Becoming Luna: My Triplet Alphas

I couldn’t help but smile as I took in the cozy atmosphere of the bookstore. The soft music playing in the background felt like a gentle hum, adding to the sense of calm that always washed over me here. Tall shelves stretched to the ceiling, crammed with books of every size and color. People moved about quietly—some chatting in low voices, others engrossed in their hunt for the perfect story. The harsh overhead lights might have felt sterile in another setting, but the vibrant covers, warm wooden shelves, and the velvet blanket draped over a nearby chair softened their intensity. It made the space feel inviting, almost like stepping into the living room of an old friend. I loved this place, not just for the books but for the way it made the world feel smaller, gentler. As I meandered through the aisles, my eyes scanned the spines, mentally adding titles to my ever-growing list of books to read later. I had a system—one born out of necessity. If I let myself buy every book that piqued my interest, I’d need to rent out another apartment just to house them all. Even though my dad would probably chuckle and say, Sure, honey, anything for you, I wasn’t about to abandon my carefully constructed rules. Rule number one: if a book caught my eye, I’d make note of it and read at least fifty percent of it on my k****e before allowing myself to buy a physical copy. It was a self-imposed rule, a safeguard against clutter born from too many impulsive purchases. My small one-bedroom apartment could only hold so many stacks of unread books, and this system kept me accountable. After what felt like hours—but was probably just one—I finally found myself at the register. Kevin, the bookstore’s owner, greeted me with his usual warm smile. A middle-aged man with a passion for literature, he loved to chat about new releases. Checkout always turned into a mini book club meeting, but I didn’t mind. It was part of the charm of coming here. With my books neatly tucked into a brown paper bag, I set off down the main street toward my apartment. The familiar rhythm of my sneakers against the pavement echoed softly, a comforting sound. My dad had found me the perfect little apartment just a few blocks away from the bookstore, and since moving in three months ago, I’d established a routine of visiting at least once a month. That might not sound like much, but it was a minimum—I often found excuses to come more frequently. I knew I was lucky. My dad, ever the doting parent, had bought me the apartment as a graduation gift. For my princess, he’d said. I tried not to take his generosity for granted, though it was hard not to feel spoiled sometimes. With college behind me, I was floating, trying to figure out what came next. My history degree had been a labor of love, especially my thesis on Japanese folklore, but now the future loomed uncertain and open-ended. My dad wanted me to go back to school for a master’s degree—something to give me direction. My mom, on the other hand, had a much simpler plan: grandkids. She never missed an opportunity to remind me how young, beautiful, and eligible I was, as if marriage and children were just waiting for me around the corner. The street was quiet as I turned onto the long stretch leading to my building. It wasn’t the eerie silence you’d expect in a horror movie, but a peaceful stillness that wrapped around me like a blanket. Then, as if on cue, disaster struck. The paper bag in my hands gave way, spilling my books onto the sidewalk with a loud thud. “Jesus Christ,” I muttered, crouching down to gather the scattered volumes. “When will I learn?” My voice was laced with exasperation as I addressed the empty street. This wasn’t the first time this had happened. Paper bags and my love for buying too many books were a poor combination. Next time, bring a tote bag, I reminded myself, for what felt like the hundredth time. As I stacked the books, a pair of black sneakers entered my peripheral vision. They were pristine, the kind of clean that suggested their owner either never wore them outside or took meticulous care of them. “Do you need help?” The voice was deep, smooth, and impossibly kind. It startled me, and I glanced up. Black jeans gave way to a dark maroon shirt stretched across a broad chest. His arms were muscular, his veins faintly visible, and his shoulders looked like they could bear the weight of the world. When my gaze finally reached his face, I almost forgot how to breathe. A neatly trimmed beard framed his strong jaw, and his full lips curved into a slight smile. His eyes, dark and intense, seemed to see straight through me. This is not a man, I thought. This is a god. “I’m good,” I managed, though my voice cracked. “Thanks, though.” Ignoring me, he crouched down and scooped up the books as if they weighed nothing. I scrambled to my feet, my movements clumsy and hurried. He rose too, towering over me. I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze. “It’s no trouble,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “I’m not one to leave a damsel in distress.” “I’m no damsel,” I shot back, wrinkling my nose at the word. “Just a woman who can’t seem to bring a tote bag.” “Of course, my mistake.” He glanced over his shoulder, then back at me. “Let me help you carry these home.” “That’s really not necessary,” I insisted, holding out my hands for the books. “I’m almost there.” “Then it won’t take me long,” he countered, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You may not be a damsel, but I am a gentleman.” I raised an eyebrow. “Not a serial killer?” He laughed, a low, melodic sound that sent shivers down my spine. “Definitely not a serial killer.” “Well,” I said, glancing at the empty street, “you did show up out of nowhere. Now you’re offering to walk me home. Seems a little suspicious.” His grin widened. “Fair point. But if it helps, I’m a terrible liar. You’d know if I had bad intentions.” I couldn’t help but smile, his charm disarming me completely. “For the record,” I said, “I’m a pretty good screamer.” He balanced the stack of books effortlessly on his left hand, holding them as if they weighed no more than a feather. With his right hand, he raised his fingers, palm outward, mimicking a solemn oath. “No need for screaming,” he said, his deep voice tinged