Page 25 of His Problem Alpha

Devon

F or forty-eight hours, I live with a ghost who wore my roommate’s face.

Alex moved through our apartment like a shadow, his body occupying space while his mind was somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere I couldn’t reach. His eyes looked through me, not at me.

When I entered a room, he left it. When I spoke, he didn’t hear me.

The silence between us kept growing heavier, getting worse with every conversation I tried to start and every time he looked away.

I try again this morning, setting a mug of coffee on the counter near his elbow as he stares blankly at his laptop. The screen is dark, reflecting his own empty expression back at him. His fingers hover over the keys, not typing. Not moving at all.

“Made you coffee,” I say, my voice deliberately casual. “The fancy beans you like.”

No response. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. The mug sits untouched, steam curling into the air between us like a question mark.

“Okay, Casper,” I mutter, aiming for my usual sarcasm, but the words fall flat, swallowed by the suffocating quiet. “Rent’s still due even if you’re cosplaying as the Invisible Man.”

Nothing. Not even an eye roll. Two weeks ago, he would have fired back something equally snarky. A week ago, he would have pulled me against him and kissed the attitude right out of my mouth. Now? He might as well be in another dimension.

I watch him from the doorway, cataloging the changes.

The dark circles under his eyes have deepened to bruise-like shadows.

His stubble has grown past the sexy five o’clock shadow into neglected scruff that makes him look haggard.

His shoulders are rigid with tension, like he’s bracing for a blow that never comes.

His scent—god, his scent. It used to be warm coffee and leather and something earthy that made my knees weak.

Now it’s sharp with distress, sour with old grief.

It makes my nose itch and my chest hurt.

What did I do? The question loops in my head on endless repeat. What did I do wrong? Was it the pregnancy scare? Was it getting too domestic? Was I too needy during my mini-cycle? Did he finally realize I’m not worth the trouble?

You’re too much. You’ve always been too much.

The familiar voice of insecurity whispers in my ear, and for once, I don’t have a snappy comeback.

I see my mom’s face, her tired sigh after I’d spent twenty minutes excitedly explaining a new design concept.

“Devon, honey, that’s great, but Mommy just needs five minutes of peace.

” I see my ex-boyfriend, Mark, his hands thrown up in frustration.

“Can you just turn it off for a minute? The sarcasm, the commentary—it’s exhausting.

” No one wants to deal with all my sharp edges.

Maybe Alex finally saw the real me and decided he’d rather be alone.

But that doesn’t explain the text from Finn. The way Alex had gone rigid when it came through. The way his scent had soured instantly, like he’d been gut-punched. He’s not acting this way because of me. It has to be about Finn—whoever that is.

I leave the coffee and retreat to my room, the one I haven’t slept in for weeks. It feels cold and impersonal now, like a hotel room. I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress stiff and unfamiliar, my mind racing.

I’ve tried everything. I’ve given him space. I’ve tried to talk. I’ve left food outside his door that goes untouched. I’ve sent texts that go unread. Nothing works. He’s gone, even though his body is still here, moving through our apartment like a sleepwalker.

I can’t take it anymore. This silent treatment is worse than any fight. At least in a fight, there’s engagement. There’s emotion. This? This is like watching someone drown while standing on the shore, unable to reach them.

Enough. I’m done waiting for him to snap out of it. I’m done tiptoeing around whatever landmine Finn’s text detonated. I need answers, and if Alex won’t give them to me, I’ll find them myself.

---

I find him in the living room later that afternoon, staring blankly at his audio equipment. His fingers hover over dials he’s not adjusting. His expensive headphones hang unused around his neck. He’s not working. He’s just… existing. Barely.

“Alex,” I say, my voice soft but firm. No response. I step closer, into his line of sight. “Alex, look at me.”

His eyes flick to mine for a split second before sliding away, focusing on a point somewhere over my shoulder. It’s the most acknowledgment I’ve gotten in two days, and it feels like a victory, however small.

“We need to talk,” I say, abandoning my usual arsenal of sarcasm and deflection. This isn’t the time for shields. This is the time for direct hits. “What’s going on with you?”

He doesn’t answer, his jaw working like he’s chewing on words he doesn’t want to say.

“Did I do something wrong?” I ask, my voice embarrassingly close to pleading. “Because you’re acting like I’m poison. Just talk to me, Alex. Whatever it is, we can fix it.”

