Page 58 of His Problem Alpha
He leans forward, his eyes never leaving mine. "Anything."
"You go to therapy," I say, ticking off on my fingers. "Not just once. Not just when it's convenient. You commit to it, long-term."
"Yes," he agrees without hesitation. "I've already set up weekly appointments."
"When you feel that urge to run, you talk to me. You don't get to shut me out again. You fight your ghosts with me, not by abandoning me."
His jaw tightens, but he nods. "I promise."
"You have to be all in," I continue, my voice gaining strength. "Not just for me, but for our child. You show up. Every day. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."
"I will," he says, and there's a certainty in his voice I've never heard before. "I promise you, Devon. I promise our baby."
He says it like a vow, heavy with everything he's lost and might gain. Despite myself, something inside me softens, just a fraction.
"I don't trust you," I say bluntly, hating how much I want to. "I can't. Not yet. But…" I take a deep breath, fighting against the part of me that still reaches for him. "I'm willing to give you the chance to earn that trust back. Slowly. On my terms."
The naked hope on his face is almost painful to see. "Thank you," he breathes, like I've given him a gift he never expected to receive. "I won't let you down. Either of you."
He takes a tentative step toward me, then stops, clearly unsure if he's allowed to approach. I don't move, don't invite him closer, but I don't back away either. It's the smallest concession, but from the look on his face, it might as well be everything.
"I'm not promising anything," I warn him. "This isn't forgiveness. This is… a starting point. That's all."
"It's more than I deserve," he says simply.
And as I look at him—this broken, trying man who's finally facing his demons instead of running from them—I think maybe, just maybe, there's hope for us after all.
Epilogue - Devon
Eight Months Later
"You can engineer a perfect audio mix from a band that sounds like a dying whale, but you can't follow eight pictograms? That piece goes on the *other* side, genius."
Alex glares up at me from his position on the floor, surrounded by what appears to be every component of the baby's crib except the ones that might actually be useful. Sweat beads his forehead, and there's a smudge of what looks like graphite on his cheek that I find unreasonably endearing.
"The whale had more structural integrity than this thing," he mutters, flipping the instruction sheet upside down for the third time. "Who designed this? Satan?"
"Pretty sure it was IKEA," I say, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. At eight months pregnant, my lower back screams no matter how I sit, and my hips feel like they're slowly beingpried apart with a crowbar. Our son seems determined to use my bladder as a trampoline.
Alex notices my discomfort immediately—he always does—and sets down the screwdriver. "You okay? Need anything?"
I'm still not used to the concern in his voice. After eight months of therapy, hard conversations, and slowly rebuilding trust, I still do a double-take at this version of Alex sometimes. The one who actually talks about his feelings. The one who stays.
"Just the usual," I say, waving him off. "Your son is practicing his kickboxing routine."
His face softens at the mention of our baby, the way it always does. He abandons the crib disaster and comes to sit beside me on the couch, his hand automatically finding my enormous belly.
"Hey, buddy," he murmurs, leaning down to speak directly to my stomach. "Go easy on your dad, okay? He's had a rough day."
As if on cue, there's a decisive kick right against Alex's palm. His eyes widen with that same look of pure, unadulterated awe I've seen every time the baby moves.
"He knows your voice," I say, unable to keep the smile from my face despite my discomfort.
"Smart kid," Alex says, his thumb making small, soothing circles on my stretched skin. "Takes after you."
He leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to my lips, then pulls back just enough to wipe a smudge of something off my cheek. "Chocolate?"
"Possibly," I admit. "There may have been an incident with the ice cream while you were in the shower."
