It’s complicated. It’s always been complicated. Because with Wes, it’s not just about chemistry or connection. It’s history. It’sdamage.
It’s wounds still tender underneath all that practiced calm.
And I hate that I still feel it—that pull toward him—when he’s the one I should be running from.
I don’t trust him, and maybe I never will. But there’s a voice in me—quiet, stupid, reckless—that wonders if some things deserve a second chance. Even when logic screams no.
Even when the match burned once, and all that was left was ash.
So no, this isn’t the article I planned to write. It’s not strategic, or clever, or particularly funny.
But it’s honest.
And maybe, for once, that’s enough.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, staring at the last line.
Of course that’s the moment Rachel walks up behind me.
“Thisthe article?” she asks casually, leaning just enough to read over my shoulder.
I yelp—actuallyyelp—and slam the laptop shut.
“It’s nothing!” I say quickly. “It’s not—uh—it’s not done. It’s not even real. I was just—brainstorming. Freestyle. Stream of consciousness—journal entry, maybe? Ha ha?”
Rachel raises one suspicious eyebrow.
“Did your journal just confess to catching feelings for a pack of alphas led by your ex?”
I let out a strangled noise. “Maybe.”
She crosses her arms. “Aimee.”
“Okay.Fine,” I sigh. “It’s just a draft. Something I probably shouldn’t publish, but also maybe kind ofhaveto write to get my brain working again.”
Rachel pauses for a beat. “You know we don’t publish diary entries, right?”
“I know.”
“And you also know this is the best thing you’ve written since the heat suppressant exposé?”
“…Really?”
She nods once. “If it’s raw, then it’s messy. And it’s yours, which means it’s got teeth.”
I blink. “So you’re not mad?”
“Oh, I’m mad,” Rachel laughs. “Mad that you’ve been holding out on me with this whole ‘actually falling for your scent-match pack’ plotline like we don’tlovea good romantic implosion around here.”
I huff out a laugh, half panicked, half relieved. “I’m working on a real article too. With jokes and analysis and a heat index chart, I swear.”
“Fine,” Rachel says, smirking as she turns away. “But if you ever want to submit the version with your soul in it? Let me know. Our readers eat that shit up.”
I watch Rachel walk off, calm as anything, probably off to rescue someone else's word count or talk another intern down from quitting. Meanwhile, I’m still sitting here like I’ve just been caught sexting a spreadsheet.
My heart thuds unevenly as I slowly reopen the laptop.
The draft is still there, and I try something new, summarizing my feelings as best I can.