft underfoot, sunlight dappling the path. I could hear the distant rush of water, the call of a hawk overhead.
"First lesson," I said, stopping in a small clearing. "Isn't about claws or fangs. It's about listening. Really listening. You've got five senses, Scott. Most people use them without thinking. For us they're tools. Lifelines."
He nodded, swallowing hard. "I get that. Sometimes it's overwhelming, though. Everything's so loud, so bright."
I smiled, crouching in front of him. "That's because you're letting it all in at once. You need to learn to focus, to filter. Otherwise, you'll drown in the noise. Like earlier—you scattered your senses instead of focusing on our path."
He nodded, closing his eyes as I instructed. The forest came alive around us—the rustle of leaves, the distant chirp of birds, the faint hum of traffic far off.
"Now," I said, my voice low, "tell me what you hear."
He listened, really listened. "Birds. Wind. A car. Someone's dog barking"
"Good. Now, focus on the wind. What direction is it coming from?"
He tilted his head, brow furrowed. "Left. No, behind me. West?"
"Right," I said, grinning. "Now, the birds. How many?"
He listened, counting. "Three? No, four. Three closes by, one is pretty far away."
"Excellent. Open your eyes."
He blinked, the world snapping back into focus. I stood, brushing dirt from my jeans. "That's the first step. You can't help anyone if you're lost in your own head. You need to be present. Aware. That's how you survive—and protect others."
Scott nodded, a flicker of pride in his eyes. "Okay. What's next?"
I reached into the duffel bag, pulling out three small jars. "Smell. Open each one. Tell me what you smell. Don't just name it—describe it. What does it remind you of? What does it make you feel?"
He unscrewed the first jar, sniffing. "Pine. Like Christmas trees. Chilly air. My mom's old car when she had that tree-shaped air freshener."
I nodded. "Good. Next."
The second jar was sharper, metallic. "Blood," he said, surprised. "But not fresh. Old. Like after a fight when it's dried on your skin."
I met his gaze, serious. "That's important. You'll need to know the difference. Fresh blood means danger. Old blood means a story."
He opened the third jar, inhaling deeply. His eyes widened. "Pastries? No—cinnamon rolls. My mom's kitchen from earlier. Warm and safe."
I smiled, softer this time. "Alright. What's your anchor? When things get bad, when you feel like you're losing control, what brings you back?"
He hesitated, then said quietly, "Allison. She's, my anchor."
I chuckled, shaking my head. "Lovesick puppy. I get it. But your mom might be a better bet. The love you feel for her—the hugs when you were hurt, the times she was there when you were sick. That's a strong anchor. If things get rough with Allison, it'll be hard to focus."
He nodded, thoughtful. "Yeah. I guess you're right. But I really care of Allison"
I sat on a fallen log, the bark rough under my palms. "Real talk, Scott. I don't need an anchor like you do. Werewolves are tied to the moon, to anger. Shifters like me—we're different. The closest your kind gets is someone like Derek's mom an evolved werewolf. We don't need anchors, but most of us have a focus—an emotion, not a person. For me, it's always been about protecting people. Your mom is my soulmate, but that's not the same as an anchor. It means I'll protect her, always. But nobody knows that except you and her. I need you both to keep it quiet."
He looked at me, serious. "I get it. I won't tell anyone."
I nodded, grateful. "Good. When you get as strong as me, it's nearly impossible to kill you. It took thirty hunters to kill my dad, and they had guns, fire, explosives. Against another supernatural, it would've been tough. And I'm stronger than he was. There's a ritual that could kill your mom and make me weak for a long time. The only way out is to reject her, and I'd never do that. Not something anyone rational would choose."
Scott was quiet for a moment, the wind stirring his hair. "So, what does that mean for us? For me and my mom?"
"It means I'll be around if you need me. I'll protect you both. I'd kill for you two. I'd die for your mom if I had to. And I can share some of my abilities with her. My father was like me, but my mother was a druid. I'm a hybrid. I can share that druid side—healing magic if she wants it. She might be strong enough to feel the bond, not like I do, but enough."
He looked at me, awe and gratitude mingling in his eyes. "That's… a lot. But thank you. For everything."
I smiled, clapping him on the back. "You're welcome. Now, let's get moving. We've got a lot to cover."
We spent the next hour running drills—tracking scents through the underbrush, listening for distant sounds, learning to move quietly despite our size. The forest was alive around us—birds flitting from branch to branch, squirrels chattering in the trees, the distant rush of water over rocks.
At one point, Scott tripped over a root, landing hard on his hands and knees. I helped him up, brushing dirt from his shoulder. "You, okay?"
He laughed, a little embarrassed. "Yeah. Guess I'm not as graceful as I thought."
I grinned. "You'll get there. It's not about being perfect—it's about learning. Every mistake is a lesson."
We paused by a stream, the water clear and cold. I knelt, cupping my hands to drink, the chill biting at my skin. Scott followed suit, splashing water on his face.
"Feels good," he said, shaking droplets from his hair.
"Nature's best energy drink," I replied, standing. "Ready for round two?"
He groaned, but there was a spark in his eyes. "Bring it on."
We moved through the woods, practicing stealth—how to move without snapping twigs, how to blend into the shadows. I showed him how to read the wind, how to use it to mask his scent. We tracked a deer for half a mile, keeping downwind, moving slow and silent.
When we finally stopped, Scott was breathing hard, sweat beading on his forehead. "This is harder than it looks."
I nodded, handing him a water bottle. "It's supposed to be. But you're doing great."
He took a long drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thanks. For not… you know, treating me like a kid."
I smiled, leaning against a tree. "You're not a kid, Scott. You're figuring things out, just like I did. I'm not here to boss you around. I'm just here to help."
He nodded, a quiet understanding passing between us. The forest was still, the only sound the distant call of a hawk.