Page 1 of His Problem Alpha
Devon
O f course, the exact moment my client finally says the magic words—"we love the direction"—is the moment the bass drop from hell rattles my teeth.
"That's fantastic to hear," I say, my smile so forced it’s practically a grimace. The laptop on my thighs shakes with each percussive thud. "I'm thrilled you're connecting with the concept."
My client—Marissa from the eco-friendly soap company with the budget of a lemonade stand and the expectations of a multinational corporation—tilts her head on the Zoom call. "Is everything okay there, Devon? Sounds like you're in the middle of an earthquake."
"Just some minor construction next door," I lie, angling my body to shield the camera from the view down our narrow hallway. At any moment, six-foot-two of pure, unadulterated inconsideration might emerge from his den, and I can’t afford for Marissa to see the source of the "construction. " "Nothing to worry about."
The music, some kind of industrial death metal that sounds like a terminator having a seizure in a cutlery drawer, cranks up another ten decibels. Because of course it does.
Marissa winces, her perfectly curated millennial-pink background blurring behind her. "Maybe we should reschedule—"
"No!" I blurt, my voice a full octave too high. I rein in the desperation, smoothing my expression into something resembling professional calm. "I mean, it's absolutely fine. So you're happy with the logo options? Because I can make any adjustments you need before finalizing the—"
The apartment door slams open behind me. I don’t need to turn around. The air in the room instantly changes, thick with that special asshole alpha energy that makes my teeth ache. A scent of stale coffee and something uniquely, irritatingly him rolls through the living room.
"Devon!" Alex's voice booms over the screeching guitars. "Where's my external hard drive?"
I hit the mute button on my laptop so fast I nearly crack the screen and spin around. "I'm in a client meeting," I hiss, gesturing wildly at my computer, at my face, at the general concept of employment.
Alex Matthews, roommate from hell and the bane of my existence, stands there looking like he just rolled out of bed at—I check the time: 2:37 in the afternoon.
His dark hair is a glorious disaster, his worn band t-shirt has holes in places that are probably intentional, and I hate that the shadow of stubble along his jaw looks good on someone so fundamentally irritating.
He doesn't lower the volume on the portable speaker he's holding. Of course he doesn't.
"I need my drive," he repeats, his voice a low rumble that vibrates right through the floorboards. "The black one with the red stripe."
"I don't have your drive. I don't touch your stuff. Now can you please—"
"Devon?" Marissa's tinny voice calls from the laptop. "I think you're muted?"
I whip back around, plastering on a smile that feels like it might crack my face in two. I unmute. "So sorry about that. As I was saying—"
Alex cranks the volume even higher. I can feel the bass physically vibrating the couch under me, thrumming up my spine. My blood pressure is spiking. I can feel the carefully constructed wall of my professional persona crumbling, brick by painful brick.
"Actually," Marissa says, her hand fluttering to her ear like she's in physical pain, "let's continue this tomorrow when it's quieter. Send me an invoice for today's time."
"No, wait—" But she's already waving a polite goodbye, her face disappearing in a pixelated swirl.
The call ends. My potential paycheck for the next month, gone with it.
I sit very still for three seconds, letting the rage build until I can't hold it in anymore.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I whirl around to face Alex, who's now digging through a pile of tangled cords on the coffee table like a raccoon in a dumpster.
"That was a client call! Do you have any concept of what that means?
People who pay me? So I can pay my half of the rent? On this shithole we share?"
Alex barely glances up, his intense green eyes flicking to me with spectacular disinterest. "Should've taken the call in your room."
"My room has the lighting of a medieval dungeon, which you'd know if you ever emerged from your cave before sunset.
" I get to my feet, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.
"Eighteen months. Eighteen months of your rotting food in the fridge—like that mystery container that actually grew fur—your 'borrowing' my coffee without replacing it, your middle-of-the-night hookups banging the headboard against my wall—"
That gets his attention. His eyes narrow for a split second before he scowls. "Jealous?"
"Of what? The parade of regrettable decisions stumbling out of your bedroom at four in the morning? Hardly."
I absolutely do not think about the last guy I saw leaving Alex's room.
Tall. Built. Looking dazed like Alex knew exactly what he was doing.
