Page 3 of His Problem Alpha

Alex

T he little bastard aimed for the surge protector.

I stare at the black plastic box, now dead on the floor, its prongs bent like they’d been yanked from the wall by a petulant giant. He could have just tripped over the main power cable. Could have pulled a single plug. But no. He targeted the one thing that would kill everything at once.

It’s almost impressive.

My fingers trace the bent metal. Three hours of work, gone.

The mix for Professor Harrington’s experimental film—the one I’d been layering with audio cues so precise they were practically microscopic—had just vanished into the digital ether.

The project that could have finally gotten my work in front of someone who mattered.

All because my roommate is a vindictive little shit who thinks his corporate logo-making is more important than my entire future.

And the worst part? A tiny, traitorous part of me respects the hell out of his revenge.

It was so perfectly Devon —surgical, calculated, and designed to inflict maximum damage with minimum effort.

He uses actions the same way he uses words: like scalpels, finding the exact spot between your ribs before you even realize you’ve been cut.

I pick up the external drive that crashed to the floor. The casing is cracked. When I plug it into my laptop, nothing happens. My stomach plummets. Fucking perfect.

My room, usually my fortress, suddenly feels like a cage. I’ve arranged everything to control what I can. Sound-dampening panels on the walls. Expensive equipment meticulously organized. Headphones that block out the world. It keeps my noise in and everyone else out. Exactly how I want it.

It was working just fine until Devon Garcia moved in with his sarcastic mouth and his too-observant eyes that seem to catalog every flaw in my existence.

I shove my headphones on, even though nothing’s playing. The familiar weight is a comfort, a barrier. Through the closed door, I hear him moving around. His footsteps have a specific rhythm—quick, purposeful, like he’s always rushing toward something he’s already late for.

I know his footsteps by heart without trying to.

Same way I can tell his fake laugh from his real one.

The fake one’s sharp, like three quick barks he uses on clients.

The real one’s softer, with this little catch at the end that I hate how much I notice.

Not because I care. Because I work with sound.

I notice these things. It’s just what I do.

My phone buzzes. Professor Harrington.

Looking forward to hearing the final mix tomorrow. This could be a great opportunity for you to showcase your work at the upcoming experimental film festival.

Fuck.

An all-nighter, then. Starting from scratch. I reach for my emergency coffee stash—the good stuff I hide from Devon—and find the can empty. Of course. He probably found it and dumped it in some passive-aggressive retaliation for me using his fancy single-origin whatever last week.

I never should have agreed to this roommate situation.

Should have found a way to afford this place on my own, even if it meant more TA hours.

But the rent was due, my savings were gone, and Devon was the first person to respond to the ad.

I told myself it would be fine. Just a body to help with bills. A temporary arrangement.

I didn’t count on him being so… present. So loud, even in his silence. So goddamn impossible to ignore.

A sharp laugh cuts through my thoughts. It’s different from his usual sardonic chuckle. Curious despite myself, I slip my headphones off and listen.

“No, Ray, I’m serious—he literally destroyed my client call!” Devon’s voice carries through the thin walls. He’s talking to his brother. Raymond. I’ve never met him, but I know his voice. They sound similar, but Raymond’s laugh is easier, less guarded.

I hear the forced brightness in Devon’s voice when he mentions the client, the strain underneath the sarcasm. “Like, deliberately blasted death metal until she hung up.”

My gut twists. I didn’t know he’d actually lost the client. I thought he was just being dramatic. Part of me wants to offer help, which is stupid. The other part feels weirdly guilty about the coffee I took. I push both feelings away. Not my problem. Can’t be my problem.

But then he says his brother’s name again, and the tension bleeds out of his voice. It’s replaced by a genuine warmth that makes something in my chest ache. That’s when I hear it—the unguarded laugh. The one that isn’t a weapon.

The sound gets under my skin, finding weak spots I thought I’d protected. It bypasses all my defenses, warm and real and something I haven’t heard directed at anyone in this apartment, ever.

A growl rises in my throat before I can stop it, low and intense, surprising myself. My hands clench into fists, nails digging into my palms.

Mine.

The thought slams into me with the force of a physical blow.

