Page 17 of His Problem Alpha

Devon

P erfect. The most important meeting of my freelance career, and my stomach was staging a full-scale mutiny.

I swallow hard, the acid burn in my throat making me wince as I grip the cold porcelain of the bathroom sink.

My reflection stares back, pale and clammy, with dark circles under my eyes that even my most expensive concealer couldn’t hide.

I splash cold water on my face and try to breathe through another wave of nausea that feels like it’s trying to turn me inside out.

"You good in there?" Alex's voice comes through the door, laced with a concern that’s become scarily familiar. "You've been in there for twenty minutes."

"Fine," I call back, my voice tight and unconvincing even to my own ears. "Just... nervous about the meeting."

There's a pause, then the soft thud of his forehead resting against the door. "You're going to kill it. Richard Shaw would be an idiot not to hire you."

The simple confidence in his voice sends a warm rush through my chest. Three weeks ago, he was unplugging my equipment and I was screaming at him in the hallway.

Now he's standing outside the bathroom door, giving me pep talks like he actually gives a shit.

Like it's the most natural thing in the world.

I open the door and find him leaning against the frame, a mug of coffee in his outstretched hand.

He’s wearing a pair of low-slung gray sweatpants and nothing else, his dark hair a chaotic mess from sleep.

I see him standing there—casual, rumpled, so fucking domestic—and my heart does a stupid little flip.

"You look like shit," he says, his eyes soft with a concern that completely negates the words.

"Thanks. Just what every omega wants to hear before a career-defining meeting." I take the coffee, our fingers brushing. A tiny jolt of electricity shoots up my arm from the contact. Pathetic.

He frowns, leaning closer to scent me, his nose just inches from my neck. "You smell off."

I step back quickly, my heart thumping. "It's just stress."

"You sure?" His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone. His touch is warm and steady. "You've been tired all week."

"I'm fine," I insist, even as I lean into his hand for a split second. "Just haven't been sleeping well."

It’s a complete lie. I’ve been sleeping better than I have in years, wrapped in his arms every single night, his steady breathing chasing away my usual anxieties. Our “no sleeping over” rule shattered on the very first night and we never bothered to pick up the pieces.

Alex doesn't look convinced, but he lets it drop. "Eat something before you go," he says, heading toward the kitchen. "I made toast."

I follow him, my eyes cataloging the changes in our apartment.

Our apartment. When the hell did that happen?

His black hoodie is draped over my desk chair.

My stack of design books has migrated to his side of the coffee table.

His expensive headphones are sitting next to my sketchpad.

His coffee mug next to mine in the sink.

When did we stop drawing lines between what’s his and what’s mine?

Everything’s all mixed together, just like we are now.

The toast sits on a plate on the counter.

It's just toast, but seeing it there, already buttered exactly how I like it... damn. The gesture hits me harder than it should. A few weeks ago, we were fighting over whose turn it was to buy coffee. Now he’s making me breakfast and remembering how I like my toast.

"I'm not hungry," I say, even as he pushes the plate toward me.

"Eat anyway. You need the energy."

I take a bite to appease him, but my stomach immediately clenches in protest. The buttery richness I usually love tastes like ash. I set the toast down, trying to hide my grimace.

"What time's the meeting?" he asks, leaning against the counter, watching me with those green eyes that see way too much.

"Ten." I glance at my watch. "I should get going soon."

He nods, then steps forward, crowding me against the counter. Before I can process what he’s doing, he’s tilting my head up, his lips finding mine in a soft, lingering kiss. It's gentle, almost unbearably tender, and for a second I forget how to breathe.

"For luck," he murmurs against my mouth.

He pulls back, his eyes dark, pupils huge. Then he runs his nose along my jawline—deliberately scent-marking me. My knees go weak. So much for that rule.

"Alex," I protest weakly, even as I tilt my head to give him better access.

"Hmm?" His lips brush the sensitive spot below my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. "Problem?"

Yes. A thousand problems. Starting with the fact that I’m supposed to be leaving for a meeting, not melting into a puddle because my roommate-with-benefits is scent-marking me in our kitchen like I belong to him.

"I have to go," I manage, pushing gently at his chest.

