Alpha Mate at the Gas Station

1. Divorced with a tent

Thumper POV

The cheap plastic tent poles rattled in my hands as I snapped the last one into place, the thin tarp trembling like it already knew it would betray me again. This was the third time this week my tent had tried to collapse on me, and every time it did, it felt like the world was reminding me I no longer belonged anywhere solid. I tugged the fabric tight and stepped back, staring at the crooked little shelter tucked among the trees in the wooded stretch outside Antigo, Wisconsin — my “home.”

Home.

I swallowed hard at the word.

It’s been less than a year since my soon-to-be ex-husband locked me out of the apartment we shared. One day I had a key. The next — the lock didn’t even turn. Just a dull, empty click telling me I didn’t exist there anymore.

Now I lived under branches instead of ceilings. My roof was a thin blanket of stitched-together tarp that fought against every gust of wind. My alarm clock was the rustle of leaves and distant traffic. My closet was a duffel bag. And all I had of my old life was a laptop and the leftover camping gear I managed to grab from his car before he accused me of “stealing” from him.

He froze our joint bank account and told anyone who’d listen that I’d used him for his money — the same money that had once been ours. I had opened that account. I had trusted him. And stupidly, I had believed the soft voice and sweet words he layered over control.

I didn’t even own a phone until we got married.

That should’ve been my warning — that nothing about him was as kind as he appeared.

I pulled my thin jacket tighter around me and started the walk toward the gas station. The air was cold enough to bite, sharp and dry against my cheeks. Antigo didn’t smell like the city — it smelled like pine and damp soil and the faint metallic scent of gasoline drifting from the road ahead. Gravel crunched under my shoes with every step, reminding me I was late. Again.

Please don’t let me lose this job. Please just let me make it through today.

The fluorescent lights of the gas station flickered like tired eyes as I approached. Sunlight hadn’t fully reached the lot yet, and everything looked washed in gray. The glass door reflected my face back at me — messy hair, pale skin, shadows under my eyes, the version of me life had scraped down to the bone.

The bell over the door dinged weakly when I stepped inside, and the smell of burnt coffee and motor oil wrapped around me. That’s when I saw her.

An elderly woman stood at the counter, thin glasses perched low on her nose. She looked clinical. Silent. Like this was just another box she needed to tick off her list before lunch. Her gaze landed on me instantly.

“Are you Thumper Parker?” she asked, her tone so flat it didn’t even echo.

My throat tightened. I noticed movement to my right — my boss stepping out of the back room — and beside him, a man I’d never seen before. Tall. Broad. His presence filled the room like a shadow before I could even focus on his face.

“Yes…” I managed. “Is there a problem?”

She didn’t smile. Her arm lifted with mechanical stillness as she extended a yellow folder toward me.

“You are being served your divorce papers. Thank you for accepting my services. Have a nice day.”

Her words were knives spoken politely.

The folder hit my palm. I didn’t even remember reaching out for it. Shame flooded my chest, hot and suffocating, spreading across my skin like a rash. I could feel eyes on me — real or imagined — and I wanted to disappear into the floor.

My boss looked me over with that same detached stare he always had. He came from a place where women bowed and endured, where pain didn’t excuse you from work — and sympathy was a luxury no one bothered to offer.

He raised one eyebrow, crossed his arms, and sighed as if this — my life crumbling — was simply an inconvenience.

“You arrived just in time,” he said, voice dull and void of care. “She has been waiting about an hour. Go clock in. You’ll need every penny for the lawyer.”

His words made me feel like I was shrinking. Like I was a stain he couldn’t scrub off fast enough.

Then — before I could even breathe — the man beside him spoke.

“Is this how you treat your workers?”

His voice rolled through me like thunder and warmth all at once — deep, protective, angry on my behalf. I turned toward him and nearly forgot how to breathe.

He was blonde, with bright blue eyes that cut sharper than ice. A tan, powerful build filled his black shirt, tattoos peeking along his arms like whispers of a past he didn’t talk about. He looked dangerous — but not to me. Like every protective instinct he had was suddenly focused on the way my hands shook around the divorce papers.

“She’s being served divorce papers,” he continued, glaring at my boss. “And your inconsiderate attitude is just making it worse. She doesn’t need her boss treating her like crap too.”

My boss barely reacted. Just another bored sigh.

“She chose to marry,” he replied, voice empty. “She chose to act against her husband. Not my concern. I hope she gets better and keeps working. But I don’t owe her anything. She works like anyone else. Excuse me — I have other stations to manage.”

He turned. For half a second, his eyes flicked over me like I was nothing more than an employee number — then he walked out.

The bell over the door chimed again. And I stood there, heart pounding, with divorce papers clutched in my trembling hands… and a stranger who’d just defended me like I mattered.

For the first time in a long time — I didn’t feel invisible.

He took a slow step toward me, and my body reacted before my mind did. I pressed the yellow folder against my flat chest like it could shield my heart from pounding straight out of my ribs. My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard, trying to gather enough breath to make words behave.

“Tha—thank you for standing up for me,” I managed, though my voice sounded small and cracked. “If… if I didn’t need the money, I wouldn’t still be here. But my hands are tied and… I just don’t know what else to do. I think I’m going to need another job soon.”

The truth stung more when I said it out loud.

He exhaled slowly — not annoyed, not impatient — just… present. Like he actually heard the ache behind my words. He stepped closer and extended his hand toward me.

My heart slammed painfully against my ribs. It felt like my pulse was everywhere — in my neck, my ears, the tips of my fingers. This man had done nothing but speak, and somehow my body responded like he’d reached straight inside my chest and stirred something awake I hadn’t felt in years. Not once — not ever — had my husband made me feel this alive.

“I’m Dominic Valor,” he said softly, his voice warm and steady in the cold fluorescent light. “It’s a delight to meet you.”

He smiled — not a showy grin, not something practiced — but something real. Playful at the edges. Kind. It hit me like sunlight after winter.

Heat crawled up my neck and into my cheeks. My palms went damp. I prayed he wouldn’t notice. But when I slipped my shaking hand into his, I knew he did — because his thumb brushed gently along my knuckles, steadying them like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Th–Thumper,” I tried to say, but the word stumbled out of me like a teenager whose voice hadn’t yet decided what pitch to live in.

His fingers were warm. Solid. Safe.

And for one dizzy second, I forgot about the papers crushed against my chest, the tent in the woods, the frozen bank account, the husband who had erased me.

There was only the stranger with ocean-blue eyes saying my name like it mattered.