Page 36 of Rebound My Alpha
"My mom wants to meet you," I murmur into his hair. "Properly."
"Is she going to hate me?"
"She's going to love you. You're going to terrify her."
He snorts. "Good. Ruth says you have to come to Sunday dinner. She said if you skip, she'll find you. And she's found people before."
"I'll be there."
"Bring wine. She likes the cheap kind. She says expensive wine is for people who don't know what they actually like."
I file that away. I’ve never met the woman, but I’m already terrified of her.
Benji shifts against me. "Your apartment has shit lighting. If I'm going to work there, we need to move that desk near the window."
I blink. "If you're going to work there?"
"Don't make it a thing."
"I'm not making it a thing."
"You're making a face. Stop making the face."
I am absolutely making a face. He just casually planned out his desk in my apartment, and my chest is doing something so stupidly huge I have to bury my nose in his hair to hide it.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand. I can see the preview—messages from Jude and Shay lighting up the group chat. Benji reaches over, squints at the screen, and types two words.
He's here.
He tosses the phone back down and drops his head onto my chest. That's it. Two words, and his friends know the whole story.
I press my mouth to the claiming bite on his neck. The scar is permanent now, just like my ink.
His breathing slows. His fingers uncurl against my chest. I cover his hand with mine, our fingers tangling together just like they did that first night.
His pulse beats steady and slow right under my teeth marks. I close my eyes in the dark, pull him a little closer into his nest, and stay.
Epilogue - Knox
Ibalance a stolen tray of drinks in one hand and Soren’s extra-lime gin and tonic in the other, navigating the Friday night crush at Byrne’s. I didn't even have to ask what anyone wanted. Rhys gets the IPA. Callum gets the darkest stout on tap. Milo drinks a cider he pretends to hate, and Jude gets a vodka cranberry that he insists is a cocktail, but Rhys calls a juice box. Shay takes his whiskey neat because he’s twenty-one and trying too hard, and Benji drinks a cheap lager he claims is ironic.
I spot Benji in the booth before I’m halfway across the floor. He’s crammed into the inside seat—my spot is right next to him. Always is. He’s talking with his hands, mid-roast of Jude, his silver nose ring catching the dim overhead light. The claiming bite above his collar has faded to a permanent silver-pink. I can't remember the last time I saw him wear a high-necked shirt to cover it.
I slide into the booth and pass the drinks around. Benji grabs his lager without a word of thanks, which is basically a love letter from him, and immediately reaches across my plate to steal three of my fries.
"Those were mine," I point out.
"Were," he agrees, shoving them into his mouth.
I drop my arm around his waist. His hand finds my thigh under the table. We don't even look at each other; the contact is just automatic now. It's loud as fuck in this booth, and it's exactly where I'm supposed to be.
Sometimes, my brain flashes back to the Fridays before this. The empty apartment. The sketchbook open to a blank page. The suffocating quiet. Now, I can barely hear my own thoughts over Jude’s bitching and Rhys’s laugh and Benji’s elbow digging into my ribs. It’s the loudest, best quiet I’ve ever had.
"Your beanie makes you look like a burglar," Jude announces from across the table. He’s draped over Rhys, completely boneless and already two drinks deep.
"Your vodka cranberry makes you look like a sorority pledge," I shoot back.
Jude gasps in theatrical offense. Rhys hides a smile behind his pint glass, and Benji just watches the exchange with his chin propped on his hand. He gives me a look that I file away asmine.
