Birthday Chaos
I wake up with the dignity of a feral raccoon that lost a bar fight.
My hair is glued to one side of my face with what I sincerely hope is just drool, my mouth tastes like someone chewed up a pinecone and spat it in there, and I'm lying sideways across my bed like I was mid-exorcism when I passed out. There's a mysterious stain on my pillowcase that looks suspiciously like chocolate but could honestly be anything at this point. My left foot is somehow tangled in my bedsheet like I tried to cocoon myself and gave up halfway through.
But today is my birthday.
Today, Caleb-freaking-Thorn will finally feel the bond. And then? Then he'll be mine, forever. Like every romcom, every wattpad slow-burn, every mating story that ever mattered.
The universe owes me this after last night's toilet paper catastrophe. I've calculated the cosmic balance, and today is my redemption arc.
I do a dramatic hair flip, dislodge a rogue glitter star from my pillow that's apparently been stabbing me in the skull all night, and whisper to myself like I'm the protagonist of my own supernatural romance:
"Today, I become a Luna."
From across the room, Amy groans like she's nursing a hangover despite the fact that we had exactly zero alcohol and three cans of Red Bull split between us while we planned today's "accidental" encounter. She sits up, looking like she wrestled a bear and lost, hair defying several laws of physics, mascara smudged under only one eye like a tragic panda, and mutters, "Do you think I can legally marry a croissant?"
"Not today, bestie," I chirp, already mentally rehearsing my mating ceremony speech. "Today you are the best friend of the soon-to-be mated Luna of North Howl Ridge. You have responsibilities. Grab the glitter."
"Why do we have so much glitter?" she mumbles, but she's already reaching for the craft supplies we bought at 2 AM from that sketchy 24-hour convenience store that definitely sells more than just arts and crafts.
"Because when Caleb sees me sparkling in the sunlight like a disco ball of destiny, his wolf is going to lose its absolute mind."
Amy squints at me. "You sound delusional."
"I sound optimistic. There's a difference."
"Is there, though?"
---
Two hours later…
The living room looks like a gender reveal exploded.
But not just any gender reveal. A gender reveal planned by someone who thinks "subtle" is a foreign language and "tasteful" is a character flaw. There are streamers in every shade of pink and silver dangling from the ceiling like party supply spaghetti. Balloons cluster in the corners like colorful tumors. And sitting on the coffee table like the crown jewel of my delusion is a big-ass cake shaped like a wolf's paw print because subtlety is dead and I personally murdered it.
The cake cost me three weeks' allowance and probably violated several health codes, but it's magnificent. Three layers of chocolate with silver buttercream and edible glitter that catches the light like tiny diamonds. It says "Happy 17th Birthday Future Luna Julia" in swirly script that the baker assured me was "very romantic."
Amy has glued silver rhinestones to my eyelids with what I'm pretty sure is craft glue, creating a look that's part fairy princess, part craft store explosion. My dress is so tight I can't sit down without risking internal injury or a wardrobe malfunction that would traumatize the neighborhood children.
But I look amazing. Like, Caleb-will-drop-dead-and-beg-to-mate-me levels of amazing.
The dress is midnight blue and clings to curves I didn't know I had until this push-up bra performed actual miracles. The rhinestones make my eyes look like I'm crying diamonds. My hair is curled and pinned and sprayed into submission with enough hairspray to damage the ozone.
"He's going to take one look at you," Amy says, applying lip gloss for the fourth time because apparently my lips need to be visible from space, "and imprint so hard he'll rupture a lung."
"I know." I beam at my reflection in the window, practicing my surprised-but-pleased expression for when destiny comes knocking.
I've timed it perfectly. Caleb always runs through the clearing just behind my house before patrol. He's annoyingly consistent, like a very attractive Swiss watch with commitment issues. Every morning at 10:47 AM, he pounds past our back fence in those grey sweatpants that should be illegal and that ratty tank top that somehow makes him look like a Calvin Klein model.
So this year, my birthday party is outside.
With the cake.
And the guests—Mom, Dad, Amy, and three neighbors who definitely think I've lost my mind but are too polite to say so.
And my rhinestones.
Because nothing says "mark me as your eternal mate" like a well-placed outdoor ambush disguised as a birthday celebration.
