Page 21 of Keep My Alpha

“Goodnight.”

He walks away. I watch him go until he rounds the corner at the end of the street. Then I press my face into the collar of my shirt and breathe.

It smells like him. Faint, from where we were pressed together all night, but there. Then I pull Keats out of my pocket and cradle her in my palm. She smells the way she always does. Linseed oil and clean pine.

And just for a second, holding this tiny carved bird in one hand and breathing Wren’s scent on my collar, there’s this moment where I almost feel like something big is going to happen. It’s so intense that my breath catches.

Huh.

I close my hand around Keats and walk home through the warm dark, grinning like an idiot at nothing and everything.

Wren

I’m rubbing linseed into the tree’s lower trunk, working the oil into bark grain with a rag that used to be a shirt, when my phone buzzes.

Soren: hey! :) are you busy tomorrow? I could use help workshopping some festival stuff. you could come over?

Is “workshopping” code? Like, code-code? Or is it actually workshopping? Because I genuinely cannot tell if “come over” means “let’s sit at a table and look at a calendar” or if it means something else. Something involving his room and me trying not to combust while pretending I’m a functioning human being.

Because it’s killing me that I didn’t…escalate things after last night at Byrne’s. I don’t know why I didn’t, except that he looked so good standing there underneath the neon lights, and I kept thinking, don’t push him against the wall. Again. It’s got to be perfect, he deserves nothing less.

Was that dumb of me? Probably. Okay, definitely.

Not busy, I type. Delete. Sounds like I have no life. I’d like that. Delete. Way too eager.

Sure, what time?

He sends back a time and his address and a little notebook emoji, and I stare at it until the screen goes dark.

***

When I get to his apartment, I stand in front of his door for a solid five minutes before I get the courage to actually knock. Soren answers wearing a faded blue T-shirt and joggers. His hair is slightly damp, like he recently showered, and the rush of air brings his scent forward. It seems ten times stronger here than at the bar or the café.

“Hey.” He smiles, a little nervous and a little bright all at once.

“Hey.” Before I can second guess, I hold out the present I brought him. “I was at the craft market. Saw this and thought of you. For your poems, maybe.”

He takes the artisanal notebook from me, fingers running over the filigree and leather cover. Tracing the wrap, testing the toggle. He opens it and presses his palm flat against the first page, feeling the texture.

“Wren.” His voice goes soft. “This is beautiful.”

“It’s just a notebook.”

“No, it’s... I can tell it’s hand-bound. You can feel where they sewed the pages together.” He looks up at me, and whatever’s in his face, I have to look at the notebook instead. “This is really special. Thank you.”

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

I nod.

“Come in,” he says, stepping back. I follow him inside.

His apartment is quiet. The living room has a couch that sags in the middle, a coffee table with ring stains, and a single mug left on it. The kitchen counter is clean in a way that says nobody uses it much anymore. There’s a hook by the door with one jacket on it and three empty hooks beside it.

“It’s just me now,” Soren says, catching my look. He says it lightly, but the lightness doesn’t quite stick. “Jude was the last to officially move out. Well, Shay was technically last, but Shay had one foot at Declan’s from day two, so.” He shrugs. “Milo’s old room is basically a storage closet. Benji’s still has his paint on the walls because I like the color.”

I look at the empty hooks. Four friends, four rooms that used to be full.

“Must be quiet,” I say.