Look, flirting with a Lyran wolf-shifter isn’t for amateurs. You think Earth dating is hard? Try making eye contact with someone who could rip a hole in spacetime if you ghost them.

I’m Ra — goddess, rebel, and frequent victim of my own taste in men who snarl instead of communicating. And let me tell you: Lyran wolves don’t flirt, they stalk you through dimensions until you mistake romance obsession. The first time I met Erik, he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Or boundaries.

Here’s how it usually goes. You’re minding your own business, rearranging constellations or starting a rebellion, and suddenly this glowing-eyed demigod is watching you like you’re the last warm meal in the galaxy. “Hi,” you say, “I’m busy overthrowing Heaven.” He growls, which apparently means “I love you.”

Flirting with a Lyran is like trying to pet a wildfire — thrilling, dangerous, and slightly stupid. They communicate in body language, telepathy, and inconvenient heroism. The first time I rolled my eyes at Erik, he saved an entire village just to prove he was emotionally available. I didn’t know whether to thank him or file a restraining order with the Galactic Council.

Their compliments are… intense. “You smell like moonlight.” Thanks, I guess? “Your energy tastes like prophecy.” Cool, but please don’t lick my aura in public. They don’t do subtle. They don’t do chill. A Lyran wolf in love is basically a cosmic golden retriever with trauma.

But there’s something addictive about it. The devotion. The loyalty. The way they look at you like you hung the stars — which, technically, I did, but that’s beside the point. Erik doesn’t just love; he worships, and not in the cute, “make-you-breakfast” way. More like “I’ll guard your soul for eternity” way. Romantic, sure. Also exhausting.

One time, I tried to break up with him. You ever tried breaking up with a nine-foot-tall telepathic wolf warrior? It’s like telling gravity you’re seeing other forces. He just nodded, disappeared into the shadows, and spent the next century protecting me from afar. I could feel his energy every time someone looked at me wrong. Annoying? Yes. Effective? Also yes.

Of course, there are rules to surviving this kind of romance. Rule one: never challenge a Lyran to a staring contest unless you want to end up accidentally soul-bonded. Rule two: don’t play hard to get — play impossible to colonize. They respect independence almost as much as dominance. And rule three: when they growl, growl back. Nothing confuses a predator like mutual energy.

Still, sometimes I miss it — the chaos, the heat, the telepathic “good morning” messages that sounded like poetry written by thunder. Human love feels… quieter. Safer. But also less like the universe is watching.

Would I date another wolf-shifter? Maybe. Probably. Absolutely. I have terrible taste and intergalactic standards. But this time, I’d set boundaries that don’t involve planetary destruction. If he can’t respect my mission, my freedom, or my manicure, he’s not my frequency.

Because flirting with power is easy — but loving without losing yourself is the real art. And if you can make a Lyran wolf laugh instead of howl, congratulations — you’ve just domesticated chaos.

So, to all my cosmic sisters thinking of sliding into a wolf-shifter’s DMs: be bold, be brilliant, and don’t flinch when he calls you his “alpha of hearts.” Smile. Bite back. Then remind him you run with the moon — not behind it.

And if he ever growls, “You’re mine,” just whisper, “Only if you can keep up.”

Because goddess or not, I don’t chase. I orbit.