Page 45 of Pin My Alpha
Declan slides a perfect sheet of scrambled eggs onto my plate, then reaches past me for the toast. His chest brushes my shoulder, just for a second, and a full-body stillness takes me over. It’s not a flinch. It’s worse. It’s a quiet, cellular yes. His forearm is right there, corded with muscle, and the heat coming off him feels like a brand. I think about those arms pinning me to the mattress, the sheer ease of it, and the want is so sharp it’s almost pain.
He pulls back, but the feeling of him stays. He hesitates. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise for being in your own kitchen.”
He meets my eyes, his steady and green and seeing far too much. His throat works on a swallow, and I watch the faint jump of his pulse. My own throat feels tight.
“Okay,” he says, his voice quiet.
That one word undoes the anger. I hate it.
We eat at the small table by the window. It only has two chairs. The setup feels intentional, like a stage waiting for two people to sit down and play house. My mom did this a dozen times. Sat across from a dozen different alphas in a dozen different kitchens, pretending this one was the one that would stick.
I take a bite of eggs. They’re good. Of course they are.
“This is annoyingly good,” I say, just to break the silence in my head.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Thanks.”
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”
“Trying not to.”
“You’re failing.”
He just takes a bite of toast, his eyes holding mine.
There’s no music on. No game playing on a TV in the other room. Just the sound of forks on plates and the low hum of the city outside. The quiet should be a problem. Silence is usually a weapon or a warning. This just… is. It feels solid.
I drain my coffee mug and look down at the street. A couple of students wander past, looking too awake for a Sunday.
I put my fork down. “Your snack inventory is a problem.”
Declan looks up from his plate, brow slightly furrowed. “Is it?”
“You have a bowl of lemons but no actual food.”
“There are crackers in the pantry.”
“I’ve had them. They taste like drywall.”
“You ate half the box yesterday.”
“I was angry-snacking,” I say, pushing my empty plate away. “It’s a different metabolic process. You should add snacks to the relaunch plan. Under ‘community-facing hospitality optimisation.’”
A low laugh rumbles in his chest. “Right. Better crackers.”
“Don’t mock the process.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He’s mocking it. I can feel the smile in his voice without even looking at him.
When I take my plate to the sink, Declan is there a second later, reaching for it. I turn, holding it away.
“I can wash my own plate.”
“I cooked,” he says, his voice quiet.
