Dear Alpha, Your Luna

Chapter 6

The letter lay in Haven’s hands, its edges soft from where her fingertips had brushed over them too many times already. She couldn’t help it. Every word written across the page seemed to carry the warmth of the boy who had penned it, and even though it was nothing more than ink on paper, it felt alive.

Adrian. His name had become something that lived in her thoughts, a quiet comfort she carried with her like a secret talisman. Every time a new letter came, her chest would tighten, her heart beating so fast it felt almost reckless, like it knew something her mind refused to admit.

This one was no different. From the very first line, Haven had felt the sharp tug of his voice reaching for her across the miles that separated them.

He had written, “I cannot tell you how happy I was to receive your second letter.”

She could almost hear the boyish laughter tucked between the strokes of his pen, see the sheepish smile that might have curved his lips as he admitted to waiting for her words, confessed that part of him had been afraid she wouldn’t write back.

Her heart ached at that. The thought of him waiting, doubting himself, not knowing how much she had clutched his first letter to her chest at night like a lifeline, made her want to whisper her own reassurances through the page. But of course, all she had were her own letters in return.

Adrian's’s words spilled out with a kind of honesty that disarmed her. He talked about his little brother Sebastian—“annoying” yet beloved—and his two best friends, Reid and Nolan, who teased him endlessly but who, Haven could tell, were stitched into his world as tightly as family. He described the way their lives were tangled together, their families bound in friendship, the laughter and the banter that filled their days.

Haven could almost see it—the warmth of his home, the sound of siblings arguing and then laughing, the kind of closeness she had only ever dreamed of.

He even wrote about Madeleine, his baby sister, calling her the princess of their family. Haven smiled at that, imagining Adrian’s protective heart wrapped around a tiny girl with curls and wide eyes. There was a tenderness in his words that surprised her, a kind of devotion that made her chest ache with something she couldn’t yet name.

As her eyes moved down the page, she found herself laughing softly at his rambling descriptions. His birthday, his favorite color—white, of all things—his favorite food, his disdain for mushrooms. He spoke of wolves with reverence, calling them strong, loyal, and beautiful.

A shiver ran through Haven as she read that line again, slower this time. Wolves. There was something about the way he had written it, almost like an instinct, as if he saw himself in them. She wondered if he knew how his words revealed more than he intended, if he had any idea how deeply they hinted at who he truly was.

He admitted to liking boxing, but in the same breath reassured her that it was safe, that he was trained. She could see him in her mind—sweat dampening his hair, determination set in the line of his jaw, his fists raised not in cruelty but in discipline.

It unsettled her, how clearly she could imagine him, when she had never seen him outside the confines of a photograph.

And then, near the end, there it was. His hesitation, his curiosity wrapped in gentleness. He had noticed something in her last letter—how she had first written “Jack and Shirley,” her foster parents’ names, but later referred to Shirley as “Mom.” He had asked, carefully, if it meant something.

Haven’s chest tightened. That single observation told her everything she needed to know about Adrian. He noticed. He cared. But he also respected the silence she might give him, urging her to forget he’d asked if it was too much.

How could a boy she had never met hold her heart so gently?

Her throat felt tight as she reached the end of the letter. He had included a school picture, he said, though he insisted it was silly compared to hers. Haven traced the paper where the envelope bulged slightly with the photo inside, her fingertips trembling as if she weren’t sure whether she was ready to look.

And then his closing words—awkward yet earnest. Happy Thanksgiving. Unsure if she celebrated, unsure if she even had a holiday to look forward to, yet still sending warmth across the page.

Haven pressed the letter to her chest.

For a moment, she closed her eyes and let herself imagine what it would be like if he weren’t just words on a page. If she could see him, hear his laughter, feel the way his presence might fill a room. She imagined him walking beside her, teasing her the way he teased his friends, defending her the way he clearly adored his siblings. She imagined the strength in his hands, the kindness in his eyes.

It was foolish, she knew. They were only children, pen pals bound by ink and distance. And yet, the way he wrote—so full of life, so unafraid to show her pieces of himself—made her feel something she hadn’t in a long time: seen.

She had always felt like a shadow in her foster home, grateful but careful, never quite belonging. Yet Adrian’s letters made her feel as though she mattered, as though her words carried weight enough to brighten someone else’s day.

Her lips curved into a smile as she unfolded the letter again, reading over the messy scrawl of his handwriting. It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t perfect. But it was his. And somehow, it had become the most beautiful thing in her world.

Haven didn’t know what the future would bring—if these letters would fade with time, if he would forget her when high school swallowed him whole. But deep down, she couldn’t ignore the pull. Adrian was becoming more than just a friend who wrote her letters. He was becoming the echo in her chest, the warmth in her silence, the hope she clung to when the nights felt too lonely.

And though she would never admit it aloud—not yet—she found herself whispering into the stillness of her room, “Happy Thanksgiving, Adrian,” as if somehow, across the miles, he would hear her.