I can picture her here permanently—baking cookies, reading manuscripts, sharing creative ideas, being part of our pack in every way that matters.
"What are you doing?" I ask, watching her grab her holly-print apron from where it's hanging on a decorative brass hook by the kitchen entrance. The apron is adorable—covered in holly leaves and berries, very festive and very her.
"My cookies are almost ready to come out of the oven," she explains, tying the apron around her waist with practiced efficient movements that suggest she's done this thousands of times. "Timer's going to go off in like two minutes and I absolutely don't want them to over-bake. Grandma's recipe requires precise specific timing or they get too hard."
She takes her baking seriously. I love that about her. The way she commits fully to things she cares about. The attention to detail. The pride in doing something well.
I rise from my comfortable armchair, setting my unread book aside on the side table, crossing the open flowing space between living room and kitchen with measured unhurried steps.
My sock-covered feet are silent on the floor. The cabin smells absolutely incredible—warm cinnamon and spicy ginger and sweet brown sugar and pure vanilla all mixing beautifully harmoniously with her natural vanilla-caramel scent until the entire space smells like Christmas and home and pack.
She fits here.. In this pack. In our life. Like she was always meant to be part of our world. As if we were incomplete before she arrived and suddenly everything makes sense.
She turns away from me to check the oven temperature on the digital display, but not before adding enthusiastically excitedly over her shoulder, "But I have to tell you…despite the absolutely shocking spice level that I was completely totally not prepared for and that made me need to fan myself multiple times…the story so far is fucking amazing! Like genuinely professionally publishable incredible quality!"
Her genuine enthusiasm for my work means everything. More than she probably realizes. I've never had someone react to my writing with this kind of unfiltered excitement before. It's validating in a way I didn't know I needed.
I walk closer to where she's standing, drawn to her like gravity, like magnetism, like something inevitable and natural.
"The fact that you've written not one but two completely different distinct pieces of work after we only briefly casually talked about my vision for both is honestly mind-blowing and impressive!" She's gesturing animatedly now with both hands, her excitement palpable and utterly infectious and absolutely adorable. "Like, we had ONE conversation! Maybe thirty minutes of discussion total! Just throwing creative ideas around casually over breakfast! And you've already got full complete chapters drafted with developed characters and plot structure and detailed intimate scenes!"
When she's excited about something—really genuinely excited—she becomes this unstoppable force of nature. Pure creative energy and enthusiasm.It's captivating. Mesmerizing. Addictive. I could watch her talk passionately about things she loves forever and never get bored. Never want it to stop.
She claps her hands together with genuine delight, practically bouncing on her toes in those adorable thigh-high socks. "Knotty Christmas Wish—which will absolutely definitely be the best Christmas romance entry of your debut career as a romance novelist! The perfect launch! The perfect introduction to your voice and style! And then you transition beautifully smoothly into the new year where flowers are blooming and everything feels fresh and hopeful by launching The Omega's Nest Cafe! Perfect timing! Perfect seasonal symbolism and thematic resonance! Perfect progression from winter to spring, from isolation to community!"
Her eyes light up suddenly with obvious fresh inspiration, that creative spark I'm learning to recognize and treasure.
"Oh my god! Can it be blooming cherry blossoms specifically?! Like, set during cherry blossom season in spring when everything is pink and beautiful?! That would be so visually stunning and thematically symbolic! I've always wantedto go to Japan and see the sakura in person, walk under the trees when the petals are falling like snow..."
The way her face lights up when she talks about dreams and possibilities. Like the sun breaking through clouds. Like everything suddenly becoming brighter and more alive. I want to give her everything she dreams about. Japan. Cherry blossoms. Every experience she's ever wanted.
She's on a creative roll now, ideas flowing freely and rapidly without filter.
"What if the Omega protagonist ends up briefly going to Japan for like a chapter or extended sequence? You know, like how people go soul-searching in Bali or Italy…you know, Eat Pray Love style…or backpacking through Europe to 'find themselves' after major life changes? But she goes to Japan specifically because as a kid she used to absolutely love anime and manga and reading Japanese literature and learning about the culture and traditions!"
She's fully animated now, painting the vivid picture with her words and enthusiastic gestures.
"And she had all these wonderful hobbies and interests and dreams when she was younger! Drawing and reading and collecting things and learning languages! But she practically lost all of it—lost herself completely and utterly—because of the terrible hardship she went through with her toxic dysfunctional family and so-called friends who weren't really friends at all. Working like a slave to make everyone else happy and comfortable while her own happiness and identity got progressively buried and forgotten and dismissed as unimportant and selfish."
She's describing herself. Maybe she doesn't fully realize it, but she's describing her own experience. Her own lost dreams. Her own buried identity under years of people-pleasing andself-sacrifice. The hobbies she gave up. The person she used to be before her pack broke her down.
Her voice gets more passionate, more invested in this character's journey.
"So going to Japan becomes this journey of reclaiming who she was before everything went wrong! Remembering what she genuinely loved instead of what others told her to love! Finding those lost buried pieces of herself! And maybe she meets her Alpha there during cherry blossom season and everything blooms together—the trees and her heart and her sense of self and her hope for the future!"
It's perfect. The metaphor. The symbolism. The journey from winter to spring, from dormancy to blooming, from loss to rediscovery. She understands storytelling instinctively, even if she doesn't realize it. Understands how to weave meaning into narrative.
I want to write this story for her.
About her.
Give her the happy ending she deserves, even if it's fictional.
Show her that Omegas can reclaim themselves, can bloom again, can find joy and love and pack.
She spins around dramatically to face me, presumably to gauge my reaction to her rapidly expanding story ideas and creative suggestions.
Only to discover I'm standing right directly in front of her. Much closer than she expected or anticipated.
