I write the Alpha into my life

If you had asked me three months ago what I would be doing right now, dragging a bleeding wolf through my kitchen would not have made the list. Not even close. And yet— here I am. Covered in blood. In a house I didn’t pay for. In a town I didn’t choose. With a wolf that is definitely too big to be a normal wolf staring at me like I just made the worst decision of my life. Which—honestly—tracks. “Mais pourquoi ça m’arrive à moi ?” My voice sounds thin. Unstable. Great. Love that for me. The wolf’s ears twitch. I freeze. No. No, that’s fine. That’s normal. Animals react to sound. Animals do not understand French. I am not having a breakdown in the woods of a random American town I won in a suspicious i********: contest. Everything is under control. It started with a stupid ad. Of course it did. Two weeks after I quit my job in Paris, I was lying in bed at 2 a.m., scrolling like my life depended on it. Which, emotionally, it kind of did. Because if I stopped moving—even mentally—I might actually have to think about the fact that I had just walked away from everything I built without a plan. And then I saw it. “Win a house in Blackridge.” I almost kept scrolling. I should have kept scrolling. I don’t win things. I don’t trust things. And I definitely don’t believe in American towns giving away free property like it’s a Black Friday sale. And yet— I clicked. Because I was tired. Because I didn’t care. Because part of me thought: Why not? Worst case, nothing happens. Worst case, something absolutely happens. A week later, I was standing in front of a house. Keys in hand. In a town I had never heard of. Blackridge. It looks exactly like the kind of place where nothing happens. Clean streets. Perfect houses. Too quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t relax you. The kind that listens back. I should have left right then. I didn’t. Because I needed a reset. Because I needed silence. Because I needed to find something in myself that wasn’t exhausted, numb, and one email away from a breakdown. So I stayed. Day one, I tried to write. Nothing. Day two, same. Day three— the roof started leaking. Of course it did. Because apparently I can quit my job, move across the ocean, and reinvent my life— but I cannot escape water damage. So I went into town. That’s where I met him. Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. The kind of man you notice before you understand why. And then— his eyes. Blue. Not soft. Not warm. Electric. Sharp enough to make something in my chest tighten before I can stop it. He looks at me like I’m not new. Like I’m expected. Like I already belong here. I hate that. “You fix roofs?” I ask. No hello. No explanation. His eyebrow lifts. “Sometimes.” Good enough. “I have a leak.” A pause. Too long. Then he smiles. Slow. Controlled. Dangerous. “I can take a look.” Of course you can. Of course you can climb on my roof like some kind of suspiciously attractive solution to my problems. An hour later, he’s on my house. Moving like he’s done this a hundred times. Like nothing about him is uncertain. “You moved here alone?” he calls down. “Yes.” “From?” “Paris.” Pause. “France?” I close my eyes. “Yes.” A quiet laugh. I ignore it. Barely. I shouldn’t be watching him. I am absolutely watching him. When he comes down, something shifts. The air feels tighter. Smaller. “You’ll need repairs,” he says. “I assumed the water in my living room was decorative.” That almost-smile again. I don’t like how much I notice it. “I can fix it.” “Great. How much?” Pause. Again. “Don’t worry about it.” No. We worry about things. That’s how society works. “Everything has a cost,” I say. His gaze locks onto mine. And something— shifts. “Not everything.” I don’t like that answer. I like it even less that part of me reacts to it. He leaves without giving me his name. Which is not mysterious. It’s suspicious. That night— the howling starts. Low. Deep. Too close. It cuts through the silence like something alive. Like something calling. I stand in my kitchen, completely still. Listening. “Un chien,” I whisper. A dog. Sure. Let’s lie to ourselves. The next evening— I find it. The wolf. Caught in a rusted trap at the edge of the forest. Blood soaking into dark fur. Breathing uneven. Its head snaps toward me the second I move. And then— its eyes lock onto mine. Blue. Electric. The same impossible blue. My stomach drops. Hard. “No,” I whisper. “No. That’s not—” It growls. Low. Warning. I should leave. I don’t. Of course I don’t. “Ok… ok… je vais t’aider.” My voice is softer now. Like I’m trying to calm both of us. The trap is tight. Cruel. I reach anyway. It snaps. The wolf jerks. I flinch— but I don’t stop. Seconds stretch. Too long. Then— it releases. The wolf doesn’t run. That should scare me more. It does. And yet— I drag it home. Which is how I end up here. In my kitchen. Bleeding. Breathing too fast. Staring at a wolf that hasn’t tried to kill me. Yet. I set a bowl of water down. Slow. Careful. He doesn’t move. Just watches. Too still. Too aware. “This is ridiculous,” I mutter. His ear flicks. “I don’t even know what you are.” His gaze sharpens. Like he understands. I let out a breath. Half laugh. Half panic. “Great. I’m talking to you now.” I drag a hand through my hair. “I came here to write,” I say quietly. “Not to adopt a wild animal.” He lowers his head slightly. Not relaxed. Just… less tense. Like he’s allowing this. Something in my chest shifts. Soft. Unexpected. “Don’t get attached,” I tell him. “…but you’re kind of perfect.” I glance at my laptop. Still open. Still blank. Then back at him. Those eyes— locked on me. “Okay…” I whisper. A small smile pulls at my lips. “Let’s call you Wolfy.” A beat. “Yeah. Not original. I’m under pressure.” His ear twitches. “And don’t get used to it,” I add. “You heal, you leave. That’s it.” He just watches me. Listening. “Perfect,” I murmur. “You’re my main character now.” I stand. Walk to the table. My fingers hover over the keyboard. “I just need something,” I whisper. I glance back at him. Those blue eyes follow me. Too aware. “Yeah,” I breathe. “You’ll do.” I sit. And I start writing. The town is wrong. The words come too easily. Not in a way you can explain. In a way you feel. A sharp noise outside. I freeze. Behind me— nothing. Too quiet. I turn— The wolf is gone. My heart drops. The bowl is still there. The blood. The bandages. Empty space. A floorboard creaks behind me. I turn— And my entire body goes cold. He’s standing in my kitchen. Barefoot. Shirtless. Blood streaked across his chest. The same man. Same height. Same presence. Same dark hair— Same eyes. Electric blue. “No,” I breathe. Because I’ve seen those eyes. Not outside. Here. Minutes ago. On a wolf. He looks at me. Then at the laptop. Then back at me. “You named me Wolfy.” My heart stops. It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Like he was there. Like he knows. “I didn’t—” I start. He steps closer. Slow. Controlled. Dangerous. “Careful,” he says softly. My breath catches. “Why?” I whisper. His gaze locks onto mine. Burning. “Because whatever you write next…” He leans in slightly. “…won’t just stay on that page.”