Page 13 of His Problem Alpha

Devon

" D evon? Are you with us?"

Alissa's voice cuts through the fog, and I blink, realizing my screen has gone blurry. "Sorry, what was the question?" I straighten in my chair, trying to look like a professional who hasn't spent the last week in an emotional purgatory.

Alissa Francis—successful business owner, design mentor, and the woman who's single-handedly keeping my fledgling career afloat—sighs on my laptop screen. Her perfectly shaped eyebrow arches in that way that makes most of her employees cry.

"I asked what you thought about the alternate color palette for the rebrand. The one you suggested last week? The one we've been discussing for the past ten minutes?"

"Right. That one." I shuffle through my notes, buying time while my brain attempts to reboot. The documents blur together, nothing but meaningless shapes. I can't focus worth shit. "I think the warmer tones better reflect their, uh, commitment to customer connection."

Even to my own ears, it sounds like bullshit. This is my third meeting this week where I've completely spaced out. My brain won't stop betraying me, playing highlights of Alex's hands on my skin on repeat, the way his voice dropped when he—

"Devon." Alissa's voice sharpens. "What's going on with you? You've been distracted all week. This isn't like you."

I force a smile that feels like it might crack my face. "Just a lingering flu. Nothing serious."

"Uh-huh." She doesn't believe me. "Well, whatever 'flu' you have, I need you to kick it before our meeting with Richard Shaw next week. This is a huge opportunity, and I recommended you personally."

Guilt slams into me. Alissa took a chance on me right out of college, gave me freelance work when no one else would. And here I am, mentally replaying the way my asshole roommate's knot felt inside me instead of focusing on the job that pays my rent.

"I'll be on my A-game, I promise. Just need a few more days to get my head straight."

"Good." She softens slightly. "Because you're too talented to let whatever this is derail you. Take the weekend, sort yourself out, and come back ready to dazzle on Monday."

After we disconnect, I stare at my reflection in the black screen. I look like I haven't slept in days—dark circles, messy hair, and eyes that scream 'total wreck.'

I hate him for this. I hate that he's gotten under my skin. What I hate most is that I can't even properly hate him anymore—I'm too busy noticing the exact way he avoids looking at me when we pass in the hallway.

My phone buzzes with a FaceTime call from Lawson. Great. Perfect. Just what I need—a front-row seat to functional relationship bliss.

I answer anyway. Part masochism, part desperate need for any human connection that isn't charged with whatever the hell is happening with Alex.

"Hey, stranger!" Lawson's face appears, Noah balanced on his hip. The baby gurgles and smacks at the screen. "Look who wanted to say hi to his Uncle Devon!"

Despite everything, my face softens. "Hey, little man. Getting big, aren't you?"

"Six months yesterday," Lawson beams with that disgustingly happy new-parent glow. "Kole's just finishing up some work, but he'll be—oh, here he is."

Kole's face appears over Lawson's shoulder, his smile warm. "Devon! We were starting to think you'd forgotten about us."

"As if you'd let me," I say, my default sarcasm feeling hollow and forced. "How's parenthood treating you?"

"Sleep is a distant memory, but worth it," Lawson says, pressing a kiss to Noah's head. "But enough about us. How are you? Still dealing with the roommate from hell?"

My stomach drops. The last time we talked, I was venting about how much I hated Alex. How he was the most inconsiderate asshole on the planet. How I couldn't stand being in the same room with him.

That was before I begged him to fuck me. Before I found out what his mouth tastes like. Before I discovered that the brooding alpha who drives me insane is also capable of holding me like I'm something precious.

"He's... the same," I manage, the lie sticking in my throat. "You know. Loud music. Passive-aggressive notes. The usual."

Kole's eyes narrow. As a fellow omega, he's always been too perceptive for my comfort. "Are you sure you're okay, Dev? You seem... different. Your scent over the camera is all tangled up."

"My scent?" I laugh too loudly. "It's a video call, Kole. You can't smell me through the phone."

"Not literally, but I can see it in your face. Something's off." He leans closer to the screen. "Did something happen with your roommate?"

My heart pounds so hard I'm sure they can hear it. "Nothing happened. Everything's fine. I've just been busy with work." I glance at my nonexistent watch. "Speaking of which, I should probably get back to it. Big deadline coming up."