The sincerity in my voice seems to finally penetrate the fog around him.

He looks at me—really looks at me—for the first time in days.

What I see in his eyes makes my blood run cold.

There’s nothing there. No anger, no frustration, not even sadness.

Just… emptiness. It’s like looking into a house where all the lights have been turned off.

“This is what I do,” he says, his voice flat and dead. “I pretend to care until it gets too real. Maybe you should find someone who’s not broken.”

His words hit me hard. I can’t breathe for a second.

He delivers them with such casual cruelty, looking right through me as he says it, denying every moment of connection we’ve shared.

It’s like the last few weeks never happened.

Like the way he held me through my mini-cycle, the way he panicked during the pregnancy scare, the way he marked me as his—all of it was just an elaborate performance.

But I know better. I’ve seen the real Alex—in the quiet moments between heartbeats, in the way his hands shake when he touches me like he can’t believe I’m real, in the soft, vulnerable sounds he makes when he thinks I’m asleep.

This cold, empty shell isn’t him. It’s a mask.

A defense mechanism so extreme it’s like emotional suicide.

“Bullshit,” I say, the word sharp with sudden clarity. “This isn’t you. This is fear.”

His eyes widen fractionally—the first real reaction I’ve gotten—before narrowing again. “You don’t know me.”

“I do,” I insist, stepping closer. “I know you better than you think. And this—” I gesture at the space between us, “—this isn’t about me at all, is it? This is about Finn. About whatever happened when you met him.”

He flinches at the name, a full-body recoil that confirms my suspicion. “Leave it alone, Devon.”

“No,” I say, my voice stronger now. “I’m not going to leave it alone. I’m not going to let you push me away because you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” he says, but the lie is so transparent it’s almost laughable. “I just don’t want this anymore. I don’t want you.”

“Liar,” I say softly. “Your mouth is saying one thing, but your body, your scent—they’re telling me something else entirely. You’re terrified right now.”

“Get out,” he says, his voice a low growl. “Just… get out of my space.”

“Fine,” I say, stepping back. “But this isn’t over. I’m not giving up on you, Alex. Not that easily.”

I turn and walk away, my heart pounding in my chest. He doesn’t call after me. I didn’t expect him to. But something has shifted. I’m not confused anymore. I’m just determined—surprisingly determined—to get through to him.

He’s trying to push me away because he’s scared. Because whatever Finn said to him triggered something so deep, so painful, that his only response is to shut down completely. To isolate himself. To push away anyone who might care about him.

Well, too bad. I’m not that easy to get rid of.

---

In my room, I pace the floor, my mind racing. I need information. I need to understand what I’m up against. And since Alex won’t tell me, I need to go around him.

Finn. The name is a key to a door Alex has locked and barricaded. Who is he? An ex? A friend? Family? Whatever he is, he knows something about Alex that I don’t. Something that broke him with five simple words in a text message.

I grab my phone, hesitating for only a second before making a decision. This feels like an invasion of privacy, but I’m out of options. Alex left his phone on the counter earlier. If I’m quick, I can check his recent calls, find Finn’s number.

I slip out of my room, heart pounding. Alex is still in the living room, back to staring at nothing. His phone sits on the kitchen counter, black screen face-up. I grab it, my fingers trembling slightly as I press the power button.

Password protected. Of course. The lock screen is a stock photo of a forest at night. Dark and isolated. Just like him right now.

I try his birthday. Wrong. I try the date he moved in. Wrong again. On a hunch, I try Ethan—the name he’d mentioned during our fight. The phone unlocks.

My stomach drops. Ethan. His brother? A friend? Someone important enough to be his password, but someone he’d said he "got killed." I’m starting to understand something I’m not sure I want to know.

I check his recent calls. There—Finn Anderson. I memorize the number and put the phone back exactly how I found it. My heart races with adrenaline and guilt.

Back in my room, I send a text to the number:

I don't know what you said to Alex, but you broke him. He's shutting me out, and I need to understand. Please meet me.

I add the address of a coffee shop a few blocks away, neutral territory where Alex won’t accidentally stumble upon us. I hit send before I can second-guess myself.

The reply comes almost immediately:

Who is this?

I hesitate, then type:

Devon. His roommate. It's important.