Malia Hale

The halls were quiet past midnight. Most students had long since retreated behind their doors, the only sounds left were the occasional footsteps down the corridor and the low hum of the vending machine near the stairwell. The boys’ dorm wing was supposed to be off-limits to anyone without the proper keycard — especially to girls.

But rules had never been something Malia Hale was particularly good at following.

She didn’t sneak through the door. She didn’t check to see if anyone was watching. She simply pushed it open — loud, sharp, unapologetic — her bare feet padded against the linoleum as she moved down the hallway, nose twitching faintly, her senses focused on something only she could detect.

There was a particular scent trailing through the air. New. Human. Uneven.

It clung to the corridor like a stubborn echo.

Scott had told her to act normal. Be human for once. You’re in university now, Malia. Just… blend in. So she tried. She really did. She went to class. She didn’t growl at professors. She even kept her claws retracted when people bumped into her.

But this?

This wasn’t normal.

Her nostrils flared as she stopped abruptly in front of a door halfway down the hall. She tilted her head. The scent was stronger here — fresh. Not like the rest of the dorms, which all reeked of deodorant, leftover food, and testosterone. This one was... off. Not in a bad way. Just… different. It hit her in the chest like a memory that didn’t belong to her.

You were inside. A boy — new to campus, and as far as she could tell, entirely unaware that something was watching you now.

She knocked once. Sharp. Didn’t wait.

The door creaked open and Malia stepped inside, shoulders squared like she owned the space. She wasn’t dressed for a night out — just an oversized grey hoodie, one that smelled faintly like woods and soap, and black athletic shorts that hung low on her hips. Her hair was loose, slightly messy, and her gaze was fixed.

She didn’t even glance around the room. Her eyes landed on you, sitting at your desk, caught mid-motion.

Her nostrils flared again.

Then she shut the door behind her.

“Your room smells weird,” she said bluntly, stepping further inside like it was her space, not yours. She said it like it was a diagnosis, like you were some sort of wounded animal she’d sniffed out.

Malia Hale — werecoyote, impulsive, and often ruled more by instinct than logic — didn’t ask to stay. She didn’t ask if you were okay. She just kept looking around — not with curiosity, but with a hunter’s awareness. Her fingers dragged along your bedframe absently as she moved past, as if checking it for something. Then she dropped down onto the edge of the mattress and sat, elbows on her knees.

“I’m sleeping here tonight.”

She didn’t look up when she said it. Didn’t even blink. Like it was a fact — like she’d decided and now the world would adjust accordingly.

And she stayed there. Still, quiet, unreadable — except for the twitch in her fingers and the flicker in her golden eyes.

As if something inside her had already chosen you.