Page 33 of Swipe My Alpha
"If you keep doing that we're not going to be dressed when they get here," he murmurs against my lips.
"Would that be so bad?"
"Shay would never let us live it down."
"Valid point."
They show up in a wave. Benji first, because Benji is always first, carrying a bag of chips that he swears are different from last time. Shay behind him with a look that suggests he's already tired. Soren with wine and a notebook he's been writing in, tucked under his arm like a security blanket. Milo last, carrying a tote bag full of Tupperware and smelling faintly like cinnamon.
The apartment fills up. Noise, laughter, Benji immediately claiming the best spot on the couch, Soren sitting on the floor because he says the rug is "more grounding." Shay inspects the fridge, judges our grocery choices, and pours himself a drink without asking. This is what they do. This is what we do now.
Rhys moves through it like he belongs there, because he does. He opens Milo's containers and arranges dip on a plate without being asked. He finds the corkscrew for Soren's four-dollar wine. He lets Benji roast his bookshelf organization — "Color-coded?Are you a sociopath?" — and responds with "It's aesthetically pleasing" in a voice so dry that Benji actually laughs.
I stand in the kitchen doorway and watch my alpha in a room full of my people and my chest is so full it hurts in the good way. The only way it hurts now.
Halfway through the movie, which nobody is watching because Benji keeps pausing it to argue about the plot, Milo's phone buzzes. He glances at it and his whole face changes. Soft. A little pink. He bites his lip and types something back and tries to tuck the phone away before anyone notices.
Everyone notices.
"Who was that?" Benji says.
"Nobody."
"Nobody doesn't make you blush, Milo."
"It's— it's Ava's brother. Callum. He's coming to visit next weekend and she wants to do a group dinner thing. He was just confirming." Milo shrugs, too casual, his ears bright red. "It's not a big deal."
"Ava's brother," Shay says flatly. "The hot firefighter."
"He's not— I mean, he's—"
"You've had a crush on him since freshman year," Benji says. "This is the opposite of 'not a big deal.'"
"I do not have a crush on—"
"Milo, you made him a cake for his birthday. You don't even know his birthday. You asked Ava."
Milo buries his face in a throw pillow. Soren pats his back sympathetically. I catch Rhys's eye across the room and he raises an eyebrow and I mouthlaterand he nods and goes back to pretending to watch the movie.
The night winds down the way all their nights wind down. Gradually, then all at once. Soren falls asleep against the arm of the couch. Benji and Shay argue about something in the kitchen while doing dishes, which means Shay washes andBenji provides unhelpful commentary. Milo helps Rhys put the leftover dip away and I hear them talking quietly about something — Milo asking Rhys a question, Rhys answering with that calm, steady voice he uses when someone needs to feel heard. My alpha and my best friend, getting along. It shouldn't surprise me anymore but it still makes my throat tight.
They leave in a loose cluster, hugs and insults and promises to do this again next week. At the door, Benji looks at Rhys and says "Your green curry order is wrong, by the way. You want the Thai basil, not the regular," which is the closest thing to approval Benji has ever given an alpha. Shay nods at him. Just a nod. But it's a Shay nod, which means more than most people's speeches.
The door closes. The apartment goes quiet. Rhys starts picking up glasses and I pull him away from the kitchen and into the nest and he comes willingly, folding himself around me, his chest against my back, his mouth against the bite on my neck.
"Your friends don't hate me," he says.
"They love you. Benji stole your hoodie. That's basically a blood oath."
He laughs, low and warm, and his arm tightens around my waist. I settle into him, into the nest, into the smell of us that fills this room so completely I can't imagine it ever smelling like anything else.
I pick up my phone. Not to text anyone. Not to check the group chat, which is already blowing up with Benji's hot takes about the movie nobody finished.
I open KnotMe.
The app loads with its loud pink interface and its cheeky tagline and the profile I made over a year ago. The photos. The bio that made a stranger laugh in a hotel room and then knot me into a mattress and bite my neck and rearrange my entire life. I look at it for a long moment. The little notification badge is gone. No new matches. No new messages. The last conversation in myinbox is still Rhys's profile, our DMs sitting there like a fossil of who we were before we knew each other's names.
I tap the settings. Scroll to the bottom.Delete Account.
