Page 13 of Pin My Alpha
“Shut up,” I mutter, and yank the shirt back down. It’s just fabric. It’s just warm. That’s all.
Downstairs, the kitchen is quiet. A soft beam of light peeks from under Soren’s door, but there’s no movement. I focus on the mechanics of making coffee, the scoop and the pour, and try not to catch my reflection in the dark window over the sink. The gurgle of the machine is a good sound. Grounding. I lean against the counter and press my fingertips to the mark on my neck.
It doesn’t hurt. It hums. A low thrum of energy under the skin, a current pulling steadily in one direction. Back toward the bar. Back to his bed, to the solid weight of him, to that rough voice telling me he had me. I press my whole palm flat against it, and the pull gets stronger, a hot, deep ache that’s almost pleasure.
My body answers with a soft purr, and a wave of self-disgust washes through me. This isn’t real. It’s a biological trap. A chemical reaction designed to make me stupid and dependent.
Except it feels more real than anything else.
I squeeze my eyes shut. My mother used to say the trick was how safe they made you feel at first. They’d hold you, buy you dinner, swear they were different. Then one day the calls would stop, and you’d be left with their smell on your pillows and no idea how you were going to make rent. But I’m not my mother. I don’t wait for alphas to call. I run away before breakfast and steal their shirt. Major upgrade.
A laugh almost escapes, but it’s thin and humorless.
My phone won’t stop buzzing. It vibrates against the countertop, a frantic, insistent demand I don’t have the energy for. The coffee maker finishes its cycle with a final, gurgling sigh.
I turn the phone over.
The screen is a wall of text.
Jude:wait hang on
Jude:milo you have intel???
Milo:It’s just something I overheard at the Coffee Spot. A guy who delivers their pastries was talking.
Benji:Get to the point, Reyes.
Milo:He said Byrne’s landlord is jacking up the rent. And that some chain wants to buy the whole building.
For a second, the words don’t connect. They’re just shapes on a screen.
Then my brain does the thing it does when the floor gives out. It starts building a new one.
Problem: Rent increase, potential buyout. Declan’s whole life could evaporate because his landlord smells profit.
Assets: Established customer base, prime location, brand loyalty.
Liabilities: Outdated decor, zero social media presence, inefficient use of patio space, no event programming.
Opportunities: Student loyalty campaigns, local business partnerships, happy hour overhaul.
I don’t care. I don’t. This isn’t my problem. My fingers are already twitching toward my laptop, and I hate myself a little less for it because it’s the first useful thing my brain has done all morning.
The focus is cold and clean. A wave of something useful washing out the panic.
Jude:holy shit he could lose the bar???
Milo:I don’t know. It sounded serious.
Benji:Fuck. That place is the only reason half of us pass our finals.
Soren:But Declan loves it so much. :(
Soren’s text hangs there. My hand clenches on my coffee mug.
Declan loves it.
I see him. Not asleep, not in his bed. Behind the bar, a towel over his shoulder, his hands moving with a slow, steady competence. The way his eyes find our booth across the room, a flicker of something that isn’t quite a smile, like we’re a disaster he’s fond of. The solid, quiet fact of him.
