Page 4 of His Problem Alpha
Big mistake. His eyes lock onto mine, green and blazing and so intense my stomach does a complicated, sickening flip.
"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" His voice drops lower, a rough growl that vibrates through the space between us. "Acting all superior with your fancy clients and your sarcastic comments." He leans in, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Looking down on my 'noise' while you sit around making pretty pictures for corporations. At least my noise is honest. You sell lies for a living."
The insult lands like a physical blow. It's not just about my job; it's about my integrity, my art. It's a direct shot at the one thing I'm proud of, and it hits its mark perfectly.
"At least I contribute something to the world," I manage to snap back, my voice thin. "What do you do besides hide in your room and make everyone around you miserable?"
He leans even closer, and I press myself harder against the unyielding wall. "You have no idea what I do."
"I know you're a selfish asshole who doesn't care about anyone but himself."
"And you're a pretentious prick who thinks he's better than everyone."
We're practically nose to nose now, both breathing hard, our angry breaths mingling in the charged space. I can feel the heat radiating off his body in waves, see the tiny flecks of gold swimming in the furious green of his eyes, count each dark, thick eyelash. His scent is overwhelming this close, wrapping around me, sinking into my skin. My body reacts without permission, a deep, traitorous flush of warmth spreading through my belly that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with him.
This is not happening. I am not attracted to this disaster of a human being.
"Back off," I manage to say, hating how breathless and weak I sound.
Something shifts in his expression—a flicker of awareness, maybe recognition of the electric current humming between us.For one heart-stopping, terrifying moment, I think he might do something truly insane, like close that final, impossible distance. My stomach drops in what I refuse to admit is disappointment when he doesn't.
Instead, he pushes off the wall with a rough sigh, the spell breaking. He steps back, leaving cold air where his oppressive heat had been. I almost sway without his presence holding me in place.
"Stay away from my equipment," he says, his voice rough around the edges. "Next time, I won't be so nice."
"This was you being nice?" I try for sarcasm, but it comes out as a squeak.
He doesn't answer. He just gives me one last burning look, a look that seems to see right through me, before he turns and stalks back to his room.
I stay frozen against the wall, listening to his door slam shut, trying to make sense of what just happened. My heart is pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, my skin feels too tight, and there's a strange, hollow ache deep in my gut that I refuse to examine too closely. A lingering, feverish heat remains under my skin, a phantom echo of Alex's proximity that had absolutely nothing to do with attraction.
It's just rage. It has to be.
Alex
The 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 perfectlyDevon—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.
