Page 59 of His Problem Alpha
He laughs, the sound warm and easy. "Of course there was."
It's still strange sometimes, this easy domesticity. The apartment we found together three months ago, the nursery we're slowly putting together, the life we're building. Strange, but good.
Alex's hand stays on my belly, a warm, reassuring weight. The baby kicks again, and he grins. "I think he's going to be a drummer."
"God help us," I groan. "Between your music obsession and my design chaos, this kid is doomed to be some kind of tortured artist."
"The best kind," Alex says, pressing another kiss to my temple before reluctantly returning to the crib assembly. "Alright, let's try this again. If I can mix a twelve-track album, I can build a simple—" There's a clatter as something metal falls. "Son of a—"
I laugh, the sound echoing in our small but cozy living room. *Our* living room. *Our* home. It still feels surreal sometimes, how we got here.
It hasn't been easy. Last month, he woke up at 3 AM gasping Ethan's name, and I spent the rest of the night watching him sleep, terrified he'd disappear by morning. Two weeks ago, he was late coming home from work, and I’d actually started packing a go-bag before he called to say his car had broken down. But he’s kept every promise. Therapy every week. Open communication, even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard.
And somewhere along the way, the fragile hope we started with has grown into something stronger. Something that feels a lot like family.
***
"Seriously, I'm telling you, the guy is impossible," Raymond complains, gesturing with his beer bottle. "My new boss is this omega perfectionist who thinks 'good enough' is a personal insult. He color-codes his spreadsheets. Who does that?"
We're gathered at Lawson and Kole's house for their monthly dinner party, a tradition that started as a way to check in on meduring the pregnancy but has evolved into something we all look forward to. The living room is warm and noisy, filled with the comfortable chaos of people who genuinely enjoy each other's company.
"Someone organized?" I suggest, leaning back against Alex's chest. His arm is draped securely around me, his hand resting proprietarily on my stomach. The possessive gesture would have annoyed me once. Now it just feels right.
"There's organized, and then there's pathological," Raymond insists. "Yesterday he made me redo an entire report because the margins were off by half an inch. Half an inch!"
"Sounds like someone has a crush," Kole teases, bouncing Noah on his hip. The baby has grown so much in the past months, his chubby cheeks and bright eyes a preview of what's to come for us.
Raymond sputters, his cheeks flushing. "I do not—he's not—that's ridiculous!"
"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," Lawson says with a grin, reaching over to take Noah from Kole. "Come here, buddy. Let's give your dad a break."
The easy way they trade off parenting responsibilities gives me a warm, hopeful feeling. That could be us soon. Will be us soon.
I feel Alex shift behind me, his lips brushing against my ear. "You okay? Need to sit down?"
"I'm fine," I assure him, patting his hand where it rests on my belly. "Stop hovering."
"Can't help it," he murmurs, and then, he leans in and nuzzles the scent gland on my neck. The pressure is firm, his stubble a familiar, pleasant rasp against my skin. It’s a deep, slow motion, and a jolt goes through me—not of surprise, but of pure, biological rightness. It feels like a key turning in a lock I didn’t know was still waiting. I lean into it, my eyes fluttering shut as the familiar hum of his scent—coffee, leather, and thatunderlying note of safety that is uniquely *ours*—sinks directly into my bloodstream, calming a frantic energy I hadn't even realized I was carrying. It settles over me, not like a blanket, but like coming home.
It's not just his therapy that's changed things. I've grown too. Learned to accept help. Learned that independence doesn't mean doing everything alone. Learned that sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is let someone in.
Across the room, Lawson catches my eye and gives me a small, knowing smile. He was the first one to believe in Alex's commitment to change, the first to welcome him back into the fold. "He's doing the work," he told me after Alex's third therapy session. "That's more than most people ever do."
And he was right. Alex has done the work. Is still doing it. Every day, he chooses to stay, to fight his demons, to build a life with me and our son. Every day, he proves that his promises weren't empty.
As the evening winds down, I find myself watching him laugh with Lawson, his hand still warm on my belly, his presence solid and real beside me. The man who once ran from connection now surrounds himself with it, drawing strength from the family we've built together.
I look at this man—my alpha, my walking disaster, the father of my son—and feel the final, jagged piece of my own heart click into place, smooth and warm and finally, finally whole.