Chapter Four
Emery
I follow the directions to my new home, winding through narrow side streets where the snow banks rise like frozen barricades.
Porch lights glow behind frosted windows as I pass a park swallowed by snowdrifts, a tiny white church flashing passive-aggressive wisdom on an LED sign (JESUS SEES YOUR brOWSER HISTORY), and a stretch of wind-wrecked homes guarded by slouching snowmen who look like they’ve seen some things and will not be talking about it.
Then, finally, I spot it: a narrow two-story tucked behind a crooked pine tree and a mailbox shaped like a trout. It’s mid-leap with its mouth open and its eyes wide with the permanent shock of something that’s seen too much and isn’t sure it wants to see any more.
The porch leans noticeably to the left, as though the house sat down one day and never got back up, and the steps are half-swallowed by snow. The siding is cracked and wind-scuffed, and one upstairs shutter clings to the frame at an angle that can only be described as aggressively unhinged.
I pull up to the curb, cut the engine, and sit there for a long second, staring through the windshield.
It isn’t awful. It isn’t great, either. The listing photos promised rustic charm, while this feels more… structural anxiety with a splash of optimism.
Still. It’s mine.
For now.
“Okay,” I mutter. “You’re not haunted. You’re just… character-building.”
I grab the keys from my coat pocket, brace myself, and step out into the cold. The wind hits my cheeks as I crunch up the steps, sidestepping a patch of ice. The key sticks in the door—of course it does—before it finally clicks open with a tired groan, and inside is…
Surprisingly warm.
It’s not stale or musty like I expected, nor is it haunted, or creepy.
I let out a long breath of relief as I step into the small living room, my boots thudding against the wood floors. A radiator hisses softly in the corner, and I glance around, taking it all in.
My first impression is that the place is cozy. A little dated, sure, and definitely more functional than stylish. The walls are bare but solid, but it’s fine.
My second impression?
…There’s a hoodie on the back of the couch.
I freeze halfway through unzipping my coat, frown, and scan the room.
There are big boots by the door; the kind of size you don’t find in the women’s section, and that usually comes attached to a man who lives in the weight room. Or, in this town, on the ice.
Keys hang on a hook by the kitchen, and a worn leather keychain dangles at the bottom. It’s a miniature hockey stick, nicked and scratched, like it’s seen some action.
My brow furrows hard enough to wrinkle my scalp.
Okay, weird.
I tell myself that none of these things are unexplainable, even though they absolutely are. Who knows, though: maybe the last tenant hasn’t finished moving out. That’s a possibility. Or maybe the cleaning crew missed a few things.
After all, small towns run on casual chaos and shrugged shoulders, right?
I swallow as I step further in and flip on the lights.
As I slowly step through, I realize that the kitchen is…
stocked. And not left behind in the rush stocked, either, but currently in use stocked.
There’s a cast iron skillet on the stove, a half-used hot sauce bottle next to a box of protein bars, and a black water bottle with faded tape wrapped around the middle sitting on the windowsill, just visible in the light.
In scrawled marker, above the tape, I make out two hand-drawn antlers.
I stare at it for a second too long.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself, my voice tightening. “Someone really didn’t get the memo.”
I back out of the kitchen and into the hallway, flick on another light, and peek into the bathroom.
There’s a razor, men’s deodorant, and a towel hanging up.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
I make my way to the stairs, one creaking step at a time, my stomach tightening with every groan of the floorboards.
There’s a faint echo of a scent up here too—clean sweat, soap, a hint of something sharp and cool.
It’s not strong enough to peg, exactly, but it scratches at a memory from the diner; of pine and ice and frustration.
There are two doors on the landing. The first is the bedroom from the listing, which is neatly made, clearly meant for me.
The second is shut.
I stare at it for a beat, as curiosity and dread coil in my throat; and then I open it.
This room is not staged.
It is occupied.
There’s an unmade bed in the center, and a half-filled laundry basket in the corner. A Moose jacket hangs on the wall, as well as cologne on the windowsill and socks on the floor. A duffel bag is slouched by the end of the bed, and the scent of an alpha is…
Overwhelming.
And, though I hate to admit it: familiar.
I step back then shut the door slowly, my expression blank as my mind attempts to process all of this.
Okay. Okay. Deep breaths.
It’s safe to say that someone is very much still living here, which was…
Not expected. I think back to the calls I’ve had with the rental agency and don’t recall a single conversation about having a housemate.
So, who the hell am I even supposed to call to figure this out?
