Page 40 of Match My Alpha
"Milo," she says firmly. "Youarethe good one. You're also the one who wanted my brother. Those aren't two different people."
She picks up her cookie, takes a bite, and points the remaining half at me. "Also, I need you to know that he irons his T-shirts."
I blink, thrown by the sudden pivot. "He what?"
"His casual T-shirts. He irons them. Not dress shirts. The ratty gray cotton ones he wears around the house. He thinks wrinkled cotton is 'disrespectful.'" She does air quotes around the word, her grin returning in full force. "I walked in on him ironing a nine-dollar Target shirt, and he was completely focused. Like he was performing brain surgery."
A laugh bubbles up out of my chest. It's loud enough that the sleeping grad student shifts, but I can't help it. The image of big, serious Callum Hayes carefully pressing creases into cheap cotton with the intensity of a five-alarm fire is the most endearing fucking thing I've ever heard.
"He irons his T-shirts," I repeat, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye.
"Every single one. And he cried at a dog food commercial two Christmases ago and made me swear on our mother's life never to tell anyone." She leans forward. "I'm telling you because you're stuck with him now, and you need to know exactly what you signed up for."
"A T-shirt-ironing, dog-food-commercial-crying firefighter who talks to his plants."
"And youlovehim," she says, her eyes crinkling. "Which is the craziest part of this whole thing, because I've watched you go from 'I can't even look at him without blushing' to 'I'm his secret fated mate,' and neither of us ever said a damn word. We are both idiots."
"We're both idiots," I agree. My throat goes a little tight.
"Is he good to you?" she asks, the joke dropping away completely.
"Yeah," I say, my voice steady. "He really is."
She studies my face for a second, then nods. Her shoulders drop, like she was bracing for a hit that never came.
"Does he do the hovering thing?" she asks, the teasing lilt returning. "Where he stands way too close and checks if you've eaten while pretending he's not doing it?"
"Every single day."
"I knew it. He does that to everyone, but with you it's probably unbearable because he actually wants to fuck you, which means the hovering comes with an agenda." I flush hot, and she laughs. "Who cooks?"
"Both. He makes the garlic bread. I make everything else."
"Smart. His pasta is garbage. Has he made you water his plants yet?"
"I named one."
"You named—" She chokes on a laugh, setting her coffee down. "Which one?"
"The fern. Gerald."
Ava throws her head back and actually cackles, completely ignoring library etiquette. "Gerald. Oh my god, he's going to love that. He's going to tell Gerald everything." She shakes her head, grinning at me. "You two are perfect for each other, and it's disgusting."
"Good. If he ever steps out of line, I have a plan that involves ruining his recipe and crushing his self-esteem."
"I believe you." She stands up, grabs two more cookies from the Tupperware, and slings her bag over her shoulder. "You're coming to Dad's birthday next month, by the way. As Callum's date. Not as my friend who happens to be there. As his mate. Mom's already planning the menu, and if you bring cookies, she'll like you more than she likes Cal. Which isn't hard, because he was a nightmare teenager."
"I'll bring cookies."
"You better." She leans down and wraps her arms around me, squeezing tight. Tighter than usual. I squeeze back, and for a second neither of us lets go, and the five days of silence collapse into the space between my ribs. When she pulls away, her eyes are a little bright, but she blinks it gone and points at my desk. "Get back to work. Text my brother. He's been staring at his phone all day. I know because he keeps liking my Instagram stories within thirty seconds of me posting them, which means he's just sitting around waiting for you."
She struts out of the library, and the heavy glass door swings shut behind her.
I sit at my desk. The returns cart is still half-full. The grad student is still asleep. The Tupperware is lighter, my coffee is lukewarm, and the library looks exactly the same as it did an hour ago. But I feel like my skin actually fits right for the first time in weeks.
I pick up my phone. Callum's text is still glowing on the screen.
Gerald's leaf is drooping, should I move him?