I physically recoil, shaking my head. What the fuck was that?

Devon isn’t mine. He’s my roommate. My annoying, infuriating roommate who I actively try to drive away with loud music and passive-aggressive bullshit.

It’s just my alpha biology acting up. Not like I actually want him.

I crank my music and force myself to focus on rebuilding the mix. Anything to drown out Devon’s voice and the thoughts I shouldn’t be having. I lose myself in the familiar patterns of sound waves and beats, the mathematical precision of audio engineering that makes so much more sense than people.

Hours pass. The apartment goes quiet. I assume Devon has gone to bed. Perfect. I work better in the dead of night anyway, when the world is asleep and I can pretend I’m the only one here.

My stomach growls around 2 AM, a hollow ache that reminds me I haven’t eaten since… yesterday, maybe? I reluctantly pull off my headphones and head to the kitchen, expecting darkness and silence.

Instead, I find Devon.

He’s standing at the counter, a glass of water in his hand, wearing nothing but a thin, worn-out t-shirt and a pair of dark boxers that leave very little to the imagination.

His hair is a mess, sticking up at odd angles.

But it’s his face that stops me—flushed, a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, his eyes over-bright in the dim light from the open refrigerator.

He looks… off. Not sick. Just not right.

“What are you doing up?” My voice comes out rough, gravelly from hours of silence.

Devon startles, the glass clattering against the counter. “Jesus, make some noise when you walk, would you? Wear a fucking bell.”

“Sorry,” I mutter, not sorry at all. I move toward the refrigerator, keeping a careful distance. The kitchen isn’t small, but with both of us in it, the space feels charged, claustrophobic.

As I reach past him for the fridge handle, it hits me.

A scent so potent it stops my heart in my chest. Devon has always had a distinctive smell: citrus and coffee, sharp and clean, a perfect match for his personality.

But tonight, there’s something else layered beneath it.

Something sweet and warm, like honey and rain-soaked earth.

It’s intoxicating, an edge of pure, undiluted omega that makes my nostrils flare and my pulse hammer against my ribs.

It’s the scent of vulnerability. Of need.

My body recognizes it before my brain can catch up.

My heart rate skyrockets. My skin feels too tight.

Every muscle in my body tenses like I’m ready to pounce or run—I’m not sure which.

My own scent spikes, a possessive, musky tang of alpha I can’t control.

I take an involuntary step closer, drawn by an instinct older than conscious thought.

My cock gives a hard twitch against my jeans.

Devon’s eyes widen, his pupils blowing out as he registers my reaction. The flush on his cheeks deepens. “What?” he asks, his voice unusually soft, almost breathless.

I force myself to take a step back, to breathe through my mouth instead of my nose, but it’s too late. The scent is already in my blood, a goddamn drug.

“Nothing,” I manage to grind out. “You just… smell different.”

“Different how?” There’s a wariness in his tone, an uncertainty I’ve never heard from him before. He looks almost scared.

I shrug, aiming for casual and missing by a fucking mile. “I don’t know. Just different.” Like something I want to devour. Like something I need to claim and protect and ruin all at once. My jaw aches, a phantom pressure against my teeth.

He frowns, bringing his own wrist to his nose and inhaling. “I don’t smell anything.”

Of course he doesn’t. He’s not an alpha. He can’t detect the subtle chemical shift in his own body, the way his scent is sweetening, ripening into something that makes every predatory instinct I have roar to life.

“Whatever,” I say, grabbing a bottle of water and slamming the fridge door. “It’s probably just your fancy shampoo or something.”

Devon narrows his eyes, studying me with that too-perceptive gaze that always makes me feel like he’s peeling back my skin layer by layer. “Are you… okay? You look weird. Weirder than usual, I mean.”

“I’m fine.” I’m the opposite of fine. It’s 2 AM and I’m in my kitchen fighting the urge to bury my face in my roommate’s neck and just breathe him in until I can’t anymore.

I want to press my nose right into the soft skin behind his ear, lick the sweat from his throat, find out if he tastes as good as he smells.

“Just tired,” I lie, forcing the words out. “Working on the mix I have to completely redo, thanks to you.”