Coach? The rental agency? Animal control?
“This is fine,” I whisper, which is a lie. “This is so fine.”
I look back down the hallway, but my mystery housemate is nowhere to be seen.
“Cool, cool, cool,” I say aloud. “So I’m living with someone. That’s… not horrifying at all.”
I exhale hard, running a hand through my hair before I turn back toward the stairs. I make it back to the kitchen in a weird sort of fugue, every sound in the house suddenly too loud, too specific. I open a cabinet on pure autopilot and quickly scan the contents.
Peanut butter. Nutella. A tub of protein powder the size of a newborn.
I close the cabinet gently, in case slamming it triggers a full existential collapse, then I head back into the living room and sink onto the couch—his couch? our couch?—and stare at the ceiling for a full five seconds before pulling out my phone again.
There’s no signal (standard), but I tap into the Wi-Fi. There’s a moment of purgatory, then:
MooseNet47, connected.
“Bless you, MooseNet,” I mutter.
I open my messages and scroll straight to the top of my thread with Sasha.
She’s my former roommate, and the one person who has helped me survive breakups, burnout, and the Great Ferret Incident; and apparently, I now need to add accidental cohabitation with a strange man in a hockey town to the growing list of emergencies.
I have made a HUGE mistake.
Three dots appear instantly.
Already?! What did you do? Is this about the pancakes? Or did you accidentally join a cult?
I roll my eyes. Safe to say she’s not a big fan of small towns.
Worse.
I moved into my rental and SOMEONE IS ALREADY LIVING HERE.
Her reply comes quickly.
WAIT WHAT
Like… a squatter?
Are you texting me from inside a horror movie??
I snort and look around at the suspiciously neat living room.
Not a squatter, but a man. Specifically, an alpha.
I haven’t seen him yet, but judging by the cologne-to-sweat ratio in the hallway, he’s here a LOT.
A full thirty seconds pass before she responds, which is long enough for me to imagine every worst-case scenario.
Are you safe?!
Do you need me to send help? Or mace??
I can practically hear her rifling through her purse.
What is it with you and mace??
She chooses to ignore that completely, despite the fact that it is a very valid question.
Oh my god.
You’re going to be living with a man.
I groan out loud.
There is no way this isn’t going to be a disaster. The guy hasn’t even shown his face yet and he’s already living rent-free in my head, leaving the toilet seat up and protein powder on every surface.
Apparently so.
Accidental Moose cohabitation.
I pause to glance toward the staircase, half-expecting some mystery lumber-beast to appear holding a towel and a bad attitude.
I’m sorry, but that’s a rom-com title.
Also?? I’m a little impressed. This is chaotic even for you.
I flop back against the couch with a dramatic sigh and stare at the ceiling before I send her a simple response.
Thanks. I hate it.
Another beat. Then:
Send pics when he inevitably walks out of the shower in nothing but trauma and a towel.
I let out an actual laugh at that.
Congratulations. You’re blocked.
I toss the phone beside me and drag both hands down my face. My palms are cold as my nerves buzz, my brain officially on fire.
Okay. Deep breath. Again.
I’m not in danger. There are no bloodstains, no broken windows, and no ominous chanting, either.
The place is clean, though it’s certainly not the chaotic clutter of a squatter or a forgetful tenant.
It’s neat and organized, and I know in my soul that this isn’t someone who forgot to move out.
This is someone who still has a toothbrush in the upstairs bathroom and potentially thinks he lives here alone.
Maybe there’s been a mix-up with the rental agency. Maybe he doesn’t know I’m coming, or maybe this is the part in the horror movie where the girl rationalizes everything right before getting bludgeoned to death with a novelty moose figurine.
I stand slowly and scan the room again, making a point of really looking this time as I try and figure out who the hell this alpha is.
A knot tightens low in my stomach as I realize he’ll be coming back at some point—maybe soon—and that I am apparently going to be living with a man. A full-grown, probably sweaty, mystery-meat-consuming chaos gremlin of an alpha with too many gym bags and not enough self-awareness.
I’ve worked with enough of them to know that’s already too much: sharing a house is a new circle of hell.
I haven’t even been in Iron Lake for two hours and I’m already knee-deep in a housing disaster, apparently sharing a roof with some mystery gym-bro who probably thinks coconut oil cures trauma.
I don’t know why I thought moving to a small town would be simple. Nothing in my life has ever gone to plan—why would this be the exception?
I sit back down with a thud, stare up at the ceiling, and mutter to no one:
“What’s one more disaster?”