"Ok, so what did you do now?" Melissa McCall eyed her son Scott from across the table. They were finishing dinner in their modest kitchen, empty sauce-covered plates and a half-eaten pan of lasagna the only remains of a successful meal.

"What makes you think I did anything wrong?" Because she was his mother, Melissa was immune to his tactic of feigning innocence by blinking his long-lashed brown eyes.

"Please. I come home to a spotless house. The table's set and you've made dinner from scratch-which was pretty great, by the way. If you haven't done anything wrong then you're buttering me up for a favor. To which, my answer is no."

"I didn't do anything wrong and I don't need a favor!" Scott protested. "It's just that this is the first time we've been able to have dinner together in a while." Scott picked up his fork and began rolling the stem between his forefinger and thumb. "And I thought maybe, you know, we could talk. About what happened."

Melissa plucked an imaginary piece of lint off the sleeve of her nurses' scrubs-the plum-colored outfit was last year's mother's day gift from Scott.

"Oh."

He was right. Tonight was the first time they'd shared a meal together in the last two-and-a-half weeks. And it wasn't a coincidence, although Scott might not know it.

Melissa had been avoiding him since the night at the police station. The night they, along with the Sheriff and Scott's best friend Stiles, had been taken hostage by that disturbed boy behind the recent string of murders. That night she discovered that Scott wasn't just her son, but something else.

A monster.

The thought pushed its way into her mind, and Melissa fought to beat it back. She wasn't sure what the truth was. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Scott put his fork down and began playing with the zipper on his hoodie.

"We have to talk about it," he said softly. "I want you to understand that everything that's been going on isn't because of something you did. Or didn't do. Or because of Dad."

He looked up at her. She looked away.

"It's not like I wanted you to find out about this," he spread his hands, gesturing to an imaginary object on the table. "But you did. And you can't avoid me forever."

So he had noticed.

"Scott, I can't...I'm not ready. I'm not ready to talk."

"I know, but...things are dangerous for me, Mom. I need you to understand what's going on so I can keep you safe," he continued, frustration creeping into his voice. "You have to let me explain. You have to understand."

"I don't even know what it is I found out!"

"I'm a werewolf."

"What?" Melissa laughed. Despite everything that happened the past few weeks, the whole idea seemed too absurd to consider. "Werewolves exist in bad horror movies, Scott. They're the creations of some special effects department. They're not real."

"Trust me, they," Scott corrected himself, "we are."

He held up his right hand. Melissa watched in horror as his fingers grew longer and his fingernails became razor-sharp claws. She gasped. In an instant, the claws melted away, to become ordinary fingers once again.

Scott looked down at the floor.

"I think I need a drink." Melissa sprang up from the table. She pulled a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge and poured herself a large glass. She sat and promptly downed half her glass in a single swallow. Scott raised his eyebrows.

"Better?"

"Much. How...how did it happen? How did you become..." she couldn't bring herself to say the word out loud. "You know."

"I was bitten. In the preserve."

"When?"

"Almost five months ago."

Five months. And she never realized. She thought the mood swings, the plummeting grades, and sullen behavior were just the result of Scott becoming a teenager. She knew eventually her luck would run out and he'd stop being the easygoing kid he'd always been. She just didn't expect this.

"What were you doing in the preserve at night?"

Scott shifted uncomfortably.

"Um, Stiles and I were looking for a dead body. His dad got a call and we wanted to see, you know, what was going on."

"You did what?!" A wave of anger washed over Melissa. "Do you have any idea how reckless that was? You could have been hurt! Or gotten lost! Or worse, you could have been..."

"Been bitten by a werewolf." Scott said darkly.

She wasn't sure how to respond to that, so she motioned for him to continue.

"Stiles got busted by his dad. I was walking home when I almost got trampled by a herd of deer. And then I landed on the other half of the body."

"The other half?" Melissa paled.

"Well, yeah. Turns out she'd been cut in half by the Argents."

"You know, I think I'm going to need another glass before I hear the rest of this story."

By the time Scott had finished telling her about the Hales, the Argents, and Jackson the Kanima, three hours had passed and Melissa was seriously considering that she and Scott relocate to a safer town. Preferably one without werewolves. Or hunters. Or murderous lizards. On the other side of the country. Maybe another continent, just to be safe. Europe would be good. She'd always liked Italy.

"So, Jackson's like you now?"

"Yeah, I guess. Although, I've never killed anyone." Scott replied drily.

Melissa grimaced. "Is he part of Derek's herd now?"

"Pack, Mom. Derek's pack."

"Fine. Pack."

"And I don't know. We haven't really talked since that night at the warehouse."

"What about you?"

"What about me?" Scott asked.

"Have you joined Derek's her...pack?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Because. Derek's a terrible alpha, he doesn't trust anyone, he doesn't know anything about helping someone who's been turned," Scott ticked the reasons off on his fingers, "He's always keeping secrets.."

"That's rich, coming from you."

Scott glared at his mom.

"He'll protect someone, but only if it doesn't interfere with his own agenda! He was willing to kill Jackson, even though we could have saved him! How am I supposed to follow someone like that?"

"But," concern filled Melissa's voice, "wouldn't you be safer? You said so yourself, you're stronger together."

"Honestly, I don't know if I would be safer in Derek's pack." The teen slumped in his chair.

Desperate to change the subject and emboldened by the wine, Melissa asked a question she'd been too chicken to ask earlier.

"Can I see you change again?"

"What?" The question caught Scott off guard. "You want to see me shift?"

"If that's ok."

He stood up and moved to the center of the room. "You're sure?"

She took a sip and nodded, afraid her voice might betray her fear.

"Ok."

She watched as the innocent features of her son's face became a grotesque mask. That's not Scott. It can't be. She knew what she had seen, but she couldn't believe that the thing looming before her was her child, her flesh and blood.

The imposter in her son's clothes stood perfectly still, fear in its eyes. Slowly, Melissa stood up and approached it.

Gingerly, she reached out her left hand to touch its face and the creature winced, as if expecting something worse. The skin was rough and unfamiliar. The black hair felt like the wiry fur of a German Shepherd.

Finally, she forced herself to look into the creature's yellow eyes. Surprised, she recognized Scott looking back at her from those alien orbs. In that moment, she saw only her little boy and her fear vanished.

"Do you hate me?" Scott asked in a whisper.

Melissa wrapped her arms around him.

"Oh, honey. I could never hate you. No matter what, you'll always be my son. And I'll always love you."

She felt the tension leave his body and his features regain their usual boyish softness. He embraced her tightly.

"Always," she promised.