with amusement. The corners of his mouth tugged upward, betraying a smile he seemed to be fighting. “All I want is to help you home without hurting the precious written word.” “So, you’re helping in the name of books?” I tilted my head, trying to stifle a grin. “Exactly,” he replied smoothly. I was almost stunned by how disarming he was. His calm demeanor and the gentle humor in his tone made me feel safer than I had any right to with a stranger. The thought struck me again: How is someone this beautiful even real? “Pinky promise?” I teased, holding out my pinky toward him. “You’ll help me home and not murder me?” His smile widened, revealing perfect teeth, the kind that would make dentists weep with pride. “Pinky promise.” He leaned slightly closer and hooked his pinky around mine. The touch was so small and brief, yet I felt it reverberate through me. There was something about his presence—a quiet strength, almost magnetic. “Okay then,” I said, pulling my hand back and straightening up. “Okay,” he echoed, gesturing with a slight wave of his hand for me to lead the way. I started walking, and he fell into step beside me. He took the outer edge of the sidewalk, positioning himself between me and the street. Of course, he would do that. A gentleman, like he’d said. It wasn’t just for show either—it felt natural, like an ingrained instinct. I couldn’t help but imagine him throwing himself in front of a speeding car if it came barreling down the road, all in the name of chivalry. “Do you live in the area?” I asked after a few moments of silence, my hands tucked into the pockets of my jean shorts. The question felt like a safe way to break the quiet. “Not really,” he answered. His tone was casual, almost distracted, as he glanced down the dimly lit street. “I was out for a walk and heard your... conundrum.” “Lucky for me,” I said lightly, offering a small smile as I kept my gaze on the pavement ahead. The streetlights illuminated the large, uneven tiles beneath our feet, their geometric patterns shifting with every step. He smiled back at that, and I could feel his eyes on me for a moment before they returned to scanning the street. “Have you lived here long?” he asked. “Just a few months,” I replied. “But I grew up in this city, so I know it like the back of my hand.” I gestured vaguely to the familiar row of small trees lining one side of the sidewalk, their leaves whispering softly in the breeze. The tall apartment buildings on the other side were like silent sentinels, their windows glowing faintly against the night. “What about you?” “I live just outside of town,” he said, glancing down at me. His height was striking—I had to crane my neck to look up at him properly. “Born and raised.” “What’s your name?” The question slipped out, and I realized it probably should have been one of the first things I asked. Walking next to a helpful stranger without knowing his name? Smooth move, Stella. “Jaxon,” he said, his grin returning. “With an X. But most people call me Jax.” He tilted his head slightly. “And you?” “Well, Jaxon with an X,” I replied, mirroring his teasing tone, “my name is Stella. And most people call me that too.” His chuckle was warm and low, a sound that felt oddly familiar, like an old melody you couldn’t quite place. It made me pause, wondering why it felt like I’d heard it before. But I couldn’t have. I’d never met Jaxon before—someone like him would be impossible to forget. “This is me,” I said as we approached the tall brick building that was my home. The building was beautiful in its simplicity, its deep red bricks rich and earthy under the soft glow of the streetlights. Black-painted window frames added a modern touch, and the stairs leading up to the entrance were wide and inviting. I stepped onto the first step before turning to face him. “Beautiful building,” he remarked, nodding appreciatively toward it. “It is,” I agreed, glancing over my shoulder briefly before fishing my keys out of my back pocket. I found the right one and held it tightly in my hand. “Thanks for your help,” I said, smiling at him. “No problem, Stella,” he replied, his voice gentle. He handed the stack of books back to me. Their weight caught me off guard—I’d almost forgotten how heavy they were in his effortless grip. I had to shift them against my chest to keep them from toppling. “So,” he began, his hands sliding into his front pockets, “can I take you out on a date?” I blinked, caught off guard by his directness. Heat crept up my face as I tried to suppress a grin. “So, you did have ulterior motives?” He laughed softly, his shoulders lifting in an easy shrug. “Well, yeah,” he admitted. “I hope I’m not being too forward, but I didn’t see a ring on your hand.” He nodded toward my left hand. “So, I figured, why not take a shot?” Instinctively, I glanced at my hand. No ring. There had never been a ring. Maybe someday, but not now. When I looked back at him, the faint light above the door illuminated his face, casting his eyes in warm caramel tones. He was devastatingly handsome—too perfect to be real. “Sure, Jaxon,” I found myself saying before I could overthink it. “You can take me out on a date.” His smile stretched wide, lighting up his entire face. “Fantastic,” he said, his excitement almost boyish. “How about tomorrow?” “Tomorrow?” I repeated, laughing. “Aren’t you supposed to wait, like, three days?” “Why wait when I know what I want?” he countered with a playful shrug. I laughed again, shaking my head. “I have a family thing tomorrow afternoon, but I’m free before noon.” “Brunch?” he suggested. “Sure. I like pancakes,” I said with a smile. “Perfect,” he replied. “I’ll pick you up at nine-thirty?” “Sounds good,” I said, nodding. The books in my arms shifted slightly, and I adjusted my grip. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” “Looking forward to it,” he said warmly. His gaze flicked to the books, and for a brief moment, his brow furrowed, as if concerned about their weight. Then his expression softened again. “Goodnight, Stella.” “Goodnight, Jaxon,” I said, turning toward the door. He stayed where he was, watching until I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The weight of the books pressed into my arms, but my thoughts were far heavier—filled with the image of his smile and the warmth of his laugh.