Morning creeps into Julian's room like an unwanted houseguest who doesn't understand boundaries—much like every alpha in a ten-mile radius. He could ignore it, but being Moonvale Pack's only omega healer means responsibilities wait for no one—not even someone who'd rather stay wrapped in dreams of green eyes and dark hair. Because apparently, his life wasn't already enough of a supernatural romance cliché.
Perfect. Another day of pulling out his pre-written notepad responses because apparently wolves can learn to shift their entire bodies but can't be bothered to learn ASL. At this point, his notepad is less communication device and more portable sass anthology. Top sellers include "No," "Hell no," and his personal favorite: "I'd rather eat wolfsbane."
Julian slips from bed, bare feet silent on wooden floors worn smooth by generations of wolves. His silver-blonde hair catches the dawn light, making him look ethereal and delicate. It's a lie—like everything else about his omega appearance—but it makes people underestimate him, so he'll take it. There's something to be said for looking like a fairy tale prince while having the internal monologue of a jaded DMV worker.
Through his window, Mount Spruce looms against the West Virginia sky like a sentinel, probably judging all of Appalachia as America's backwoods cousin. The mountain's watched over Moonvale territory since before anyone can remember, its ancient forests hiding secrets older than the pack itself. This morning, its shadows seem to whisper of possibility and change, which is exactly the kind of mystical bullshit that got him into this mess in the first place.
In the kitchen, his grandmother Agnes—Meemaw to everyone who values their herbs uncontaminated—is already elbow-deep in medicine prep. The air smells of dried rosemary and something suspiciously alcoholic. She's one of three people who know ASL, which makes their morning conversations his daily salvation from the endless parade of "but you're such a pretty omega" that makes up pack life.
"Good morning, sugarplum," she says, eyes crinkling with warmth. "Sleep well?"
Julian's hands move in fluid signs: "Dreamed of him again. The human. Those eyes..."
"The mysterious man from Silverbern?" Her smile turns knowing. "Still thinking about that split-second outside Martha's shop? The one that made you walk into a lamppost while I was trying to haggle?"
His response would make a sailor blush and a wolf elder faint. Meemaw just laughs, the sound as warm as the morning sunlight streaming through her workshop windows. "You know," she adds, measuring dried wolfsbane with practiced precision, "when I agreed to that six-hour drive to trade with Martha, I didn't expect to lose my grandson to love at first sight."
'It wasn't love,' Julian signs defensively. 'It was...' But he can't find the signs to describe that electric moment—the way the world had tunneled down to nothing but green eyes and wild dark hair, the sense of recognition that had hit him like a physical blow. He'd never felt anything like it, not in nineteen years of pack life and mandatory pack bonding exercises that felt more like supernatural group therapy gone wrong.
The morning settles into its familiar rhythm until Zoe Harris bursts into the healing hut like a tornado in yoga pants, bringing the scent of pine needles and fresh sweat with her. "Jules! Help! Twisted my ankle!"
Julian pulls out his notepad, flips to a pre-written page: 'Training or showing off?'
"...Showing off," Zoe admits, collapsing dramatically onto his examination cot. "But he was cute! Those arms, Jules. Those abs! Like he was crafted by gay werewolf Jesus himself."
He flips to another page: 'Your poor life choices are not my emergency.'
"But you'll help anyway because you love me?"
Julian retrieves his special salve—the one that smells like mint and moonlight and makes his fingers tingle when he applies it—then shows her his most-used page: 'Stop talking.'
"You're so mean," she pouts as he works his healing magic. "Don't suppose you'd consider—"
He doesn't even look up, just holds up his trusty 'NO.' page. It's gotten more use than all his other pre-written responses combined, which says a lot about both pack dynamics and his popularity among wolves who think "omega" is a personality type.
"Can't blame a girl for trying." She grins, sharp canines glinting. "Though rumor has it you've got your sights set on some human in Silverbern? A certain tall drink of water outside Martha's Magical Menagerie who had you forgetting basic motor functions?"
Julian's hand stills. He writes one word: 'Eli?'
"Your cousin might have mentioned something..."
Speaking of the devil, Eli chooses that moment to saunter in with his signature omega sass, bringing the scent of leather and autumn air and what Julian suspects is overpriced coffee from that pretentious café in town. His hands fly into rapid ASL: 'I'm going to murder you in your sleep.'
