The map of Moonhaven sprawls across my desk like a collection of secrets, corners dog-eared from years of use. Each marking symbolizes territory or uncertainty, responsibilities carved into my role as both Sheriff and Alpha.
My phone buzzes, the persistent hum breaking the tranquility of my office. When I swipe it open, a text appears from old Jim at the inn, all thumbs and cryptic as usual.
“Journalist booked in,” it reads. “Investigating something 'bout old Moonhaven mysteries.”
Great, I think, rubbing the tension forming between my brows. A journalist descending with flashlight and pen, ready to scratch beneath the surface of what I safeguard so meticulously. I read the text again as though squeezing out some alternate meaning.
As Alpha, my immediate instinct is protection, wrapping Moonhaven in a cloak that keeps prying eyes on the outside. Desire, ambition, they take a backseat to the primal need to shield our world from careless curiosity.
Want is a liability.
I learned that early — before the badge, before the title, before Moonhaven decided I was something solid enough to lean on. Want narrows vision. Protection widens it.
An Alpha who confuses the two doesn’t last.
Whatever has arrived here, whatever stirred something directional and sharp in my chest this morning, it doesn’t get access to that part of me. Curiosity stays leashed. Interest stays theoretical.
Distance is the rule. Distance keeps everyone alive.
My deputy, a wiry fellow named Gregson, strides in, unbidden but not unwelcome. He carries a coffee cup, steam curling into spirals, an offering as part of the usual morning ritual.
"Heard about the new guest?" His eyes flick to the map, a question orbiting his statement.
I nod, cool and deliberate. "Jim sent word. Journalist’s poking around old cases."
The words taste gritty in my mouth.
Gregson snorts, slumping into the opposite chair. "Bet they think it's all unsolved murders and clandestine affairs."
"We have solved all murders," I remind, a ghost of a smile tugging.
We're small, small in the way close-knit communities are, the crimes more mundane and sorrow-laden than scandalous.
"And the affairs?" Gregson crosses his arms, eyes glinting with challenge set against good-natured banter.
"Paradise affairs are hardly clandestine when everyone knows," I quip, rotating the map slightly as though a new angle will illuminate novel insights.
The unease coils in my gut, tension familiar yet newly stirring. This arrival feels directional, a drawing force rather than one merely wandering unscrupulous.
"What will you do?" Gregson's posture shifts, ready to assist or restrain.
"Keep distance, keep them contained," I decide, the authority whispering through seasoned humility.
The resolve lands between us, stolid as Moonhaven's ancient trees, sentinel and sincere. The tricks of wandering journalists must not unravel the threads we’ve carefully weaved, binding secrets visible only to those deemed guardians.
Gregson rises, his understanding a nod, the map reclaiming the desk's space. "Want me to shadow them, subtly?"
Subtlety being Gregson's favorite delusion, I chuckle. "Perhaps on your best day. Just stay on alert."
The potential disruption rides an undercurrent of change rather than malice, but steadfastness remains my guide.
"They might surprise us yet," Gregson muses, leaving with the scent of richness from the coffee still swirling, mingling with the map's paper musk.
"God save them if they don't," I reply softly, only to myself, intent clear as the map beneath my fingers.
The journalist might unseat a ripple or two, but we'll cast anchor on the tumult as always, ensuring Moonhaven's tale remains tethered, brushed only by trusted pens.
By the time the office empties, the unease has settled again — not gone, just waiting.