He steps back, but his eyes stay on me, intense and possessive. "Come straight home after. I want to hear how it went."

Home . The word echoes in my head as I grab my portfolio and head out the door. When did this apartment become home? When did Alex become the person I come home to?

As I step onto the subway, I can't stop thinking about what happened three nights ago. I’d woken up around 2 a.m., my skin feeling too tight, a familiar, deep ache building low in my belly.

It wasn’t a full heat—I wasn't due for months—but a mini-cycle, a shitty hormonal fluctuation that always left me restless and cramping and desperately needy.

I’d tried to hide it, carefully slipping out of his bed, planning to ride it out with a heating pad and some mindless scrolling in the bathroom. But Alex had known. Of course he had. He’d followed me, his alpha senses honed in on my distress before I’d even fully registered it myself.

I was curled up on the bathmat, pressing my fists into my lower abdomen, when the door creaked open.

"Devon," he'd said, his voice rough with sleep but his eyes sharp and alert in the dim light. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"It's nothing," I'd insisted, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Just a mini-cycle. I can handle it."

He'd shaken his head, stepping into the small space and crouching in front of me. "Let me help."

I’d expected him to push me against the wall, to fuck the discomfort out of me. It’s what we did. Our arrangement was practical, physical. Instead, he’d gathered me into his arms with a gentleness that stunned me and guided me back to bed. He’d laid me down, his movements careful, deliberate.

"What are you doing?" I'd asked, completely thrown by this departure from our usual script.

"Taking care of you," he'd said, his voice a low rumble.

And he had. He’d wrapped himself around me, his broad chest a warm wall against my back, one arm holding me close while his other hand settled on my stomach.

His palm was a steady, grounding weight, his fingers rubbing slow, soothing circles where the cramps were worst. His scent—coffee, leather, that deep, earthy alpha smell—had enveloped me, a calming blanket over the restless, anxious energy buzzing under my skin.

He hadn't tried to turn it sexual. He hadn't slid his hand lower, hadn't whispered dirty things in my ear. He’d just held me, his voice a quiet murmur against my temple as he talked about nothing in particular—a new mixing technique he was trying, some obscure band he thought I’d hate, the plot of a dumb action movie he’d watched.

His hands had stayed gentle, his presence a solid anchor, until the cramps subsided and I’d fallen asleep in his arms.

It wasn't him pinning me to the wall or bending me over the couch.

It was his palm rubbing circles on my cramping stomach, his lips pressed against my temple, his voice in my ear until I fell asleep.

It was care. Tenderness. The kind I'd convinced myself I didn't need from anyone, especially not from him.

And what terrified me most wasn't just wanting more of it—it was realizing I'd never had anyone care for me like that before.

The subway lurches, jolting me back to the present. My stop is next. I straighten my jacket, check my reflection in the window, and try to shove the memory away. This meeting is everything. I can't afford to be distracted.

---

"Devon, these are exceptional." Richard Shaw leans back in his leather chair with a soft creak, studying the mockups I've spread across his massive mahogany desk.

The faint smell of expensive cologne and coffee hangs in the air.

"You've captured exactly what we're trying to convey with the rebrand. "

I feel so relieved I could melt into the floor. "I'm glad you think so, Mr. Shaw."

"Richard, please." He smiles, and the expression transforms his usually stern face into something warmer. "Alissa was right about you. You have a unique perspective that's refreshing in this industry."

I fight the urge to preen at the praise. Richard Shaw is a legend, and his approval is more than just a paycheck. It’s legitimacy. It’s a real step toward the career I’ve been fighting tooth and nail for.

"Thank you," I say, my voice steady despite the excitement bubbling in my chest. "I'm particularly proud of the logo evolution. It maintains brand recognition while pushing toward a more modern aesthetic."

Richard nods, his eyes scanning the design again. "It's bold without being alienating. Exactly what we need." He looks up at me. "I'd like to bring you on for the full rebrand. Not just the initial concepts, but the complete implementation across all platforms."

My heart skips a beat. This is it. The big one. The contract that could set me up for months, maybe even a year. No more scraping by. No more taking on shitty little projects just to make rent.

"I'd be honored," I say, my voice miraculously calm.