Page 51 of Keep My Alpha

“Perfect. Audiences love vulnerability.” She glances at our installation, and for a second her expression softens from publicist to actual person. “For what it’s worth, this is the best piece in the show. My publicist brain knows how it looks, but I actually mean it.”

She clicks away into the crowd.

Wren’s hand stays on my back. I lean into it a little, and his fingers spread wider.

The gallery keeps filling up around us. Jude and Rhys stand by the wine table, Jude waving his arms so much he almost hits a judge. Milo and Callum are near the door, Callum’s arm around Milo while Milo holds a Tupperware he brought from home because he doesn’t trust the gallery food. Benji and Knox are already at our piece, Benji tilting his head to read the poems while Knox studies the branch joinery with real focus. Shay and Declan come in last—Shay scanning the room like he’s checking for fire code violations, Declan guiding him toward our corner.

Aaron is here too, squeezed between Ava and a sculpture I think is an abstract pelican, already making jokes. His laugh echoes across the whole room.

“Your brother is loud,” I tell Wren.

“Yep.”

“Like, really loud.”

“I know.” His voice turns soft and warm, and he watches Aaron with that open look he gets when he can’t believe he has friends now. Wren would still be leaving anonymous birds in the dark if Aaron hadn’t barged into his workshop and told him to talk to people. I owe that kid a fruit basket. Or maybe a hug that nearly breaks ribs. But first, the poem.

It’s time.

Kendra takes the mic, introduces the piece as a collaboration “about being seen fully,” and steps aside. I walk to the little lectern next to the tree. My hands are shaking. The poem is on a single sheet of paper I’ve folded and unfolded so many times the creases are almost transparent.

I look at Wren.

He’s standing just off to the side, arms loose, watching me. His expression is the one I’ve seen exactly once before, in his workshop, right after I told him I loved all of him. Like he dreamed me up and I walked right off his workbench.

I unfold the paper.

I could read something else. I have three safer poems, pretty ones with enough metaphor to hide behind. For a moment, I think about it. I could read something lovely and distant, and no one here would know.

Except Wren would. And I would.

And I’m so goddamn tired of choosing the safer thing because wanting it too much might jinx it. I already said yes. I already have him.

I choose the real one.

“This poem is called ‘Keep My Alpha,’” I say into the mic. My voice is steadier than I thought it would be. “It’s about a boy who wanted a fairy tale so much he almost missed the real thing. And it’s for the man who carved me a forest because he was too scared to say hello.”

Somewhere in the crowd, Jude whispers, “I’m going to die,“ loud enough for half the room. Rhys shushes him.

My hands stop shaking somewhere between the first word and saying Wren’s name. The panic fades into something quieter and stronger.

I read.

The words come out just as I wrote them: honest, a little awkward, not perfect. They’re about finding carved birds on benches and making up stories about hands I’d never held. About being so scared of wanting something that even hoping for it felt risky. About the night everything changed and the fantasy and the man turned out to be the same person.

The last stanza was the hardest to write. I wrote it at three in the morning, sitting on the floor of Wren’s workshop with sawdust on my jeans, while he slept at his worktable behind me.

I lower the paper. My throat feels raw, my eyes burn, and I’ve never felt this exposed in front of other people.

Silence. Heavy and complete.

Then the room erupts in applause, loud and sudden. For a moment, everything blurs. I blink and spot Wren in the crowd, one hand over his mouth, eyes red.

Jude jumps to his feet, of course. Milo is crying into Callum’s shoulder. Benji claps slowly and deliberately, which means he’s really moved but would never say so.

I step away from the lectern and Wren is there, pulling me close. His mouth is warm against my temple, then the corner of my eye where a tear slips free.

“You wrote that,” he says. His voice is completely wrecked.