Rose
My supplier is gone. I stare at the unmarked pill bottle in my hand. One tiny pill left. I’ve been watching them dwindle for weeks, counting them like lifelines. Now, with only one left, it feels like an elephant is slowly sitting on my chest.
I tip the pill back and swallow it dry. My phone screen lights up—it’s my brother, texting from the burner he keeps hidden from the genetic donors we call parents.
Benito:
This new guy’s really good. He’s getting close.
My fingers go cold. He’s talking about the new private investigator our parents hired to find me. You’d think the fact that they hired someone would mean they cared, or that they were worried. I know better. They’re not worried about me—they’re worried about their investment, their standing in their perfect little social circles, and the retribution from the pack they promised me to.
Another notification flashes. I’ve set up alerts for my birth name and likeness, but every time one appears, my stomach knots. This one’s from a gossip site, the kind that thrives on humiliation. I click anyway. A photo from five years ago stares back at me.
The girl in the picture hardly looks like me now. Where there are curves and dimples today, there were only hollow dips and sharp cheekbones. Where I have freckles and soft, flushed skin, she hid beneath layers of makeup. Where I now let my curls breathe, hers are ironed flat—tamed and lifeless.
I shudder. I can’t imagine going back to that version of myself, to that life. But to avoid it… will I have to destroy this one? Will I have to disappear again—new name, new face, new everything—just when I’ve finally built something that feels like home?
The thought lingers like smoke in my lungs. I shove it aside and grab my bag. My little blue house isn’t anything fancy, but it’s mine. Every chipped tile, every crooked picture frame, every light that flickers when it snows—it’s all me. No one else.
And the idea of losing it makes my chest ache worse than withdrawal ever could.
Downtown is an explosion of early Christmas cheer. The moment Thanksgiving ends, the whole town throws itself into the season like it’s a competition. Strings of lights crisscross from pole to pole, casting a warm golden glow over the snow-dusted, cobblestone sidewalks. Wreaths hang from every shop door. A tree in the closed Evergreen Café window twinkles in a kaleidoscope of colors—too bright, too eager.
Dandy Stuff, the gift shop, shines the brightest. Lights wrap every window in white and gold, a perfect bow of small-town charm. A wreath the size of a truck tire hangs on the door, and a glowing plastic snowman smiles beside the stoop. It’s cozy and cheerful—exactly the kind of place that makes people stop, smile, and believe in the magic of the season.
I’ve never really understood it. To me, Christmas has always felt like any other time of year—just colder and louder. The songs, the lights, the laughter echoing down the street… they’re lovely, in theory. But for me, it’s all a language I was never taught to speak.
So I keep walking, pretending the glow doesn’t make me feel more alone than the dark ever could.
The bell above the door sings a delicate note as I step inside. Warm air and the scent of pine rush over me. Winnie, Dandy Stuff’s owner, looks up and grins. She’s a short omega with dark freckles painting her deep brown skin and curly, black hair pulled into two pom-poms. The corners of her wide eyes crinkle whenshe smiles.
“Just the person we were waiting for!” she exclaims. “I need help with the store’s website. Is there a way to connect the honey we’re selling here to the Apiary’s site?”
The woman beside her, Sunny, holds out the laptop they’ve been puzzling over like an offering. Sunny is pale, with straight blonde hair and a no-nonsense expression softened by a wool scarf. She owns the local bee farm. Business slows this time of year, but the farm keeps busy selling honey products up and down the Leelanau Peninsula.
I smile and take the laptop. My friends are brilliant at so many things, but media marketing isn’t one of them. While I’m linking the sites, the bell chimes again.
Clara sweeps in, snow still melting on her boots. She’s an omega with olive skin and hair dyed bright, Santa-suit red for the season. Her sweater dress flows around her like starlight, speckled with tiny silver dots.
“I brought the wine!” she announces, holding up two bottles to a round of scattered applause.
Cali follows her inside, auburn frizz haloing her head and a noticeable baby bump straining her chunky cardigan. Five months along, she’s glowing. She carries two to-go bags from the Evergreen Café—the only food place in town, and owned by her pack—and hands out our orders like Santa passing gifts.
These girls are my best friends. They and their packs are more family to me than my own ever was. Officially, we’re the Omega Book Club, but even though I’m supposed to be a beta, they’ve deemed me an honorary omega. God, if they only knew.
Tonight isn’t a Book Club night, though. It’s just a random Tuesday when we all had free time and decided on takeout. Dandy Stuff is the most central spot for everyone to meet, and the twinkle lights in the window make it feel like a little snow globe come to life. Being with them gets me as close to the holiday spirit as I think I can get.
I finish linking the accounts and pass the laptop back to Sunny. She grins, raises her hand, and we high-five. We dig into dinner in easy silence, the kind thatfeels like home—just the sound of paper crinkling, laughter, and snow tapping against the windows.
“I had Mrs. Farts in again today,” Cali announces.
I nearly choke. “Again?” Winnie pats my back, giggling.
Cali nods solemnly. “Hand to god, I don’t think she knows she’s doing it. She just lets them rip and keeps walking through the library like nothing happened.”
“That’s a superpower,” Clara declares. “Even when mine are silent but deadly, I still startle and blush.”
We all burst out laughing, nearly spilling our wine.
