Page 5 of His Problem Alpha
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 aboutthe 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.”
