Page 37 of His Problem Alpha
While waiting in line, I see a young family a few feet away. The alpha is patiently crouching down, explaining something to a small child in a shopping cart who looks up at him with total adoration. The sight is a gut punch, a vision of a future I both crave and feel I would utterly destroy.
“Sir?” The clerk’s voice snaps me back. I fumble with my wallet, my credit card clattering to the counter. My face burns as I scoop it up. She rings up the tests, her expression a mask of bored indifference. To her, I’m just another customer. Not an alpha whose entire world is shifting on its axis.
“Good luck,” she says as she hands me the bag, her voice flat. It sounds like a judgment.
The walk back feels longer. With each step, I’m moving toward a future I can’t predict. A future where I might be responsible for another life. Where I might have the chance to get it right this time. Or the chance to fail all over again.
Devon is sitting up when I get back, clutching a glass of water with both hands. His knuckles are white against the clear glass. His eyes lock onto the pharmacy bag as soon as I enter the room.
“That was fast,” he says, his voice steadier now.
“I ran.” I didn’t, but it feels like I did, my heart still pounding in my chest.
I hand him the bag, our fingers brushing. The contact sends a jolt through me—this is the person who might be carrying my child. The thought is so overwhelming I have to look away.
“I got two,” I explain, my voice rough. “Different brands. Just to be sure.”
He nods, pulling out one of the boxes. His hands are steady as he reads the instructions, steadier than mine would be. “It says to pee on the stick and wait three minutes.”
“Simple enough.” Nothing about this is simple.
He stands, clutching the box like a lifeline. “I’ll… be right back.”
“Do you want me to—” I start, not sure what I’m offering. To come with him? To hold his hand while he pees on a stick?
“No.” He shakes his head quickly, his eyes wide. “I’ve got it. Just… wait here.”
The bathroom door closes with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. I sink onto the edge of the bed, my legs suddenly unable to support my weight.
Three minutes. One hundred and eighty seconds that stretch into an eternity.
I can’t stay still. I pace the length of the room, my worn boots silent on the hardwood floor. My mind spirals. If he’s pregnant, everything changes. Our “arrangement” becomes a lifetime commitment. A child. A family. The ultimate vulnerability.
I see my dad’s empty bottles lining the kitchen counter after Ethan died. Mom’s hollow eyes when she found me packing for college. “You’re leaving too?” she’d asked, her voice breaking. I’d failed them both, just like I’d failed him.
But then I see it—Devon with his stomach rounded, carrying my child. A baby with his sharp eyes and my dark hair. Tiny fingers. First steps. A family I never thought I could have.
The bathroom door remains closed. I check my phone. Four minutes. My heart is a frantic drum in my throat.
What if he’s not pregnant? A wave of relief so intense it’s dizzying washes over me. We can go back to normal. Back to our arrangement. Back to pretending this isn’t more than physical.
But underneath the relief is a hollow ache that feels suspiciously like disappointment. Like loss. For something I never even knew I wanted until an hour ago.
The door finally opens. Devon stands there, his face unreadable, the plastic test stick clutched in his hand.
“Well?” I can barely get the word out, my voice a raw whisper.
He holds up the test. A single line in the window. “Negative.”
I collapse onto the bed, relief making my legs weak. “Negative,” I repeat, the word tasting bitter on my tongue.
“Yeah.” He sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. “False alarm.”
I should be happy. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? No complications. No lifetime commitment. No tiny, fragile life depending on me not to fuck up.
So why does my chest feel so hollow? So empty?
“That’s… good,” I say, the words feeling like a lie. “Right?”
