I Took In a Secondhand Wolf, Only to Find a Prime Alpha

I was halfway through an apology to my landlord when Celia texted me a photograph of a man sitting on the floor of a government office. He had dark hair, a gray sweatshirt, and the stillness of someone who had learned that moving too quickly made people nervous. One pointed ear showed through his hair. A dark mark crossed the skin beneath his jaw, almost hidden by the collar. Celia: Found you a roommate. I stared at the screen. Me: I said I needed a roommate, not a rescue project. Celia: You need the rent money. He needs a room. Win-win. Me: Is he a person or a rescue project? The typing bubble appeared, vanished, and came back. Celia: He's a wolf shifter. The program calls it a community placement. He's been in temporary housing for months. Nobody takes him because of the Alpha classification. I glanced at the photo again. The man's gaze was angled toward whoever had taken it, expression unreadable. Me: Why are you sending him to me? Celia: Because you have a spare room and you're an Omega who hasn't had a partner in three years. You could use the company. I put my phone facedown. My apartment was small enough that I could hear the refrigerator click on from my bed. The spare room held boxes I had never unpacked after moving to Bellwether, a folding desk, and an air mattress that leaked by morning. I had been telling myself I would find a roommate for two months. I had also been telling myself I didn't mind being alone. Those statements had never sounded convincing together. At the community housing office, Celia waited by the counter with a paper cup of coffee. She was a beta with copper curls and an impressive ability to make other people's lives sound like paperwork. "You really sent me a stranger's picture?" I asked. "His name is Rowan Vale." She lowered her voice. "He's thirty-four. No criminal record. No active pack. He's been cleared for independent housing. The program only needs a host address for the next six months." "Host address?" "Roommate, if you prefer. They use clunky language." I glanced through the open door to the intake room. Rowan stood beside a chair, still in the gray sweatshirt. He was taller than the photo suggested, broad-shouldered, with a narrow scar running from the corner of his mouth toward his ear. His eyes met mine. I felt the familiar pulse of my Omega instincts, not a swoon or a bond, just a low, bodily awareness. My scent glands tightened. I hated that my body could make decisions before I had even shaken someone's hand. Rowan looked away first. "Does he know you're trying to set us up?" I asked. "I'm trying to get him a door that locks. And you, a person who'll split the rent." "That's not what your text said." Celia sighed. "I know. I was joking." I didn't like the joke. I liked less that I had noticed his eyes. Inside the office, Rowan stood when I entered. A plastic band circled his wrist, stamped with the blue logo of the Bellwether Community Housing Network. "Mara Ellis," I said. "Rowan Vale." His voice was low, rough around the edges. "Celia said you have a room." "She said you needed one." "I do. If the offer still stands." He didn't reach for my hand. I appreciated that more than I wanted to. "The program covers the first month," Celia said, placing a stack of forms on the table. "After that, you split household expenses. The arrangement is voluntary. Either of you can end it with thirty days' notice." Rowan glanced at the paperwork, then at me. "You don't owe me anything beyond the room." "I don't want to be responsible for someone's placement." "You aren't." He tapped the top page. "This says I'm responsible for my own choices." The file listed his status as "wolf shifter, packless, low-impact Alpha." The phrase sounded like a category invented to put a dangerous person in a small box. "Low-impact?" I asked. "Administrative shorthand," Celia said. Rowan's mouth tightened. It was the first sign of emotion I had seen from him. I read the agreement twice. The program wanted a home address, emergency contact, and permission to check that the arrangement was still safe. It didn't ask me to be a guardian or a mate. Rowan had signed the same terms already. "Why did you lose your housing?" I asked. "I didn't lose it," he said. "My previous pack dissolved." The answer was simple. The way he gave it wasn't. Celia began listing the things the program would provide: a transit card, a grocery voucher, a follow-up appointment. I signed my section. Rowan signed his without hesitation. When we left the office, the sun had started slipping behind the glass towers downtown. I took the bus home. Rowan walked beside me without crowding me, his duffel held in one hand. My apartment building had peeling blue paint and a front stair that tilted toward the street. I unlocked the door. "The spare room's at the end of the hall," I said. "The lock sticks. You have to lift the handle." "I can manage." "I usually cook on Sundays. You can use the kitchen whenever. I keep my scent suppressants in the bathroom cabinet, so don't move those." "I won't." The room was barely big enough for the air mattress and desk. Rowan looked around without comment. "Are you sure?" I asked. "It's not much." "It's a door that locks." He set down the duffel. The fabric slumped against the wall. I heard a soft, metallic click from inside. "What's that?" "Old collar clasp." I didn't ask him to explain. He didn't offer. That night, I lay awake on my side of the thin wall, listening to the unfamiliar quiet of another person in the apartment. I reminded myself that this was temporary. Six months. Rent split in half. Nothing more. Then, just before midnight, I heard Rowan cross the hall and stop outside my door. He didn't knock. After a moment, his footsteps retreated.