Page 11 of Match My Alpha
Milo:you're too good at this
Anonymous:At what?
Milo:making me feel safe
I set the phone on the nightstand and press my hands over my face. Friday. I'm meeting Anonymous on Friday. After dinner at Ava's, where Callum will be. Looking at me with those blue-green eyes and sayinghey, Milolike my name is something warm in his mouth.
I'm going to sit across from the man I've wanted since the first time he said my name, and then leave to go meet a stranger from a hookup app. That's my Friday night.
My phone buzzes.
Anonymous:Hey. Have you eaten today?
I stare at the message.
Four words. A basic question. But the way it lands hits me right in the chest. The automatic, reflexive caring, like checking whether I've eaten is just hardwired into him.
It sounds like someone. The gentle assumption that I probably haven't eaten. It reminds me of—
Ava? No, Ava would saydid you eat or did you just inhale crackers again. This is quieter. Like a person who checks on people for a living and can't turn it off.
Milo:had leftover pasta earlier
It's a lie. I had half a sleeve of crackers and a string cheese while arguing with Benji about dish soap. But Anonymous doesn't need to know that.
Anonymous:Good. Take care of yourself tonight, sweetheart. I'll talk to you tomorrow.
Milo:goodnight anonymous alpha
Anonymous:Goodnight. Sleep well.
I set the phone down. The screen dims, then goes dark.
Benji's music has stopped. Outside, a car door closes. The bed smells like clean sheets and the cinnamon rolls I made this morning. No one else.
Friday. The dinner. Callum handing me a plate I didn't ask for, the way he does every time, his voice low and easy.Eat something, Milo.
My chest aches. I reach for the empty side of the bed, spreading my fingers across the cold sheet.
Milo
The casserole dish is burning my hands through the pot holders, and I styled my hair. That's a sentence that has never applied to me before tonight and should probably be studied by a professional.
I styled my hair for dinner at my best friend's apartment just because her brother is going to be here. Because I'm twenty-one years old and apparently incapable of sitting across a table from Callum Hayes without wanting to look like I actually tried. I did try. I tried on four sweaters, settled on the fitted burgundy one that Jude once said made my shoulders look "biteable"—his word, not mine—and then spent eleven minutes in the bathroom mirror trying to make my curls look intentional instead of feral. They look feral, but intentionally feral. I think.
Ava buzzes me up and meets me at the door in an apron that says KISS THE COOK, which she definitely bought as a joke and now wears unironically. She takes one look at me and grins.
"You did your hair."
"I didn't do my hair."
"You absolutely did your hair. It looks great. Get in here, Cal's already started the garlic bread and he won't let me touch it."
She grabs the casserole dish from my hands—my abuela's chicken and rice, because I couldn't show up to a dinner without bringing something I made, that's not how I was raised—and disappears into the kitchen.
And there he is. Callum is standing at the counter with a cutting board and a head of garlic, his back to me. He's wearing a gray T-shirt that's been washed so many times it's basically see-through across the shoulders. His hair—that grown-out version that's been haunting my phone screen since the FaceTime incident—is messy and damp at the ends like he showered right before I got here. The freckles across the bridge of his nose are visible even from here. I know because I'm always looking for them.
He turns around, and his eyes find me immediately. "Hey, Milo."
