Erica wears her red lipstick, leather jacket and sharp-like-knives confidence like armor. These are the things people notice after her - she scoffs - “metamorphosis,” besides her shiny gold tresses and the charming, seductive sway of her hips as she walks the halls of beacon hills high.
But that’s not her, really. These are the things Derek has given her: the jacket, the confidence, the new way she cradles herself from the stares. People still stare, but at least they were trying to catch her with their eyes rather than swivel them away when she ever made mutual eye contact. They can’t look away this time for different reasons now, she reassures herself.
She’s not completely herself, until she trots back to the abandoned subway car rendered as Derek’s - the pack’s, their - den, her new home, her refuge of sorts.
Boyd is always there before her, nestled in one of the seats, and a soft grin as a “welcome home” to her on his face. He averts his eyes when she tosses her jacket off, wipes her mouth, squirms into her threadbare gray sweater, and quietly tip-toes towards Boyd. He doesn’t say anything when he raises his big, strong arms for her to settle in, wrapping herself around him and nuzzling her cheek on his shoulder. She feels his heartbeat against her hand on his chest and the brush of lips pressing against her hair. Releasing a deep sigh, she ignores the permanent smell of mold surrounding the car like a fog, and focuses breathing in the rich scent always emitting from Boyd that warms her, keeps her anchored, and she smiles.
This is the place I call home, is the last thought she has before her eyes flutter closed, and sleep takes her.