MY MATE, THE ALPHA

Chloe

“You have got to be kidding me.”

The words fell out of my mouth as I stared at the open door of apartment 3B. Two neat stacks of brown moving boxes stood just inside, and the scent of fresh cardboard mixed with the hallway’s usual lemon cleaner. My heart sank right to the toes of my worn-out sneakers.

“Amanda is going to be crushed,” I mumbled, juggling my grocery bags to dig for my keys.

I finally got my own door—3A, right across from the new invasion—unlocked and shoved inside. I dropped the bags on the kitchen counter with a thud and pulled out my phone. My best friend’s face, mid-laugh from our last picnic, lit up the screen.

She answered before the first ring finished. “Please tell me you’re holding the key to my future home. Did you talk to the manager?”

“I’m holding a bag of squishy tomatoes,” I sighed, slumping against the counter. “And I’m looking at the future home of someone else. 3B is taken, Mandy. Boxes are in. Door’s wide open. I’m so sorry.”

A long, pained groan traveled through the phone. “No. No way. I called the office this morning! The guy said it was still available!”

“Well, someone must have shown up with a truck full of boxes and a signed lease right after you hung up,” I said, trying to sound sympathetic and not disappointed for myself. Having her just across the hall had been a golden dream. “But listen, don’t start crying yet. The ground-floor unit, 1C, is still free. The one with the little patio.”

“The one that smells like wet leaves and has the mysterious drip-drip sound behind the walls?”

“It’s atmospheric,” I insisted. “Think of it as free white noise. And the patio is perfect for your herb garden. The point is, it’s open. If you call Mr. Henderson right now, you can grab it. You’ll still be in the building. We can have coffee without you needing a car.”

She was quiet for a second. I could hear the calculation in her silence. “Okay. Fine. You’re right. It’s better than nothing. I’ll call him. But if I get mushrooms growing in my closet, you’re helping me sue.”

“I’ll be your star witness,” I promised, finally starting to unpack the groceries. The milk felt warm. I needed to get it in the fridge.

“So,” Amanda said, her voice shifting to a curious purr. “The mysterious new neighbor of 3B. Did you get a look at them?”

I glanced toward my front door. “Just boxes. Very standard, non-descript boxes.”

“Man or woman?”

“Cardboard is gender-neutral, Amanda.”

“Statistically, single men move their own boxes,” she declared. “Women are smarter. They hire people. So, any signs of testosterone? A weightlifting bench in the hall? A tool belt?”

I laughed, wedging the milk onto the crowded fridge shelf. “No tools. No benches. Just silence and a lot of packing tape.”

“Hmm.” Her hum was loaded. “Well, be extra careful, then. Seriously.”

“I’m always careful. I check the backseat of my car.”

“I’m not talking about your car, Chloe.” Her tone lost its playful edge. “Have you checked the neighborhood feed lately? There’s a whole thread about it. Guys taking super short-term leases in buildings all over the Riverside area. They move in quiet, keep to themselves, and then vanish. Poof. No notice.”

I rolled my eyes, shutting the fridge. “That’s called ‘breaking a lease,’ Mandy. It’s rude, not criminal.”

“It’s a pattern,” she insisted, her voice dropping to a whisper. “My friend Sophie’s cousin lived next door to one in the Elm Street complex. He was there for, like, a month. She only saw him once, taking out trash late at night. Said he was huge and moved like a… like a panther or something. Then he disappeared. And her cat, Mr. Whiskers, hid under the bed the whole time he lived there.”

A tiny, irrational chill prickled the back of my neck. I shrugged it off. “Mr. Whiskers hides from vacuum cleaners and plastic bags. He’s not a reliable witness.”

“Promise me you’ll be aware,” she pressed, her voice earnest. “No friendly ‘welcome to the building’ chats alone. If it’s a guy, and he gives you even a weird vibe, you text me. Instantly. The forum people are calling them hunters. They scope out a building, watch for the right… situation. The right prey.”

The word prey landed in the quiet of my kitchen like a stone. It sounded absurd, like a bad movie title. But for a second, the image of that open, dark doorway across from mine felt less like a new neighbor and more like an open mouth.

“Alright, alright,” I said, giving in. “I promise. No welcoming committee. I’ll be a ghost. The invisible girl of the third floor.”

“Good.” She sounded relieved. “Okay, I’m calling Mr. Henderson right now to claim my swamp-adjacent studio. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I ended the call. The apartment felt too quiet. The cheerful, mismatched thrift store decor I loved suddenly seemed flimsy. I tiptoed to my front door and leaned in, putting my eye to the peephole.

The distorted fish-eye view showed the hallway. The door to 3B was still wide open. I could see more now—the corner of a sleek, black leather armchair, and a large, expensive-looking suitcase with polished metal latches.

Then, movement.

A shadow stretched, long and dark, across the floor of the vacant living room. My breath caught. I didn’t blink.

He walked into the edge of the frame, his back to me. Tall. So tall his head was almost out of my peephole’s view. He wore simple, dark clothes that fit him too well, the fabric pulling across shoulders that were impossibly wide and tense. He just stood there, in the middle of his empty space, perfectly still. He wasn’t unpacking. He wasn’t on his phone. He was just… listening.

To what?

My own heart was pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it through the door. This was insane. I was spying on a man standing in his own home.

Slowly, so slowly, he began to turn toward my door.

I stumbled back from the peephole, my hand flying to my chest. I hadn’t seen his face, just the deliberate, controlled shift of his body. Get a grip, Chloe. He’s a guy. He moved. It’s fine.