"Devon—" Kole starts, but I cut him off.

"I'll call you guys this weekend, okay? Give Noah a kiss for me!"

I end the call before they can push further, then drop my phone like it's burned me. My hands are shaking. I can't do this. I can't keep pretending nothing's changed when everything has.

For a week, Alex and I have perfected the art of never being in the same room.

I hear his door creak, count to thirty after the front door closes, then emerge from my room like I'm in some ridiculous spy movie.

He works late at the studio on campus, coming home long after I've gone to bed.

When we do cross paths, it's with averted eyes and mumbled acknowledgments.

It's fucking exhausting.

I pace my room, too keyed up to work but too trapped to leave.

The walls feel like they're closing in, saturated with memories I can't escape.

Every corner of this apartment holds some echo of what happened.

The hallway where I collapsed. The kitchen where he carried me, his arms strong and sure.

My bedroom, where for three days he made me feel things I didn't know I could feel.

I need air. I grab my jacket and keys, determined to escape for a few hours. Maybe a change of scenery will help me focus on work instead of obsessing over my roommate's hands.

When I open my door, I nearly collide with him.

Alex freezes, his eyes widening slightly before his expression shutters closed.

He's wearing a faded band t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders, jeans that hang low on his hips, and the leather jacket I've always secretly thought makes him look like a moody film student's wet dream.

His hair is a mess, like he's been running his hands through it.

I hate that I notice these things. I hate that I want to be the one messing up his hair.

"Sorry," he mutters, stepping back. "Didn't know you were home."

"I live here," I snap, the words sharper than I intended. "Where else would I be?"

He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. "You've been working at that coffee shop a lot."

The fact that he's noticed my absence makes something twist in my chest. I push past him, desperate to escape before I say something stupid, like I miss you or Why won't you look at me?

"I'm heading out," I say unnecessarily. "Don't wait up."

But as I reach the front door, I notice something in the middle of the living room floor—an expensive-looking piece of audio equipment, right in the path where I usually walk. It's so deliberately placed, so obviously meant to provoke, that something in me snaps.

I turn slowly, my hands clenching into fists. "What the fuck is that?"

Alex, who's made it to the kitchen, glances over his shoulder. "My new mixing board. Just got it today."

"And it needs to be in the middle of the living room because...?"

He shrugs, turning away to pour coffee into a mug. "I'm still setting up my workspace. It'll be gone later."

It's such a blatant lie, such an obvious power move. All the hurt and frustration from the past week suddenly boils over into pure rage. I don't think. I just storm into the kitchen, shaking with fury.

"Are we really going to do this?" I demand, my voice shaking. "Pretend that last weekend didn't happen?"

Alex turns, his face a carefully constructed mask of indifference. But I see it—the slight tightening around his eyes, the tension in his jaw. He's not as unaffected as he wants me to believe.

"It was biology, Devon," he says flatly. "An emergency. It's over."

His dismissal guts me like a knife. "Then why can't you look at me?" I press, my voice getting louder. "Why does this apartment feel like a tomb?"

"Because you're being dramatic," he says, but there's a crack in his composure. His knuckles are white around the coffee mug. "It was just a heat. People help each other through heats all the time. It doesn't have to mean anything."

"Bullshit." I step closer, invading his space. "If it didn't mean anything, you wouldn't be avoiding me like I'm carrying the plague. You wouldn't be leaving your shit in the middle of the floor just to piss me off."

"Maybe I'm avoiding you because you're acting like a clingy omega who can't separate sex from feelings," he snaps, and I see the exact moment he regrets the words. His pupils blow wide for a fraction of a second, but it's too late.

"Fuck you," I spit, shoving him hard. He barely moves, the solid wall of his chest unyielding under my hands. "You think that's what this is? That I'm some stereotype who fell in love with the first knot I took? Newsflash, asshole—I've had plenty of alphas. None of them left me feeling like this."

"Like what?" He steps closer, looming over me, his scent sharpening with something dangerous. "Tell me, Devon. How do I make you feel?"

His voice drops to that low alpha register that makes my skin prickle with awareness. We're standing too close. I can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the pulse jumping in his throat. My eyes drop to his mouth before I can stop myself.