One thing Evan loved about being a werewolf was running in his wolf body. While being a wolf he didn’t have the same instincts as a human. He wasn’t overthinking, he wasn’t questioning his decisions, and lastly, he wasn’t sulking. He was simply existing, enjoying the nature around him, discovering sweet new smells only a good nose like his could detect. Days like these were peaceful, as otherwise Evan's head was always full of thoughts.

It was the weekend, he was currently in Hills, where no one batted an eye while seeing a wolf running on the street, and he could run around freely. He didn't have to worry about someone seeing him or getting lost even when he was alone. He loved moments like this even though he adored his friends. Angie kept digging into his privates, trying to get a confession out of him, even though she knew it wasn't right. Kieran was the perfect gentleman as always, which confused Evan even more and caused him mental pain. Aiden was a good friend to him, but he couldn't talk to him about everything.

His parents weren't helping either. All they could talk about was pack, pack, pack. Sometimes they were interested in his grades, or how his trip home was, but the topic always ended with the question of when he would have time to devote himself to the pack.

Everything was one big vicious circle from which there was no escape at first sight. Evan knew he could walk away and leave everything behind, but he never had the courage to do so. All he could do was hope that things would get better with time. Whether thanks to his mate or a college scholarship.

Speaking of his mate, he still had no idea who it could be. He kept replaying what he already knew in his head, but it was only vague information that didn't help him in any way. He often found himself comparing them to Kieran. Will they be that nice too? Will they listen to him too? He could only hope.

A few months passed, and his crush on Kieran didn't go away. They both pretended to be friends, sometimes flirting but that was all. They often sat together at lunch, and sometimes Kieran accompanied him to the bus stop with the rest of their group, but otherwise, he didn't do anything that wouldn't be considered friendly. Evan was glad and hated it at the same time. The only thing that could relieve him from these worries at least for a while was his wolf side.

And that's exactly what he was doing now. He ran and ran until the wind in his ears was so strong that he couldn't hear anything, not even his own thoughts.

…

He spent several hours running around aimlessly, shifting only as the sun began to set. After all those years, he was already well trained, so the transformation didn't take long. He quickly took spare clothes from the bushes and threw them on even faster.

He bent down one last time to tie his sneakers, when he realized that he was no longer looking at his feet but at someone's hand. Actually two – two hands. His mate's hand was in the other's tight grip, swinging from front to back. Their fingers were intertwined, which could only mean one thing. It wasn't a friendly act.

Looking through the stranger's eyes, Evan's insides clenched with jealousy. He couldn't believe what he just saw. While he tried to keep his distance from Kieran, his mate had no problem holding someone else's hand. Evan didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Although his mind was currently occupied, the last thing he noticed before his gaze changed again was that the two hands he saw were almost the same size. He knew that hands could be different sizes and that girls tended to mature and grow earlier, but there was still a doubt in his mind that told him that both hands belonged to the same sex. It made him wonder about his mate's gender again. And not only about that.

The ringing of the phone snapped him out of his thoughts.

He quickly pulled his phone out of his pocket only to see his mother's name on the screen. A few hours had passed since he left the house, so it was obvious that she must have been worried. He pulled the bar on the screen and put it to his ear.

“I hope you’re on your way home,” was the first thing his mom said, completely ignoring the polite duty of a greeting. Evan rolled his eyes, as he usually did when she didn't have a chance to see him, and answered.

“I am, I was just getting dressed,” he told her. Since he spent less time at home, she was stricter with him. He understood that she was just worried about him, but he didn't want to deal with it.

“You have ten minutes,” his mom threatened him and immediately hung up. He knew that she wouldn't seriously punish him even if he didn't make it on time, but for peace of mind and within the family, he decided to meet this limit.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he muttered into the silent phone and put it in his pocket.

He wasn't far from the house, so it took him half the time to get to his door. All the way to his house, he watched his own hand every time it moved back and forth. As he reached for the doorknob, he watched his hand. As he waved to his mother, he watched his hand. As his back hit the bed, he reached his hand out in front of him and watched it again. He couldn't help himself.

“I’m going insane.” He sighed softly. He didn't know what fascinated him so much about his own hand. For a moment he imagined it holding another, in the next moment he saw the image of two hands connected in front of him again.

Against his better judgement, he picked up the phone and texted the only person who could help him. She texted back immediately, telling him she was on her way over.

…

She barged into the room as if it belonged to her. Not that he expected anything else. After more than ten years of being friends, his room was almost like her own. She knew every corner, every place to hide after bedtime so that no one would discover her, and he wouldn't be surprised if she knew exactly what was hidden under his bed. Not that he knew that myself. The space under his bed was intended for all the things that didn't fit elsewhere, things that he didn't want to put away, or at least for candy wrappers. It was a mess.

“Okay. What's wrong?” she asked him the moment her eyes laid on him. When he didn't answer right away, she didn't hesitate and threw herself on the bed next to him. He sighed again like a hundred times in the last half hour.

“Everything?” It sounded more like a question than an answer. Not that he had any answers. Everyone always told him that growing up was hard, but no one bothered to mention that it was so very hard and that with every solution came a new problem.

“Sounds harsh,” she commented, not surprised by his statement. Angie was his journal to write down his problems, and she never complained because he was the same to her.

“You have no idea.” Muttering, he held his hand out in front of him again, focusing on the blurring image of the ceiling between his fingers.

“Did you get a new hand cream or...?” Despite his bad mood, he burst out laughing. It was hard to stay gloomy when she was by his side. That is, if she herself was not the source of his bad mood.

“I had another vision,” he confessed after he calmed down from laughing. Angie remained silent, waiting for further explanation. “I saw them holding hands with someone else,” he added.

“That’s it?” She didn't seem upset, let alone aggravated.

“I think their hands were the same size,” he told her what was still gnawing at his mind. He couldn't get that image out of his head – two masculine hands linked into one.

“Same size mean…?” That was what he liked about her. In difficult moments, she let him say as much as he wanted to. She didn't insist, she just offered the opportunity to confide.

“Both men, I think,” he said almost inaudibly.

“Hold on.” With one flick, she got into a sitting position. Then she turned her head, pulled his hand down so she could see his face, and looked into his eyes with a serious look in hers. “You like Kieran, but you’re worried about your mate liking another boy?” He knew how it sounded. He was a hypocrite, but he couldn't admit it out loud.

“I…” he started, but suddenly he couldn't find his voice, “I guess.”

“You know you could be bisexual, right?” She said so suddenly that it made him look at her in disbelief. Not that he didn't think about his orientation in weak moments, but the word bisexual seemed almost foreign to him. He was so taken with the idea that his mate could be male that it didn't occur to him that he might like multiple genders.

After he paused and didn't answer her, Angie spoke again. “As in liking boys and girls.” She explained to him as if he were a small child. And surprisingly, he felt that way. His parents always talked about girls, and he and Angie always talked about boys, so talking about both sounded alien to his ears.

“Shit,” was all he could say.

“C’mon, I have to get you out of the world of toxic masculinity.” She pulled his hand, which she still held in hers, and pulled him off the bed. He was still silent, lost in thought and so empty at the same time. His black and white world was suddenly enveloped in a grey light.

“I’m always prepared,” she said as she rummaged through her small black purse, the size of which definitely didn't match its contents. After a while, she successfully found what she was looking for, as she let out a triumphant sound.

“What’s that?” he queried not being able to see what she found. She turned back to him with a huge smile and showed him the contents of her hands with an expressive gesture.

“You paint pictures, I paint nails.”

And that’s the explanation of how he ended up with black nails for the first time in his life.