I expect a sharp comeback. Instead, he looks away, and something that looks dangerously like guilt flickers across his face. “Yeah, well. Maybe don’t blast death metal during client calls next time.”

“Maybe take your calls in your room next time.”

“Maybe I would if you hadn’t stolen my desk lamp for your ‘mood lighting’ or whatever the hell you use it for.”

There it is. Back to normal. Back to hating each other. This I can handle. It grounds me, helps me push back against the unfamiliar, terrifying pull of his scent.

“I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it.” I take another deliberate step away, putting more distance between us. “I’ll give it back.”

Devon blinks, clearly surprised by the concession. “You will?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow.” I need to get out of this kitchen, away from him, away from this scent that’s making it hard to think. “I’m going back to work.”

“At 2 AM? Don’t you ever sleep?”

“Sleep is for people who don’t have deadlines.” Sleep is for people who don’t have nightmares.

I turn to leave, desperate for the safety of my room, but his voice stops me.

“Alex?”

I pause, my hand on the doorframe, not looking back. “What?”

“I’m sorry about your mix. And the drive. I shouldn’t have unplugged your stuff.”

His apology hits like a sucker punch I never saw coming. It knocks the air from my lungs, disarms me completely. It would be so much easier if he stayed angry, if he kept being the asshole I need him to be. I need him to be an asshole so I can keep hating him from a safe distance.

“It’s fine,” I say, the words sticking in my throat. “I have a backup of most of it.”

It’s a lie. A necessary one. Accepting his apology, meeting his vulnerability with my own, feels like stepping off a cliff.

“Oh. Good.” He sounds relieved, and the sound twists something uncomfortably in my chest. “Well… goodnight, I guess.”

“Night,” I mutter, and escape back to my room before I do something stupid. Like apologize back. Or worse, tell him he looks beautiful standing there, all flushed and soft with his guard down.

Back in my studio, I lock the door and press my forehead against the cool wood, trying to get my breathing under control. I’m shaken after seeing him like that, and I don’t want to think about why. His scent clings to me, a phantom presence I can’t shake off, sweet and promising and dangerous.

I need to focus. Rebuild the mix. Think about anything other than the way Devon’s skin looked damp and warm, or how his voice had softened into something that made me want to hear him say my name again.

I put my headphones on and open a new project file. But instead of recreating Professor Harrington’s score, my fingers move of their own accord, selecting samples, layering beats that have nothing to do with the assignment.

The melody that emerges is sharp and percussive, full of complex, underlying rhythms. But there’s an unexpected sweetness to it, a harmony that catches you off guard. It’s bright and challenging, with edges that could cut if you’re not careful.

It’s him. It’s the sound of Devon.

Five songs in, I realize what I’m doing. A playlist is taking shape—each track a different facet of him. The quick, staccato beat of his footsteps. The rare, genuine laugh I heard through the wall. The cutting precision of his sarcasm. The unexpected softness of his apology in the kitchen.

It’s too intimate. Too revealing. Not just of him, but of me. Of how closely I’ve been listening, how deep he’s gotten under my skin without either of us realizing it.

A hot wave of panic washes over me. I select the entire folder. My finger hovers over the delete key. This is a mistake. Getting this close, even sonically, is a mistake.

Caring leads to loss. Always has, always will. Ethan’s face flashes through my mind, his easy grin in the passenger seat of my old car. The proof I never needed.

I hit delete.

The action feels like cutting off my own arm, but I have to do it. Self-preservation. Devon isn’t someone I can allow myself to care about, to notice, to immortalize in sound. He’s a temporary problem, not a permanent fixture.

I force myself back to Professor Harrington’s project, rebuilding it from memory with mechanical precision. But even as my fingers move over the keyboard, setting cue points and adjusting levels, I can’t escape the ghost of the melody I created for Devon.

And I can’t escape the memory of his scent in the kitchen—changing, sweetening, calling to something primal in me that I’ve spent the last six years trying to bury.

I scrub a hand over my face, trying to erase the memory. But I don’t understand that the change isn’t just in my head. It's in the air, in the floorboards between our rooms. And it's getting stronger.