Page 47 of Keep My Alpha

I turn around.

Soren’s standing in the open garage door, backlit by afternoon sun, wearing jeans and that blue-purple cardigan I’ve watched him cross the quad in a hundred times. His hair’s a little messy. His eyes are careful. He’s holding a Tupperware container with both hands, gripping it like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Keats’s tiny carved head pokes out of his cardigan pocket: the waxwing, always the waxwing, always with him.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

There’s six feet of concrete between us.

My chest hurts. Six feet isn’t much, but it feels like a mile. I can see the line of his throat, the spot where his pulse jumps under his skin, and my jaw aches. My teeth feel too big for my mouth. Every muscle in my shoulders is burning from holding still when all I want to do is close the gap and put my mouth on him. I want to shove him up against the wall and bury my face in his neck until I can’t smell anything else. My cock throbs, just from watching him breathe.

“Milo’s brownies,” he says, lifting the container. “He said to tell you they’re not a bribe, they’re emotional infrastructure.”

I almost laugh. Almost. “That sounds like Milo.”

“It does.” He steps inside, then takes another step. He looks around the shop, slow, checking everything out. My pegboard with all the hand tools, the clamps, the vises, curls of shavings on the floor I didn’t bother to sweep up because I couldn’t even find the broom. Every step he takes makes it harder to breathe. There’s a flush on his cheeks, and his lips part when he breathes. Soren in my space, surrounded by my stuff, touching my things. My brain is making all kinds of noise I don’t want to deal with right now.

He sets the brownies on the corner of the workbench. His eyes land on the finch with the chewed-up wing.

“New one?” he asks.

“Trying to be.” I pick it up, turn it in my fingers. “The wing’s giving me trouble.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s rough.”

“Wren.” Soft, but it’s got a point. “I have seven of these. I’m the leading expert. It’s beautiful.”

I put the bird down. My throat’s dry, my hands are twitchy, and there’s nowhere left to hide.

“Can I see everything?” Soren asks.

I knew this was coming. Knew it when I read his text last night. Can we talk before the showcase? And I said yes because Aaron was right, because Soren was right, because carving birds for a guy I was too scared to face was exactly how I got into this mess.

“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”

I lead him over to the back wall, to the high shelf.

There’s a little lineup here. Some rough, half-carved pieces I gave up on when I lost my nerve. The seven birds Soren has are all named, lined up in that row he showed me. I saw them in his room once and almost had a heart attack. These are the ones that never made it off this shelf.

Soren reaches up and touches one of them, a half-shaped wing, running his thumb along its back. His face goes still.

“Stumble—the robin.” I have to clear my throat. “I sneezed while I was carving her primaries. Wrecked the wing. Didn’t have the heart to start over, but I almost kept her. Couldn’t believe I gave you something that wasn’t right.”

“The crooked-wing robin,” Soren says softly. “You told me about her. When you were—“ He trails off, but I know what he means. When I was still inside him and the words were pouring out of me like sawdust.

“Yeah.”

Soren goes quiet for a second, tracing his thumb over his palm like he’s remembering the crooked wing.

“You know why I named her Stumble?”

“You name them?”

“All of them.” His voice goes soft. “Stumble. Because she wobbles but she never falls off.”

I just nod because I don’t trust my voice.