Page 86 of Pin My Alpha
It doesn’t argue.
My room looks exactly the way I left it, which is somehow offensive. White duvet pulled military-tight. Desk clear exceptfor my laptop, my planner, the cold brew, and a stack of papers I should probably care about. Graduation is coming up, and I’m supposed to be building a future, not having a full-scale emotional collapse in the room I designed specifically to be un-feel-able.
No clutter. No soft blankets. No stupid green bar towel tucked under my pillow, because I’m not insane.
The towel is in my duffel bag on the floor.
I haven’t unpacked.
I also haven’t thrown it away.
That’s not a data point. That’s nothing.
The whole room smells like detergent, cold coffee, and the vanilla candle Soren gave me for my birthday. I never light it because it’s too sweet. It smells like a hotel room. Like I could just disappear and no one would know I was ever here, which used to be the point.
Now it just smells wrong.
I want cedar. I want clean cotton and aged whiskey and the lemon polish from the bar downstairs. I want Declan’s stupid Henley shoved against my face while he breathes behind me, one heavy arm thrown over my waist like he’s daring me to go anywhere.
The thought catches on the line of his throat, that thick column that flexed any time he swallowed during closing shifts, the tendon standing out when he tried not to laugh at one of my spreadsheets. I keep imagining the exact texture of it under my tongue, the scrape of stubble, the low rumble that would roll out of him if I sucked hard enough to leave a mark. My mouth actually waters. I hate how specific it is, how my brain has filed away the exact width of his fingers, the blunt tips of them, the way they’d look spread across my hip bone holding me down while he—
Great. Perfect. Love this for me.
A fist hits my door. Hard.
“Shay,” Jude calls. “Open up before I start narrating your breakdown to the whole group chat.”
“I’m not having a breakdown.”
“You have them constantly. You just put them in business casual.”
I stare at the door.
Another knock. Softer this time.
“Sweetheart?” Milo says. “I brought soup.”
I close my eyes.
That’s so unfair.
Milo’s soup is emotional warfare. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He just shows up with a bowl of something warm, smelling faintly of vanilla and chamomile and home, and looks at you with those huge, sad eyes until you admit you haven’t eaten actual food in a day and a half.
“I’m not hungry,” I call out.
“Okay,” Milo says, gentle as hell. “I still brought it.”
Benji’s voice comes through the wood. “He’s probably running on spite and caffeine. A very sustainable long-term plan.”
“It got you through sophomore year,” I shoot back.
“Yeah, and then I met Knox and got stupid. Your point?”
Soren makes this tiny, strangled sound that might be a laugh.
There’s a pause.
Then Jude says, “I’m counting to five.”
