Page 47 of Pin My Alpha
He looks down at his hand, then at the worn spot. “Yeah. I guess I do.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks toward the door that leads out of the apartment. “From here,” he says, his voice quiet, “I can see the top of the stairs.”
I follow his gaze. The stairs that lead down to the bar.
“It’s a habit.”
The quiet way he says it lands somewhere deep and unwelcome. I know what it’s like to build a life around something that can’t leave you.
“That’s some serious old-man shit, Byrne,” I say, getting to my feet.
He just looks at me, a faint smile playing on his mouth. “You going to spend the whole day insulting me?”
“It’s a valid hobby.”
The fact that I’m smiling when I say it is the problem. I’m already moving toward the bedroom. “I should get my stuff.”
Declan doesn’t move from the couch. “Okay.”
Just that. No argument. No stay. The lack of pressure should be a relief, but it feels like a dare.
I head for the bedroom because I need my shoes, and because the air in here is starting to feel too thick. The messy pile of mail on the counter, the stack of records beside the stereo, the clean laundry he folded but hasn’t put away yet. It’s not curated. It’s just a life, happening.
The bedroom looks different in the daylight. Softer. The bed is a wreck, my side more than his. Pillows crooked, blanket kicked to the floor. His closet door is ajar, showing a neat line of dark shirts.
I should grab my bag and go.
Instead, I bend down and pick up the shirt from the floor. It’s a dark blue Henley, soft from a hundred washes, and it smells entirely of him. I toss it onto the bed. Then my hands are moving on their own, pulling the blanket straight, fluffing a pillow.
I stop, staring at what I’m doing. “Oh, no. You are not,” I mutter to myself.
From the other room, Declan calls, “You okay in there?”
“Fine.” My voice is tight.
“Need anything?”
“No.”
My eyes land on the bar towel by the sink, visible through the open door.
I don’t consciously decide to walk back out there. One second I’m in the bedroom, the next the towel is in my hand. The cotton is warm from a patch of sun. I rub my thumb over the embroidered letters. BYRNE’S. His name. His place.
Declan is standing by the couch now, watching me. He doesn’t say anything, which is somehow worse.
“What?” I snap.
He just looks at me. At the towel in my hand.
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?” His voice is low, even.
“Looking at me.”
“I don’t want to.”