"Love you too, cuz," Eli signs back, grinning. "Besides, Zo here needs to hear about how you walked into a lamppost because you were too busy staring at tall, dark, and human. The look on your face—like someone had hit you with a live wire while Mercury was in retrograde."
'I did not walk into a lamppost,' Julian signs furiously. 'I... gracefully miscalculated distances.'
"While Meemaw was trying to negotiate for those herbs we drove six hours to get," Eli translates for Zoe, because he's physically incapable of not being a little shit. "One look at this guy and Jules forgot how to walk. Though to be fair," he adds thoughtfully, "the human was pretty spectacular. All brooding intensity and barely contained power. Very 'supernatural romance lead who probably has childhood trauma and a secret heart of gold.'"
Julian throws a roll of bandages at his head. Eli catches it with irritating werewolf grace, because apparently the universe won't even let him have the satisfaction of minor violence.
The afternoon brings its usual parade of idiots, including two deltas who corner him in the kitchen. They wear smirks that suggest they share a single brain cell between them, their alpha-wannabe scent making Julian's nose wrinkle. It's like they bathed in Axe body spray and poor decisions.
"Hey Jules," one drawls, leaning against the counter like he's posing for "Douchebags Monthly: Werewolf Edition." "How about a date tonight?"
Julian holds up his pre-written 'Not if you were the last wolf on Earth' page.
"Playing hard to get?" The second one moves closer, all fake alpha swagger. "We all know omegas need—"
Julian cuts him off with another standard page: 'Your opinion has been noted and discarded.' Then, because they're still not moving, he flips to: 'I've met fungi with better personality.'
Later, in his room—his sanctuary from the endless soap opera that is pack life—Julian pulls out his canvas. The scent of oils and turpentine mingles with the ever-present pine and earth smell of pack territory as the man from Silverbern emerges stroke by stroke: untamed dark hair, sharp jawline, and those eyes—green as summer leaves and twice as wild.
The memory of him burns bright: tall frame filled with barely contained power, moving through the crowd like he owned it. He hadn't even noticed Julian, too focused on whatever book he'd been carrying (probably something suitably brooding and literary, because that's just how Julian's luck runs). But Julian had noticed him. Oh, had he noticed. The air had practically crackled between them, making Julian's omega instincts sit up and howl like they were auditioning for a supernatural romance novel.
"Still painting your imaginary boyfriend?" Eli asks, because apparently knocking is optional in a pack of werewolves. Personal space? In this economy?
'He's not imaginary,' Julian signs, movements sharp with frustration. 'I saw him. Felt him. Like electricity under my skin. Like every cliché love song was suddenly making sense.'
"A human, Jules? Six hours away in Silverbern? This isn't some Hallmark movie where love conquers all and everyone learns a valuable lesson about acceptance by the end."
'Better than the knot-heads here who think being an alpha is a personality trait. Did you see Derek yesterday? He literally howled at the moon. Unironically. In the middle of Walmart.'
"The pack elders—"
'Can choke.'
Eli sighs, running a hand through his dark curls. "Just be careful? Silverbern's a long way to go for a guy who didn't even see you."
Julian's hands still, then move slowly: 'He will. I know he will. Like I know my own heartbeat. Like I know our story isn't over.'
"You don't even know his name."
'I know his soul,' Julian signs, then grimaces at how ridiculous that sounds. But it's true—in that brief moment outside Martha's shop, something inside him had clicked into place like a key finding its lock. Like the universe had finally decided to stop fucking around and get to the point.
Alone again, he adds another layer of green to those haunting eyes. The man seems to stare back at him from the canvas, a challenge and a promise wrapped in oil paint. Julian's most-used notepad pages scatter around him like the world's sassiest confetti: 'No.' 'Go away.' 'Not interested.' 'Your mother must be so disappointed.'
But on a fresh page, he writes something new, something just for himself: 'Wait for me.'
The painted eyes offer no answers, but Julian's heart beats faster anyway. Somewhere in Silverbern, his human is waiting. And Julian has never been good at doing what he's told—in any language.
Even if he has to defy every tradition in Moonvale, he'll find those green eyes again. Some things are worth any risk, any distance. Even if the entire pack stands in his way, Julian knows one thing with bone-deep certainty: that split second in Silverbern wasn't an ending. It was a beginning.
Those green eyes are his future. Now he just has to figure out how to claim it—one sassy notepad page at a time. Because if life insists on making him live in a supernatural romance novel, he's at least going to do it with style.