Human girl’s wolf mate

THIRTY FEET OF REGRET

The moment the realization hit—*He is my neighbor, and I just actively sabotaged his evening*—Amelia didn’t freeze. She bolted.

She didn't run towards her own front door, but into the nearest shadow, diving behind the thick, prickly boughs of a spruce bush on the corner of the yard. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. She dropped her heavy overnight bag, not caring that it landed with a dull thud in the snow, and fumbled for her house key.

*Go away, go away, go away.*

She didn't just want him to go away; she wanted to rewind the last five minutes, to reclaim the petty, vengeful lie. She was Amelia—diligent, usually kind, pathologically honest Amelia—not the spiteful creature who intentionally misdirected a lost man. Yet, the spiteful creature was the only one with the emotional strength to get her through this night.

She shoved the key into the lock on the front door, her numb fingers slipping. The brass was agonizingly cold. She heard the distant echo of a car horn—not his, but a reminder that the world existed outside her own spiraling shame.

*Please, God, let him be halfway to Elm Street by now.*

Finally, the key turned with a loud, metallic *click*. She yanked the door open and plunged into the darkened front hall, slamming the door shut behind her. She leaned her back against the cool wood, her body shaking, half from the sudden warmth of the indoors, half from the adrenaline of panic.

She waited, listening. Nothing but the muffled sounds of the neighborhood in winter: the faint whine of a shovel grating on asphalt, the distant groan of a truck, and the violent, uneven rhythm of her own breathing.

Only then did the shame set in. She had been so consumed by the betrayal of Luke and Chloe that she’d treated this innocent stranger as collateral damage. She’d done it for a shallow, temporary burst of control.

She crept to the living room window, pulling a slat on the blinds just enough to peer out at the snow-lit yard. Her house was blissfully dark, the curtains drawn on all the other windows. The SUV next door sat dark and silent. His house had lights on—a warm, welcoming glow in the bay window and the faint, chaotic shapes of boxes piled up inside.

She scanned the street frantically. No sign of him. He must have committed to the path she sent him on. She let out a slow, shaky breath. Maybe he’d find a brightly lit gas station, recharge his phone, and call a cab back to his real destination. Maybe he’d never connect the hostile woman who lied to him with his helpful, but equally hostile, new neighbor.

Then, she heard it. Footsteps in the snow, heading back. They were slow, heavy, and infinitely closer than before. He sounded like a man who was walking with purpose, but whose purpose had just been severely frustrated.

Amelia flattened herself against the cold plaster wall, holding her breath.

Through the sliver in the blinds, she caught a glimpse. He was back, shoulders hunched, his hands seemingly jammed deep into his coat pockets. He stopped exactly where he had been before, right in front of the house. He pulled his hand out, and she saw the faint glow of a phone screen. It had powered up enough to tell him he was nowhere near Addison Street.

He lifted his head, scanning the houses again, his eyes finally landing on the correct number—1250—illuminated by the soft porch light of the house next door. Relief briefly washed over his features, quickly followed by a visible wave of annoyance.

He started toward his new front door. Amelia watched, heart pounding, convinced her ordeal was over. She just needed to be quiet, wait for him to get settled, and then, perhaps, she could spend the rest of her break hiding in the attic.

But then, he paused.

He didn’t immediately climb the three steps to his porch. He turned his head slowly, deliberately, and let his eyes fall on Amelia’s house. He must have recognized her car parked in the driveway, or perhaps the specific, hideous-yellow front door of the old rental.

And then he saw her bag.

The overnight bag lay half-buried in the snow near the spruce bush, its dark fabric a blot against the white canvas of the yard. She had been so panicked that she hadn't even had the presence of mind to drag it inside.

He took a slow step back onto her property, his eyes rising from the bag to the darkened windows. He reached down, brushing a layer of dusting snow off the nylon, and then stood up, holding the forgotten luggage.

Suddenly, he was looking directly at the window where she was hiding. It was like a spotlight had been turned on her spot. They weren't looking at each other, but the look felt pointed, accusatory, and utterly knowing.

Her shame curdled into absolute, suffocating dread.

He didn't move. He didn't yell. He just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, her bag dangling from a single finger, staring at the window. He was waiting.

Amelia knew she couldn't hide. Now she wasn't hiding a lie; she was hiding stolen property—her own luggage in the hands of the man who had been genuinely concerned enough to offer her a cab, and whom she had treated with utter contempt.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she pushed off the wall. She adjusted her scarf and tried to compose her face into something cold and unyielding, the armor she needed to brave the next five minutes.

She opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, the cold air hitting her like a slap.

He didn't move an inch until the porch light flickered on behind her. He simply tilted his head, his blue-green eyes now sharp, cold, and assessing.

"Well," he said, his voice flat and devoid of the easy charm he'd had twenty minutes ago. "I'm not sure which of us is the bigger i***t right now."

He lifted her bag, letting the strap catch the light. "I walked all the way to Elm Street, found a working phone, and discovered that yes, I am very much lost, but **not** because I missed where Addison Street was on a map." His voice was quieter than before, almost clinical, but the effect was devastating. "And then I walked back only to find my destination right here, next to where you—my new neighbor—live."

He pointed a finger at her, the accusation hanging heavy in the frosty air. "You sent me out of your way. On purpose."

Amelia wrapped her arms around herself, trying to look steady despite the violent shivering. "You were pestering me."

"I was *asking for directions*! You looked like you were seconds away from throwing up. I was genuinely concerned," he countered, taking a step closer, reducing the already small distance between their doorsteps. "And you lied. You deliberately lied to someone who was trying to help you."

He paused, a dark shadow of curiosity passing over his expression. "Why?"

She swallowed hard, searching for an excuse, a rationale, anything but the miserable truth that she was in too much pain to be a decent human being.

"I don't owe you an explanation," she managed, her voice shaking slightly with the effort of keeping it steady. "Now give me my bag back."

He didn't move. Instead, a wry, chilly smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Of course. But before I do," he said, holding the bag just out of her reach. "Since we are going to be seeing a lot of each other, I figure we should start over. I’m Elias."

He extended his free hand toward her. Amelia stared at it, then back at his intense eyes, feeling a rush of cold, prickly heat. After the night she’d had, shaking the hand of a man—even a handsome stranger—felt like consenting to another betrayal.

"Amelia," she said, ignoring his hand and planting her feet. "And I don't start over with people."

Elias dropped his hand, his smile vanishing completely. He tossed the bag toward her. It landed with a soft cushion in the snow at her feet, a stark white line drawn between his space and hers.

"Noted, Amelia," he said, his voice now nothing but a promise of future trouble. "But I think we both just did."

He turned and, with two decisive strides, was on his own porch, key already in the lock of his new home. The porch light clicked off, plunging their small corner of the world into deep, Christmas-lit shadows.

Amelia stood alone in the cold, staring at the freshly disturbed snow where her bag had landed. She knew, with chilling certainty, that the betrayal by Luke and Chloe had simply cleared the stage for the real, agonizing conflict of her Christmas break to begin.