Good. I'll take care of the rest.
I lock my phone. Press it screen-down against my thigh. Stare at the ceiling for two full seconds.
"Jude?" Soren's watching me from his corner, notebook forgotten, pen held loosely between his fingers. "You okay?"
"Great." I flash my biggest, brightest grin. The one that works on everyone. "I've got a date with a pair of anonymous hands tomorrow night and he just promised to, and I quote, 'take care of the rest.' So I'm doing fantastic."
Benji raises his beer bottle. "To Jude's anonymous hand man."
"To gas station sushi," Shay deadpans.
"To shrimp cocktail," I correct him. "This one's shrimp cocktail. I can feel it."
Everyone laughs. I laugh too, because that's what I do. I'm the punchline and the delivery. I'm the entertainment. The one who keeps it light, keeps it moving, keeps everybody's Tuesday night from feeling like just another Tuesday.
I don't mention that my fingers are a little unsteady under my phone case. I don't mention that his messages are sitting behind my eyes like something bright I can't blink away.
I'll take care of the rest.
No alpha has ever said that to me and meant anything beyond logistics. Ride logistics. Hotel logistics. Whose-place-is-closer logistics. It's always logistics with a hookup, and that's fine. That's the deal. That's what I signed up for.
So why does some stupid, reckless part of my brain keep whisperingwhat if he means it differently?
I shove that thought into a box and sit on the lid.
My phone buzzes one last time. I shouldn't look. I should leave it. I should go help Milo with the banana bread and make Benji laugh and tease Shay about his spreadsheets and ask Soren what he's drawing.
I look.
For what it's worth, I don't think you're as simple as you pretend to be.
The words sit on the screen, glowing. Something tight and warm blooms in my chest and I kill it immediately, smother it like a candle flame between two fingers.
I typelol okay Shakespeareand close the app and shove my phone between the couch cushions.
"Milo, is whatever you're making in there almost done? I'm starving."
"Ten more minutes."
"I'll die in ten minutes."
"You'll survive."
I lean back into the couch. Press my shoulder against Benji's bony one. Let the noise fill me up. Milo humming in the kitchen. Benji's music. Shay complaining about the music. Soren's pen scratching against paper. The smell of butter and brown sugar and home.
Tomorrow night. Anonymous. No strings. Just a really good hookup with a really smart alpha who has really nice hands and texts like he can see through walls.
That's all this is.
The oven timer goes off and I let the sound of my people swallow everything else.
Rhys
The hotel room is fine. It's totally fine. Clean sheets, decent pillows, one of those generic landscape paintings above the bed that's supposed to be calming but mostly looks like someone painted it during a hostage situation.
I keep checking my phone.
This was a bad idea. This was a spectacularly bad idea and I can still leave. I can text him some excuse, grab my jacket, drive home, and pretend I never booked a hotel room for a stranger I met on a hookup app I downloaded on a dare. That's a thing I can do. I'm a grown man with a functioning car and free will.
