Page 46 of Keep My Alpha

Wren’s hands made this. The same hands that shake when he’s nervous but go perfectly steady when he touches me.

“Okay,” I say.

Milo looks up from cutting brownies. “Okay?”

“Okay. I’m going to talk to him. Before the showcase.” I swallow. The jinx is still there, small and mine, but not real. “I’m done pretending that wanting him will break this. I’m going to tell him the birds were never the point. He was. He was always the point.”

Milo smiles. “Good.”

“Can I have a brownie first?”

“They need to cool.”

“Milo.”

“Five minutes.”

“I might die in five minutes.”

“You’ve survived worse.” He slides a plate across the counter anyway, the brownie still steaming at the edges. “Eat. Then text him.”

I eat the brownie. It’s perfect, because Milo’s baking is always perfect. Because my friends show up with butter, tell me the truth, and refuse to let me rearrange my birds in peace.

I pick up my phone and turn off Do Not Disturb. Ninety-three notifications come in at once: Jude in all caps, Benji with a raised-eyebrow emoji six times, Shay with a clinical “checking in, respond at your convenience,” Jude again, Jude a third time, and a separate text from Aaron asking if I’m okay because Wren is “being a freak about it.” Jude a fourth time.

I scroll past all of them to Wren’s name.

I type: Can we talk before the showcase?

Send.

The read receipt appears instantly. He was waiting. Of course he was. My quiet, stubborn alpha, sitting in his workshop with his phone in his hand, too scared to knock on a door I left open for him.

The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Yes. Please. Whenever you want.

I close my eyes and press the phone against my chest.

Wren

I’ve been at this finch wing with 400-grit sandpaper for twenty minutes, and it’s still being a pain in the ass.

I curl the sandpaper around my finger and try to work the curve where the wing spreads out. The grain’s fighting me, like it always does with cherry. Every time I go over it, it feels like the wood’s just being stubborn. My thumb’s raw. The edge looks rough.

I switch hands and try coming at it from a different angle. The sandpaper snags, rips up a little bit of wood, and now the whole wing looks like something chewed on it.

“Fuck.”

I put the bird down on the workbench and press my hands flat on the surface. The whole shop smells like pine shavings and linseed oil. My tree’s shoved in the corner under a drop cloth. I can’t even look at it right now. Yesterday I went at it too hard and sanded a patch down to nothing, like I could just get rid of how I was feeling if I worked at it long enough.

My phone is face-up next to the chisel rack. Soren’s text, from forty minutes ago: On my way. Is the garage door open?

I texted back yes, then wasted forty minutes screwing up this bird.

I smell him before I hear him coming in.

There he is, moving through the sawdust like he owns the place. My hands freeze. My whole body just stops. My brain can’t decide if I want to bolt or drop to my knees.