Broken Roots ✵ Derek Hale

The Tell ✵ 5.3

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⚲ BEACON HILLS PRESERVE

Scott and Allison settled into her car with smiles on their faces, the warmth enveloping them as she cranked up the heat against the chilly night air. They rubbed their hands together in front of the heater, enjoying the comforting warmth it provided.

"So, being completely honest," Allison began, her voice filled with contentment, "this was kind of a perfect birthday."

Scott nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "Good. But I'd know if you were lying anyway."

"Oh really?" Allison teased, arching an eyebrow in playful skepticism.

Scott leaned closer, his gaze softening as he reached out to tenderly touch her eyebrow with his thumb. "You have a tell. You touch your eyebrow. Right here."

As Scott's thumb grazed her skin, Allison gently took his hand in hers, pressing it against her cheek, relishing the closeness they shared in that moment.

Allison leaned back in her seat, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "See if you can figure out if I'm lying now."

Scott grinned, intrigued by the challenge. "Okay..."

"I wish my parents weren't coming home from the teacher conferences so I could spend the rest of the day with you," Allison confessed.

Scott's heart skipped a beat at her words. "The rest of the day?"

Allison's lips curled into a playful smile. "The rest of the night."

Scott's pulse quickened, a surge of excitement coursing through him. "With me?"

Allison nodded, her gaze meeting his, and Scott felt his own heart racing in response to the unspoken invitation in her eyes.

"Oh God. Parent-teacher conferences," Scott muttered, a hint of panic creeping into his voice. "I'm supposed to be there. I'm below C on everything."

"But they're going on now." Allison confirmed as she glanced on the clock, "Right now."

⚲ CHEMISTRY CLASSROOM, Beacon Hills High School / ⚲ WOODS, Beacon Hills Preserve

Jackson's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Whittemore, were seated across from Mr. Harris, engrossed in conversation.

"Jackson's a highly motivated student. In fact, I'd describe him as unusually driven," Mr. Harris remarked, his tone conveying a sense of admiration.

"We were hoping he might ease up on himself a little," Mr. Whittemore responded, a touch of concern in his voice, echoing the sentiments of both parents.

The headlights of Jackson's Persche cast a glow on a patch of trees near a field. A small hoop dangles from a branch, illuminated by the dim light. A beer bottle slips from Jackson's grasp, clinking softly as it lands in the grass. With determination in his eyes, he uses his lacrosse stick to scoop up a ball and hurls it at the hoop. The ball sails past, missing its mark.

"He's always been hard on himself. It's something we assumed was an effect of being adopted," Mr. Whittemore's voice echoes in Jackson's mind.

Undeterred, Jackson retrieves another ball and takes aim once more. His throw falls short, the ball missing the hoop again.