Page 57 of Keep My Alpha

He hasn’t noticed me yet. Or maybe he has, and he’s letting me watch, since he knows I like this—the moment before he realizes I’m here, when I get to see him unguarded and real.

“You’re tracking sawdust into the nest again,” I say.

He looks up. His mouth curves, slow and easy, and the pencil stills. “I swept.”

“You swept the hallway. The bedroom is a mess.”

“Adds texture.”

“Adds splinters.”

“You love splinters.” He tips his head, studying me the way he studies a piece of wood before he cuts into it. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to know you’re drawing another bird.”

“It’s a heron.”

“It’s for me.”

“Everything’s for you.” He says it like it’s obvious. Like the sun comes up and he makes things for me, and both of those are how the world works.

I cross the room and pull something from behind my back: a tiny bookshelf I picked up from Benji and Knox’s place this afternoon, wrapped in a dish towel because I don’t own wrapping paper. Ever since the disastrous attempt at a robin, Knox has been really into woodworking. Benji says he thinks that Knox can’t accept that his tattooing skills don’t translate into physical art, but I think he’s been getting lots better at it. Not as good as Wren, though.

“Here.” I hold it out. “You deserve your own altar, too.”

Wren sets down the sketchpad. Takes the shelf carefully, turns it over, runs his thumb along the joinery the way he does with anything built well. His throat works.

“Knox made this?”

“I designed it. Knox executed. Benji supervised, which mostly meant he sat on a stool and insulted Knox’s router technique for an hour.”

“It’s perfect.” His voice is quiet, rough at the edges. He looks up at me and his eyes do that thing, soft, stunned, like he still can’t believe someone built something for the guy who builds everything. “Soren.”

“Don’t make it weird.” I climb onto the bed, knees sinking into the blankets, and take the shelf back to set it on the nightstand. I start arranging the birds on it. “There. Now they have a real home instead of just lurking on random surfaces.”

“They weren’t lurking.”

“Stumble was behind my alarm clock giving me a judgy look every morning.”

Wren pulls me into his lap before I can finish arranging. His hands are warm and broad on my hips, and the touch sends a jolt of heat through me. I settle against him, legs on either side of his thighs. The warmth of his bare chest comes through my shirt, and so does his scent—clean from the shower, but underneath, still the workshop. That mix is the one thing that makes my whole body go soft and hungry at once.

His mouth is right there. His lower lip is a bit fuller than the upper, with graphite streaked along the corner. I keep staring at that smudge, and my throat goes dry.

“Hi,” he says, his mouth almost on mine.

“Hi.” I kiss the graphite on his jaw. Then the corner of his lips. Then the hollow of his throat, pressing my mouth there until his pulse kicks. His fingers flex on my hips.

“You taste like pencil,” I murmur.

“You taste like Milo’s cookies.”

“He dropped off a batch. Said it was a housewarming gift, which is silly since you moved in four months ago, but he just wanted an excuse to check on us.” I rock my hips a little, just enough to feel Wren getting hard under me through his sweatpants. “His and Callum’s lease is up in October. He’s been looking at grad school programs, and Callum is pretending he’s not already job-hunting in whatever city Milo picks.”

“They’ll figure it out.” Wren’s thumbs trace slow circles on my hipbones.

“And Jude texted me fourteen exclamation points yesterday about centerpieces. He and Rhys are going to have the most chaotic wedding in human history.”

“Aaron volunteered for the seating chart.”