Page 23 of His Problem Alpha
"Yeah," Devon says, his voice flat. He still won't look at me. "Me too. I have... work."
I dress quickly, mechanically, my movements jerky and uncoordinated. I’m desperate to escape the suffocating intimacy of the room, a room that smells like us, like sex and sweat and something broken. Devon doesn't move, just sits there with the sheet pulled around him, a statue of forced indifference.
"I'll be out for the day," I say, pulling my shirt over my head. The fabric feels abrasive against my skin. "Working on my thesis."
"Cool," Devon says, his voice unnaturally bright. "I have a client meeting anyway. Big project with Richard Shaw."
"Great." I grab my phone from the nightstand, my hand shaking slightly. "That's... great."
Another silence stretches between us, this one even more unbearable than the last. It’s filled with the ghosts of the sounds he made, the feel of his skin, the taste of his surrender.
"Alex," Devon starts, then stops, his mouth working like he's trying to find the right words and failing.
I wait, my heart hammering against my ribs.Say it. Whatever it is, just say it so I can get out of here.
"Never mind," he finally says, shaking his head, looking away. "It's nothing."
I feel both relieved and gutted, and I hate that contradiction. I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and head for the door.
"See you later," Devon calls after me, his voice carefully casual.
I don't respond. I can't. Leaving him feels like ripping something vital from my chest. I grab my laptop and keys from my room, then practically run for the front door, not looking back.
Outside, the morning air is cool against my face, but it does nothing to clear my head. Devon's scent is all over me, a phantom limb. It’s in my clothes, on my skin. I can still taste him on my tongue.
I walk without direction, just needing to move, to put distance between myself and the apartment. Between myself and Devon. After twenty minutes of autopilot, I find myself outside a coffee shop I've never been to before. Anonymous. Impersonal. Perfect.
Inside, it's noisy and crowded, a chaotic symphony of other people’s lives. It’s exactly what I need. I order the strongest coffee they have and find a small table in the corner, setting up my laptop. Work. I need to work. Lose myself in sound and rhythm and pattern. Forget the last three days ever happened.
I open my audio engineering software, put on my headphones, and stare at the blank project. My thesis is due in two weeks. I should be finalizing the mix, tweaking the levels, writing the accompanying paper. Instead, my hands hover over the keyboard, paralyzed.
The espresso machine lets out a high-pitched whine, a piercing shriek that cuts through the café's din. It hits the exact pitch Devon made when I first pushed inside him, a sound of painand pleasure and pure, animal shock. My dick gives a traitorous twitch inside my jeans.
The rhythmic chatter of the couple at the next table fades into a dull murmur, their words indistinct except for a few that slice through my focus. “...so good... all of me... just like that...” They’re echoes of the things I whispered against Devon’s skin, the praise that made him fall apart.
My hands move before my brain catches up. I’m creating something new. Not my thesis. Him.
A sharp synth line for his sarcasm, cutting and precise. A frantic, complicated drum pattern for his restless energy, the way his hands are always moving when he talks. And beneath it all, a low, warm cello line for the vulnerability I saw in his eyes when he shattered in my arms.
It's him. I'm creating a sonic portrait of Devon Garcia, the most infuriating, fascinating person I've ever met.
The truth slams into me. This isn't distance. This isn't forgetting. This is obsession.
I stare at the screen, at the waveforms that somehow capture the essence of him, and I hate myself so fucking much in that moment. What the fuck am I doing? I ran away to protect him from myself, and here I am, building a shrine to him in sound waves.
I close the project without saving it. Stare at the blank screen again. My thesis. I have to work on my thesis.
But the sounds don't come. All I hear is Devon's voice. His biting laugh. The small, broken sounds he made when his orgasm ripped through him. The way he whispered my name like a prayer.
"Fuck," I mutter, running a hand through my hair, dragging my fingers against my scalp.
The chair opposite me scrapes against the floor, and I look up, ready to snarl at whoever is invading my space. A kid, no olderthan ten, is retrieving a runaway toy car. He gives me a shy smile and scurries back to his parents. I watch them for a second—the mom laughing at something the dad says, the kid babbling about his car. A family. Normal. Happy.
A life I can never have. A life I don't deserve.
Control is all I have. All I’ve had since I stood at Ethan’s funeral, counting my breaths—one, two, three, in; one, two, three, out—so I wouldn’t fall apart in front of everyone. So no one would see the monster responsible.
Letting go, just feeling… that’s how people get hurt. That’s how Ethan got hurt.
