Page 17 of Swipe My Alpha
"It's biology. Text him. Tell him you need a space that smells like both of you or you're going to lose your mind. It's not weakness, it's just how claiming works."
He walks away. I hear him tell Milo something in the kitchen and Milo makes a soft sound that might be concern. I love my friends. I also want to be alone in a room that smells like the specific combination of laundry detergent and skin that is Rhys Calder, and this apartment, much as I love it, is never going to be that.
My phone buzzes.
Can you meet me at the coffee place on Elm? The one with the bad mural.
I know the one. Off campus, quiet, nobody from the department goes there because the espresso tastes like dirt. We've met there twice now for actual conversations where we sit across from each other and try to act like normal peoplewho aren't bonded mates hiding from university policy. It's almost harder than the sex. Looking at him in public and not touching him. Watching his hands wrap around a coffee cup and remembering where those hands have been.
When?
Now?
I pull on jeans and a jacket, stuff my feet into sneakers, and grab my keys. I don't look in the mirror because I know what I look like: tired, a little wild.
The walk takes ten minutes. He's already there, sitting at the corner table with two cups. He's in a grey henley with the sleeves pushed up, ink visible on his forearm, glasses slightly crooked. He looks up when I walk in and his face does this thing. This quiet, helpless thing where his whole expression goes soft like he forgot how to be guarded.
I drop into the chair across from him. "Your espresso order better not be for me. This place tastes like hot brown sadness."
"It's tea. I remembered you like tea when you're tired."
Shit. "I'm not tired."
"You look tired."
"Thanks, that's very sexy of you to say."
He smiles. Small, private, just for me. My omega purrs and I tell it to shut up. "I wanted to give you something," he says.
"If it's your response paper notes I'll walk out of here."
He reaches into his jacket pocket and puts something on the table between us. A key. Silver, new-cut, on a plain ring. Nothing fancy. Just a key.
I stare at it.
"My apartment," he says. "It's yours. Come whenever you want. Stay whenever you want. I know your place isn't—" He pauses. Chooses his words. "I know you need somewhere quiet sometimes. For whatever you need. And I want it to be with me."
My throat does something tight and inconvenient. I pick up the key. It's warm from his pocket. Small and heavy in my palm.
"This is a big deal," I say. My voice comes out quieter than I want it to.
"I know."
"Like, this isn't a hookup thing. This is a key-to-your-apartment thing."
"I know what it is."
"You're giving your student a key to your apartment."
"I'm giving my mate a key to our home."
I close my fingers around the metal and hold it tight enough that the teeth press into my skin. He's watching me with those hazel eyes behind his stupid glasses and he's so steady, so sure, and I want to make a joke. I want to deflect. I want to say something sharp and funny that puts distance between us and the weight of what he just said.
"Okay," I say instead.
He blinks. "Okay?"
"Okay. Yeah." I put the key in my jacket pocket. "But if your apartment is messy I'm judging you."
