Page 46 of Pin My Alpha
“You set the table. That’s not an equal division of labour.”
“It’s fine, Shay.”
“It’s not about it being fine.” My fingers tighten on the ceramic. His hand closes over the edge of the plate, not pulling, just… there. His thumb brushes mine. The contact is nothing, and it’s everything. His hand is warm and broad and makesmine look small. For a long, stupid second, we just stand there, holding a dish between us.
His expression softens. That’s the worst part. It’s not pity, it’s just this quiet, steady patience.
“You don’t have to earn your breakfast,” he says.
The words are so gentle they feel like an accusation. I let go of the plate.
“I know that.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t look at me, just turns on the water.
“Then why say it?” The question is sharper than I mean it to be.
He keeps his back to me, but his shoulders tense slightly. “Because knowing it isn’t the same as believing it.”
I want to hit him with something sharp and clever, something that puts the wall back up. But my throat is tight, and there’s nothing there.
So I just stand there while he washes the plate, my arms crossed tight over my chest. I watch the muscles in his forearm shift as he works, the tendons in his wrist flexing with an easy, practised competence. My mouth goes dry. I think about those hands, how they could just as easily pin my wrists above my head, his whole body a heavy, grounding weight. The thought of him holding me down, not to fight but just to keep me, hits so hard my breath catches.
He dries his hands on the bar towel that’s always either on his shoulder or tucked into the back of his jeans.
The towel.
It’s faded black, the cotton worn soft. In the corner, BYRNE’S is embroidered in faded green thread. I’ve seen that towel wipe down the bar a thousand times. I’ve seen him use it to grip a hot pan. I’ve seen it slung over his shoulder while he listens to one of Jude’s dramatic stories, his expression unreadable. It’s a part of him. A part of this place.
It smells like him. Not soap or the coffee from this morning, but the actual scent underneath. The one that’s just his.
Something deep in my gut gives a low, possessive thrum.
Declan sees me staring at the towel. He puts it down by the sink without a word.
I spend the next hour trying very hard not to look at it again.
We end up on the couch, watching some movie about a fake spy that is, objectively, one of the worst things ever committed to film. Every ten minutes, someone falls out of a window or gets hit in the face with a pool noodle.
Declan thinks it’s hilarious.
He doesn’t just chuckle. He laughs, a deep, rough sound that makes his shoulders shake. It vibrates through the cushions, and I’m hyper-aware of the eight inches of worn leather separating my thigh from his. Close enough to feel the heat coming off him. Far enough that I can pretend it doesn’t matter.
“You have terrible taste,” I tell him during a scene involving a mistaken identity and a lot of whipped cream.
He glances at me, the corner of his mouth ticked up. “You’re still watching.”
“I’m emotionally trapped by this narrative.”
He just laughs again and reaches for the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t defend the movie. He just enjoys it, completely unbothered by my opinion, and for some reason that’s more infuriating than any comeback would have been.
I steal some popcorn, which feels like losing.
By the time the credits roll, my feet are tucked under me and I’ve got his throw blanket pulled over my lap. At some point, he stretched his arm along the back of the couch. His fingers rest a few inches from my shoulder, not touching, but the warmth of him presses against my side. The almost-touch is torture now, and I can’t stop imagining them sliding into my curls,tugging just enough to tilt my head back so he could drag his mouth down the column of my throat. My pulse hammers at the fantasy, the restraint costing me more with every slow breath I take. I want it so badly my skin feels too tight.
His thumb is rubbing a slow circle over a worn patch of leather on the armrest.
“You sit here a lot,” I say, just to say something.
