Page 18 of Keep My Alpha

Wren’s wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves shoved past his elbows, forearms flexing as he adjusts the base. It’s been a few weeks since the café incident, and we’ve texted a bit. Nothing consequential, just the usual how’s it going and how about this weather we’re having. Okay, maybe not that last one, but mindless small talk seemed a lot easier than saying what I was really thinking. You were like one of those alphas from a romance novel, sweeping in to rescue me, and I bet if you let your hair grow out a little bit, you’d really look like one of those cover models. Or, you smelled so good that I masturbated when I got home and had to turn the birds away because I was embarrassed about all the sounds I made.

So, none of that stuff. But somehow in all our not-conversations, nothing came up about Wren being an artist or us both being accepted to the Festival.

I’m about to walk over when Kendra Moss, who runs orientation for the Festival, steps in front of me and ushers all the student artists into a semi-circle. She’s a beta in her mid-thirties with a clipboard she wields like a scepter, and opinions on everything from display height to font choice on our artist statements. She talks fast, doesn’t smile, and calls the Festival “a commitment to artistic vulnerability, not a weekend craft fair.” Professor Hannover stands behind her looking serene, occasionally adding something encouraging that Kendra immediately steamrolls with a logistics reminder. They explain the schedule: weekly “Meet the Artist” nights, a midpoint review, and the final showcase with public voting and a juried panel.

“Your work will be seen,” Kendra says, making eye contact with each of us like she’s issuing a personal threat. “Make sure it’s ready to be.”

I write dates in the margins of my folder and try not to look at Wren. I fail constantly.

When we line up for schedules, we end up side by side. I absolutely do not time my steps to reach the table at the same moment he does.

“Hey,” he says. That little half-smile that makes my stomach flip.

“Hey.” I’m grinning so hard my face hurts. “Nice tree.”

He looks down at his hands. “Thanks. It’s, uh. Not done yet. The base needs another coat.”

“Wren. It’s incredible.”

His ears go pink. He stares at his schedule like it contains nuclear launch codes. “Your poems. The cycle. What’s it about?”

I could deflect. I could say something vague about nature or metaphors. But he asked, and my whole body does that stupid calm thing it does around him, like my nervous system trusts him without asking permission. So I hear myself say, “It’s about someone who leaves me gifts. Anonymous ones. I’ve been writing about what it feels like to be chosen by someone you’ve never met.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw, and his thumb presses so hard against the edge of his schedule it bends the paper.

“That sounds...” He swallows. “Really good.”

“We’ll see. Kendra looks like she eats poets for breakfast.”

He almost laughs, this soft huff of air through his nose, and we’re just standing there grinning at each other like the rest of the room doesn’t exist, until a heavy hand lands on Wren’s shoulder.

“There he is!” A barrel-chested alpha whose nametag reads Mr. Ellis, Woodshop, appears out of nowhere, already dragging Wren toward a cluster of coordinators. “Wren, come on, you gotta meet—this kid builds things most sculptors couldn’t dream of. Wait till you see the full piece, the joinery alone—“

Wren shoots me a look over his shoulder that’s pure mortified apology, and I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing out loud.

Professor Hannover materializes at my elbow. “So that’s the woodworker Ellis won’t shut up about.”

“That’s the woodworker.”

“Interesting.” She takes off her glasses and cleans them off with her shirt. “He should hear you read.”

“Professor—“

“I won’t shut up about you, Soren. You should know that by now.”

She introduces me to Wren properly when Ellis finally lets him go, and the formality of it, “Wren, this is Soren Patel,” makes my neck go hot. Wren shakes my hand like he hasn’t already given me the best orgasm of my life and says, “We’ve met,” with a straight face that almost kills me.

During the last break, we end up in a corner with our schedules spread on a windowsill. Three overlapping “Meet the Artist” nights. Midpoint review on the same day. The final showcase.

“We’re going to see a lot of each other,” I say.

“Yeah.” His voice drops. “I’m okay with that.”

Late afternoon light catches the short dark hairs on his forearms, and I stare at the line where his sleeve is rolled, the way the muscle shifts when he adjusts his grip. My brain helpfully replays that same forearm braced beside my head in the hallway, his body the only solid thing in the universe while I shook apart against his thigh.

I want his hands on me again.

“Come to Byrne’s tonight,” I say, the words rushing out before something dumb like logic can intervene. “My friends want to celebrate me being a finalist, and they’re going to want to meet you. I um, sort of told them about how you helped me out the other day.” I clear my throat. “I should warn you, they’re… a lot, but they’re mine, and I want you there.”