Page 12 of Keep My Alpha

“Huh.” He waves the barista over without looking at her. “Can I get a black coffee? And he’ll have a regular latte. Whole milk.”

I blink. “Oh, I already have—“

“You don’t really want that, right?” He grins at me. “It’s probably decaf. Pointless. Might as well drink water.”

“It’s not decaf, it’s lavender—“

“Trust me.” He winks. An actual, unironic wink. “You’ll like this better.”

The barista catches my eye, and I give her the tiniest headshake because I was raised to be polite even when I want to crawl out of my own skin. He’s just confident, I tell myself. Maybe he’s one of those people who expresses care by taking charge. Maybe the ordering thing is his nervous tic, the way mine is sugar-packet origami.

I’m reaching. I know I’m reaching. But I always try to see the best version of everyone I meet, and I’m not going to stop because my first instinct is to bolt.

Except under all that cologne, his scent is... flat. Not bad. Just nothing special. My omega instincts, shrug. There’s recognition. Not even a flinch.

“So,” Derek says, leaning back. He spreads his knees so wide he’s taking up all the space under our tiny table, his leg pressing against mine in a way that could be accidental but isn’t. “Creative writing, right? Your profile said that.”

“Yeah. Poetry, mostly.” I sit up a little straighter. “I actually just submitted to the Summer Arts Festival—“

“That’s cool, that’s cool.” He nods, but his eyes glaze the second I say poetry. “I mean, not a lot of jobs in that, right? But it’s a fun hobby.”

A fun hobby.

I’ve been writing since I was twelve. I fell asleep last week with ink on my cheek because I was drafting a poem about the way oak leaves hold light at dusk. I’ve spent whole afternoons trying to get a single line right, one image, one breath of.

A fun hobby.

Okay.

“What about you?” I ask, because I am still here, still trying, still the person who leaves you’re doing great on sticky notes for strangers and can’t seem to extend the same grace to himself. “Kinesiology?”

“Yeah, pre-physical therapy. But I’m really into functional fitness. It’s a whole philosophy, you know? Training the body for real-world movements, not just aesthetics.” He flexes an arm on the table, casual, not-so-casual. “Though the aesthetics are a nice bonus.”

For the next ten minutes, he talks about his gym routine. I learn about his split schedule, his protein intake, and his strong opinions about creatine. I try, I genuinely try, to find the thread I can pull to get underneath the performance. Read anything good lately? Have a favorite spot on campus? But every question curves him back to himself.

Under the table, I pull out my phone.

Soren: So many red flags, help

Jude: WHAT’S HAPPENING

Soren: He ordered me a drink I didn’t ask for, called my major a hobby, and has been talking about deadlifts for ten minutes

Benji: oh no

Jude: oh YES. this is content. keep going.

Shay: Leave. Just stand up and leave. You don’t owe him anything.

Milo: Shay’s right. You can always leave. 💜

Jude: okay FINE shay’s right but also do you want me to call you with a fake emergency? i have scripts prepared. option A: your cat is on fire. option B: you’ve been selected for jury duty effective immediately. option C: i just scream into the phone for thirty seconds.

I almost smile. My friends are completely insane and I love them with something so enormous and specific it doesn’t have a name yet. Maybe I’ll coin one. Friend-ache.

Derek is still talking. Something about meal prep now. I’m watching his mouth move and feeling the wrongness of this settling into my body like cold water.

I put my phone away. I take a sip of the latte I didn’t order. It’s sickly sweet, no lavender, sugar and milk and nothing.