Page 57 of His Problem Alpha
The room goes silent. Kole and Lawson exchange a look, then quietly stand.
"We'll give you guys some space," Lawson says, guiding Kole toward the door. "Call if you need anything."
They slip past Alex, who hasn't moved, hasn't looked away from me. Raymond hovers uncertainly by the door.
"Ray," I say gently. "It's okay. I need to do this."
He frowns, clearly torn between protecting me and respecting my wishes. "I'll be in my room," he finally says, shooting Alex a warning glare. "Shout if you need me to throw him out the window."
Once Raymond's bedroom door clicks shut, it's just us. Alex still hasn't moved from the doorway, like he's afraid to enter without explicit permission. Like he knows he's lost the right to any space I occupy.
"You can come in," I say, setting my mug down on the coffee table. My hands are steady, which surprises me. "But that doesn't mean I want to talk to you."
He nods and takes a single step inside, closing the door behind him. He doesn't approach further, maintaining a careful distance.
"I know," he says. "I know I don't have the right to ask you for anything. Not after what I did."
"Then why are you here?" The question comes out sharper than I intended, but I don't soften it. I can't.
He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Because I had to try. I had to tell you…" He trails off, seeming to gather himself. "I had to tell you that I was wrong. About everything."
I don't respond. I can't. My throat is suddenly too tight.
"I called my parents," he continues, the words coming faster now, like he's afraid if he stops, he'll never start again. "I actually talked to them. I told them everything—about Ethan, about you, about the baby."
I blink, surprised. "You… what?"
"I'm going home tomorrow," he says. "To see them. And I've made an appointment with a therapist. Tuesday at 3 PM." He pulls his wallet out, his hands trembling slightly as he fumbles for a small white business card. "Dr. Melissa Chen. She specializes in grief and trauma."
I stare at the card he's holding out, his fingers shaking. This is… not what I expected. I expected begging, maybe. Excuses, certainly. Not… a concrete plan.
"I know I destroyed us," he continues when I don't speak. "I ran because I thought I was protecting you, but I was just a coward. I've been running from everything that matters, and I can't do it anymore. I don't want to make another tragedy out of the best thing in my life." His voice breaks. "Please… don't let me."
His raw honesty hits me right in the chest. I really look at him, maybe for the first time seeing past the brooding alpha exterior. He’s just… broken. A man who lost his brother, blamed himself, and has been punishing himself.
"Why should I believe you?" I ask, my voice quiet but firm. "Why should I believe this isn't just another moment of panic that will pass as soon as things get hard again?"
He takes a shaky breath. "You shouldn't. I haven't earned that. All I can tell you is that I'm done running. I'm done letting fear rule my life. I'm done punishing myself by hurting the people I—" He stops, swallows. "The people I care about."
He doesn't say "love." The word hangs in the air between us, too frightening, too loaded for either of us to touch.
"Come in," I say finally, gesturing to the armchair across from the couch. "Sit down."
He moves cautiously, lowering himself into the chair like he's afraid it might disappear. His scent is all wrong—distressed, anxious, hopeful. It makes my nose itch.
"I'm keeping this baby," I say, my voice steady even as my heart races. "With or without you. That's non-negotiable."
"I know," he says immediately. "And I want to be there. For both of you. If you'll let me."
I study his face, looking for any sign of the coldness I saw when he walked out. There's nothing but open, raw sincerity.
"It's not that simple," I tell him, anger flaring again. "You can't just say sorry and expect everything to magically fix itself. That's not how this works."
"I know," he repeats, his voice steady despite the tension radiating from him. "I don't expect forgiveness. I just want a chance to prove that I can be better. That I can be someone you and our baby can count on."
When he says "our baby," my chest tightens in a strange, painful way. I push the feeling away, not ready to examine it.
"If—and this is a massive if—I give you that chance," I say carefully, "there would be conditions. Non-negotiable ones."
