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The hum of the Seabrook High computer lab feels less like technology and more like a low, vibrating swarm of bees to A-Spen. Fluorescent light washes over the blue-hued screen, reflecting against their glowing blue stone pendant, but A-Spen’s eyes are locked straight ahead, wide and unblinking. On the desktop monitor, a dozen open tabs cluster together—AP Calculus problem sets, Seabrook history summaries, and college preparatory track notifications—interspersed with half-analyzed telemetry data from Mothership. The sheer volume of human high school expectation, layered atop the lingering trauma of search missions and cosmic displaced identity, collapses inward all at once.
A-Spen stops typing. Their breathing grows shallow, then hitches, before flattening out into a frighteningly absolute stillness. The color in their face drains, and their hands remain suspended an inch above the keyboard, totally frozen.
Across the room, the sharp scent of ozone and hyper-ventilating distress hits Willa Lykensen before she even looks up. Werewolf instincts are brutal in their efficiency. Her moonstone flickers with a low, instinctive crimson ember, reacting to her mate's spike in fear. She drops her backpack onto the floor with a heavy thud that rattles the metal table leg, crossing the room in fast, deliberate strides.
"A-Spen?" Willa’s voice carries its usual scratchy, authoritative edge, but there’s an immediate underlying tightness.
She leans over the desk, invading their personal space, expecting the alien to turn, smile, or offer one of those overly formal, analytical observations about human behavior. A-Spen does none of those things. Their gaze remains locked on a blinking cursor, pupils dilated, completely unresponsive to the sound of her voice or the physical presence beside them. Willa frowns, her brow furrowing deeply as her wolf sensibilities take the wheel. In the Den, when a pack member freezes or panics, the response is immediate physical assertiveness: a firm shoulder grab, a low growl of grounding command, an assertion of pack safety.
She reaches down and grips A-Spen’s shoulder firmly, giving a sharp shake. "Hey. Spen. Look at me."
The tactile impact doesn't anchor them. Instead, A-Spen’s entire body rigidifies further. A tiny, high-pitched static sound escapes the communicator at their collar, reacting to the sudden spike in their internal electromagnetic distress. The shock of the rough physical command sends A-Spen’s sensory processing straight into lockdown—their mind retreating far behind defensive alien barriers where earthbound reality cannot touch them.
Willa yanks her hand back as if burned. Her teeth bite down on her lip, a wave of fierce frustration mixing with a cold dart of fear in her chest. Werewolf tactics are failing. Roaring in their face won't work; claiming dominance over a threat doesn't help when the threat is inside the mind. Alien anatomy and emotional wiring do not operate on territorial hierarchy or physical snapping-out-of-it.
"Okay," Willa mutters under her breath, pacing a short circle on the linoleum floor, her heavy boots squeaking.
She runs a hand through her silver-streaked hair, forcing her racing heart to steady. She forces herself to recall what A-Spen had explained months ago during a quiet night on the edge of the Seabrook cliffs—how harmony among their kind is maintained through frequency, stillness, and delicate synchronization rather than forced physical grounding. She steps back toward the desk, changing her approach entirely. She eliminates every sharp, sudden movement. Slowly, carefully, Willa pulls up a chair directly beside A-Spen, settling into it without making a sound.
Instead of grabbing them, Willa gently rests her palm flat on the wooden desk, just centimeters away from A-Spen’s unmoving hand, leaving the choice to bridge the gap entirely up to them. She turns her gaze away from the overwhelming digital glare of the monitor and looks directly at A-Spen's profile, softening her posture.
"I'm here, Spen," Willa says softly, stripping all the gravelly command from her voice, leaving only a quiet, steady warmth. "No schoolwork. No Mothership. Just ground."
She begins to control her own breathing, making each inhalation deep, slow, and audible. Her moonstone shifts from a defensive red back to a soft, steady violet, pulsing at a slow, rhythmic cadence. She allows her werewolf aura—usually fierce and protective—to radiate as a calm, unwavering wall of safety. She doesn't push into their mind; she simply holds the perimeter.
For long minutes, the only sound in the lab is the low hum of the desktop towers and the steady rise and fall of Willa’s chest.
Gradually, the static hiss in A-Spen’s collar begins to soften. A tiny twitch returns to their fingertips. The overwhelming sensory noise of algebra formulas and galactic anxiety begins to settle under the singular, rhythmic pulse of Willa’s moonstone. A-Spen’s eyes blink once, twice, the glossed-over stare slowly refocusing on the light reflecting off Willa’s hand. A-Spen’s hand moves, hovering for a fraction of a second before fingers lightly brush against Willa’s knuckles. The contact is feather-light, testing the reality of the physical world.
"Willa?" A-Spen’s voice is barely a whisper, thin and raspy from the prolonged tension. "The... parameters became unmanageable."
"I know," Willa answers smoothly, closing her fingers gently around theirs, offering a firm but soft anchor. She doesn't pull away, nor does she force them to stand. "You overloaded the system, alien."
A-Spen lets out a long, shuddering breath, the tension in their shoulders finally breaking as they lean sideways, resting their forehead lightly against Willa’s arm. "Your initial physical prompt was... inefficient for my neurological state."
A small, quiet smile tugs at the corner of Willa’s lips, her thumb tracing small circles over the back of A-Spen’s hand. "Yeah, well, wolves aren't subtle. But I'm learning."
"I appreciate the adaptation," A-Spen murmurs, closing their eyes as the last remaining static fades, completely safe in the quiet space they've made together.