Fell For You

Just Cousins, Not Friends

"Why would you punch Embry?" Kristina demands the second I walk through the door. Her voice has that sharp edge that means she's been stewing on it.

I raise an eyebrow. "How did you know?"

"Small reserve. Word travels fast." Her jaw tightens; she's furious, but there's worry under it too.

I drop my bag on the floor. "He might be your boyfriend, Kristina, but he was my best friend first. So don't ask me something I've already been thinking about for the past thirty minutes while walking home with Seth because my cousin apparently caught the flu." The words leave me sharper than I intend, but I'm done defending myself.

I walk past her, but of course she follows. "All I'm saying is—it's dangerous! You can't just go around punching people twice your size because you're having problems."

I stop halfway up the stairs, turn back, and glare. "It's my problem who I punch and don't punch."

"Mel," she presses, voice soft but trembling, "you can punch anyone on this reserve except—Sam and his friends. They're dangerous when they're mad."

I laugh, short and bitter. "Why do you think I'm trying to protect Jacob from those hot-headed buffoons?"

She catches my shoulder, and I turn to face her. "You don't even know what they do. You have no right to judge them."

I shrug her hand off. "I think I have a pretty good idea," I snap. "Let me guess—it's something that turns scrawny teenage boys into over-muscled, overheated, hot-headed idiots who wear shorts and cut hoodies even though it rains here every day." Then I storm into my room and slam the door.

I slide down against it, hands covering my face, trying to breathe past the heat in my chest.
Why does it feel like there's a cloud of doom hanging over me?

⸻

Dinner's quiet. Too quiet. Mum, Dad, and Kristina keep glancing at each other when they think I'm not looking. Forks scrape against plates. The air feels heavy, like there's something everyone knows but me.

When it's over, I go to Melissa's room. I miss tucking her in. She's curled up with her stuffed fox, brushing its fake fur while humming under her breath.

"Melody?" she says softly.

"Hmm?" I hum, brushing her hair.

"Do you believe in the legends? The ones Uncle Billy tells at the bonfires? And the ones Daddy tells... about the Werefoxes?"

"Yup."

She sits up, clutching Mr. Fox. "No, I mean really believe. Not like Santa Claus."

I smile faintly. She's eight and already questioning the world. "Well... I think stories always come from somewhere true. Maybe not the way people tell them, but—there's usually something real behind them."

She's quiet for a moment. Then, in a whisper: "Can I tell you a secret?"

I nod. "Sure thing."

She leans close. "When I was having a tea party with my Barbies and Mr. Fox, I saw a wolf in the woods. It was huge, twice the size of normal ones, with big brown eyes. It stared at me... but it wasn't scary. It nodded. Like it understood me."

My heart jumps. I try to laugh it off, but my throat feels tight. Wolves? Twice the size? Maybe she imagined it. Maybe.
Still, my pulse races.

"Did you tell Mum or Dad?" I ask carefully.

She shakes her head. "No. I want it to be our secret. Promise?"

I force a small smile. "Yeah. Your secret's safe with me."