Page 28 of Swipe My Alpha
"I love you," he says. Quiet. Into my hair. Like it's been sitting in his chest since last night and he can't hold it anymore. "I should have said it before. Not in a text, not buried in something else. I love you, Jude. I'm in love with you and I'm not hiding it."
I press my face into his neck.
"I love you too," I say. "Obviously. I've been wearing your clothes like a psychopath. It was implied."
He laughs. A real one, shaky and wet and warm, and his arms tighten around me and his knot pulses inside me and we lie there, tangled together in the nest that smells right again, and I'm not running. I'm not hiding. I'm exactly where I belong.
Rhys
Dr. Albright's email arrives at 8:14 AM on a Tuesday while I'm making coffee in my kitchen and Jude is still asleep in the nest.
It's three paragraphs. Professional. Measured. She appreciates my disclosure. She acknowledges the transfer has already been processed. She notes that a formal reprimand will be placed in my TA file for failure to disclose in a timely manner, but given the circumstances—fated mate bond, proactive transfer, voluntary admission—she sees no need for further disciplinary action. She expects my continued professionalism for the remainder of the semester.
The last line:I trust this will not be an issue going forward, Calder.
I read it twice. Put my phone down. Pick up my coffee. Drink it while leaning against the counter and looking at the bedroom doorway where I can see one of Jude's feet sticking out of the nest, the rest of him buried in blankets that smell like both of us.
That's it. That's the whole thing. The crisis that almost cost me my mate, resolved in three paragraphs and a formal-but-fairemail before I've finished my first cup of coffee. I should feel more about this. Relief, maybe. Vindication. Instead I just feel like an idiot for ever thinking this was the thing worth being afraid of.
Jude's foot twitches. He makes a grumbling noise from somewhere inside the blankets. "Why are you standing in the kitchen making loud thoughts. Come back to bed."
"Albright emailed."
The blankets shift. His face appears, puffy and squinting. "And?"
"Reprimand in my file. No further action. Transfer's done."
"So you're not fired."
"I'm not fired."
"Cool. Come back to bed."
I crawl back into the nest with my coffee and he immediately hooks his leg over mine and presses his face into my chest and falls back asleep. I drink my coffee one-handed and read the email a third time and feel the last knot of anxiety in my gut finally dissolve.
Later that night, I meet his friends.
Not the crisis version from yesterday morning, where I stood in their doorway unshowered and desperate. The real version. The one where Jude says "We're going to Byrne's, you're coming, and if you embarrass me I'll bite you somewhere visible" and I put on a clean shirt and try to remember how to talk to people who aren't my advisor or my brother.
Byrne's is a dive bar about ten minutes from campus. Sticky floors, dim lighting, a jukebox that someone has loaded with nothing but 90s R&B and early 2000s pop punk. The kind of place where the booths are cracked leather and the drinks are strong and cheap and nobody cards too carefully. It feels lived-in. Claimed. The Swipe Squad's territory.
Jude walks in like he owns the place. He probably does, emotionally. He waves at the bartender, a woman with short hair and a dry smile who waves back, and heads straight for a corner booth where four omegas are already packed in with drinks and opinions.
"Everyone, this is Rhys," Jude says, sliding into the booth and pulling me down next to him. "Rhys, this is everyone."
Four pairs of eyes land on me. I've faced dissertation committees that felt less evaluative.
"The TA," says the one with the undercut and the blue streak in his hair. Benji. I've heard about Benji.
"Former TA," I say. "I don't grade his papers anymore."
"But you did grade his papers while you were knotting him."
"Benji," says the soft one in the oversized sweater. Milo. He gives me a small, warm smile. "Hi. It's nice to actually meet you."
"You too. Jude talks about you a lot."
"He talks about all of us a lot," says the one next to Milo, sharp-eyed, arms crossed. Shay. I recognize him from the doorway yesterday. He's looking at me the same way he looked at me then, like he's deciding whether I'm worth the oxygen. "Mostly he talks about you though. Which is annoying."