And I definitely don't notice the marks on the guy's neck or imagine Alex's hands—those long, calloused fingers—putting them there. Nope. Not thinking about that at all.
"Look," Alex says, finally turning down the music by a token amount, "I need to finish this mix by tonight. Some of us have actual deadlines."
"Some of us have actual jobs," I snap back.
His jaw tightens. Hit a nerve there. Good.
"Freelancing isn't a real job," he says, each word chosen with deliberate, surgical precision. "It's a hobby you're pretending pays the bills."
And there it is—the knife right between the ribs. I actually feel the sting of it, the air leaving my lungs. After almost two years, he knows exactly where to stick the knife, where I’m softest.
"Fuck you," I say, my voice tight. "At least I contribute to society instead of hiding in my room making noise nobody wants to hear."
Alex's expression hardens into granite, but before he can retaliate, I grab my laptop and keys. I need to get out of this apartment before I do something truly regrettable, like throw his precious speaker out the window. Or worse, notice how his eyes get even greener when he's angry.
"I'm going out," I announce, my voice shaking slightly. "Try not to burn the place down while I'm gone."
"Try not to come back," he calls after me as I slam the door hard enough to rattle the cheap frame.
---
"He's literally the worst human being I've ever met," I say, watching Lawson expertly bounce baby Noah on his knee. "And I once designed a logo for a guy who wanted to put his own face on a line of women's underwear."
Lawson and Kole's apartment is an oasis of calm, everything mine isn't—clean, peaceful, and filled with the quiet, domestic tranquility of two people who are disgustingly in love.
Their living room smells like cinnamon and baby powder instead of unwashed dishes and whatever unholy, magnetic scent Alex seems to exude.
"Maybe you should look for a new place," Kole suggests from the kitchen, handing me a mug of tea that smells suspiciously weak. "You've been complaining about him since you moved in."
"I can't afford a new place." I take a sip and try not to grimace. It tastes like hot water that was merely shown a tea bag. "Do you know what the deposit on a new apartment is? Besides, I'm locked into the lease for another six months of hell."
"You could always ask your parents for help," Lawson says, then immediately raises his free hand in surrender when I shoot him a death glare. "Just a suggestion."
"I'd rather live with Satan himself, in his actual fiery condo in the depths of Hades, than call my parents for money.
" I sink deeper into their obscenely comfortable couch.
"Besides, I'm making progress with clients.
That eco-soap company was about to sign off on the final designs.
Or they were, until Alex decided to hold a personal death-metal concert in our living room. "
Noah makes a happy gurgling sound, and Lawson's entire face softens into a puddle of alpha-dad mush. It’s sickeningly sweet.
Over a year ago, I was the one who caught these two making out on Lawson's couch, back when they were still in their 'we're just practicing for Lawson's sister's wedding and Kole's my pretend date' bullshit phase.
Now they're the poster children for domestic bliss.
It's a miracle and an irritation all at once.
"Maybe you should try talking to him," Kole suggests, settling onto the arm of the couch. "Like, actually talking, not just trading insults that sound suspiciously like foreplay."
I roll my eyes. "We're way past talking. This morning, I found my expensive, single-origin coffee grounds in the trash with a note from him that said 'buy better coffee next time.' The absolute audacity."
"That does sound annoying," Lawson admits, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Annoying doesn't begin to cover it. He's a walking disaster.
A black hole of consideration. A psychotic roommate from hell.
I hate the way he leaves his hoodies everywhere, the way he hums when he's concentrating, the sound of his middle-of-the-night hookups.
" I take a breath. The worst part is the silence after .
The sound of someone else gasping his name, followed by the soft click of the door as they leave.
It leaves a sour taste in my mouth, a territorial hum under my skin that I write off as sleep-deprived irritation.
Kole and Lawson exchange a look—one of those irritatingly silent couple-conversations that makes me feel like I'm the subject of a nature documentary.
"What?" I demand.
"Nothing," Kole says, a little too quickly. "It's just... you talk about him a lot."
"Because he's actively ruining my life!"
"Uh-huh." Lawson bounces Noah a little higher. "With very specific, sensory details. The sound of his voice, the way his hands look on his equipment, the exact shade of green of his—"
Heat rushes to my face. "I was complaining about how he mumbles! It's annoying!"