"Are you sure this is going to work?" Amy asks, adjusting a balloon that's slowly deflating and now looks vaguely obscene.
"Positive. The mating bond is stronger during emotional moments. What's more emotional than a birthday party? Plus, I look incredible. It's foolproof."
"That's what you said about the toilet paper situation."
I wave a hand dismissively. "That was a fluke. Today is destiny."
Mom pokes her head out the back door, takes one look at our setup, and sighs the deep sigh of a woman who knows her daughter is about to embarrass herself again but is powerless to stop it.
"Julia, honey, maybe we should—"
"No takebacks, Mom. Today I become a woman. A mated woman."
She closes the door. Smart woman.
---
We hear him before we see him.
A low thud-thud-thud of sneakers pounding the forest path, rhythmic and determined. Leaves rustle like they're announcing his arrival. Birds scatter because even wildlife recognizes an alpha-in-training. My heart starts hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape before I do something stupid.
I stand, smoothing my dress and checking my rhinestones in Amy's phone camera. "Places, people. This is it."
Everyone turns toward the tree line like we're watching the most important performance of our lives.
And there he is.
Caleb Thorn, my fated mate (he just doesn't know it yet), charging through the trees like some shirtless Greek god carved from responsibility and disdain for teenage girls who can't take a hint.
His hair is damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead in a way that should be gross but somehow makes my ovaries applaud. Those grey sweatpants hang low on his hips, and his tank top is dark with sweat in all the right places. He's beautiful in that effortless way that makes me want to write bad poetry and also commit minor felonies.
I step forward, my heels sinking slightly into the soft earth.
He's coming right at me.
Actually right at me, for once, instead of past me or around me or through me like I'm some kind of teenage ghost.
I feel something warm bloom in my chest—not the mating bond, exactly, but something that feels like it could be. Like destiny knocking politely before it kicks down the door.
Amy grabs my arm, her nails digging through my dress. "Oh my god. It's happening."
"He sees me," I whisper, my voice breathy with anticipation. "He feels it too."
Caleb's eyes lock on mine, and for a moment—just a moment—I see something flicker across his face. Recognition. Surprise. Something that looks like it could be the beginning of forever.
I start walking toward him.
No, running.
Because why walk toward destiny when you can sprint headfirst into it wearing four-inch heels and enough body glitter to blind a satellite?
My arms are open like I'm in a romantic movie. I am a vision in satin and sequins. I am cinematic. I am the moment every romance novel has been building toward.
The wind catches my hair—I swear it does this on purpose, like even the weather is conspiring to make this perfect.
Behind me, someone yells "JULIA—WAIT—"
But I don't wait.
Because you don't wait for destiny. You run toward it with your arms open and your heart on your sleeve and rhinestones on your eyelids.
I speed up, my heels clicking against the stone path, cheeks flushed with excitement and exertion, soul glowing with the certainty that this is it, this is the moment, about to leap into his—
He dodges.
Like I'm a frisbee.
A very sparkly, very determined frisbee that he wants absolutely nothing to do with.
And he's not catching me at all.
He's catching someone else.
Someone behind me.
Someone who was apparently also running, but in the opposite direction, and is now colliding with Caleb in what looks like a very romantic, very intentional embrace.
I blink, confused, midair, my brain trying to process what's happening while my body continues its trajectory toward the ground. Time slows like it does in movies, but instead of romantic slow-motion it's horrified slow-motion. I twist mid-flight, arms windmilling, realizing that he's not looking at me at all—
And I land face-first in a mud puddle.
A deep one.
The kind that exists specifically to humiliate teenage girls who think they're the main character of their own love story.
There's an audible splurt that echoes across the clearing like the sound of my dignity dying.
Mud fills my mouth, my nose, my rhinestone-crusted eyes. Something squirms against my tongue—please be a leaf, please be a leaf—but no, it's definitely a worm. A live earthworm that is now doing the backstroke in my mouth like it's found the world's most disgusting swimming pool.
My dress rides up in ways that would make my mother cry. My shoes are somewhere in the puddle, probably plotting their escape.
Somewhere, a child screams.
Either from horror or delight, I can't tell. Possibly both.