...that might be the nicest thing anyone's said to me on this app
lol. goodnight, anonymous alpha. thanks for not sending me a dick pic ??
Goodnight, sweetheart. Get some sleep.
I blink at the wordsweetheart. It just slipped out. Because he is. The sweetest person I've ever met, and he doesn't even know it.
My phone buzzes in my hand, Ava's contact photo lighting up the screen. My stomach drops.
"Hey," I answer, keeping my voice steady.
"Hey! Okay, Friday. Final headcount. You're bringing garlic bread, right? The real stuff, not store-bought."
"When have I ever brought store-bought?"
"Just checking. I'm trying a new chicken recipe and I need at least one thing on the table that's edible. Milo's coming, obviously, and Jude might swing by with Rhys—"
"Milo's coming?" I ask. Too fast. I know it's too fast because there's a beat of silence on the other end.
"...Yeah? He always comes. Why?"
"No reason. Just making sure I have the headcount." Smooth. Real smooth.
"Uh-huh." She sounds way too amused. "You always ask about Milo."
"I ask about everyone."
"You ask about Milo first. Every time. It's kind of adorable."
"Goodnight, Ava."
"It IS adorable. My big brother has a soft spot for my—"
"I'm hanging up now."
"Love you! Garlic bread! Friday!"
I drop the phone on my chest and rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. She noticed. Of course she noticed. Ava notices everything. I've been asking about Milo first for years, just like I've memorized every detail about the omega I'm now secretly messaging on a hookup app because I'm too much of a coward to just claim what I want.
Friday. Ava's kitchen. Garlic bread and dry chicken. And Milo, sitting across the table, smelling like cinnamon and brown sugar.
I press the phone flat against my sternum. The bunk room is dead quiet. I stare at the ceiling, knowing I'm not getting any sleep tonight.
Milo
I'm half-hard behind the library circulation desk at three in the afternoon on a Wednesday.
This is not sustainable.
I shift in my chair, pressing my thighs together to ignore the dampness I really shouldn't be dealing with in a public workspace, and scroll up to read it a fifth time.
Anonymous:I keep thinking about what you said last night. About wanting someone's hands on your waist. I'd start there. Both hands, thumbs pressing into the soft part above your hips. I'd hold you still and take my time. I'm not in a rush with you.
My face burns. The slick is already there—not imagined. A warm, heavy dampness soaking into the cotton of my boxer-briefs, enough that when I shift, the wet friction makes my breath catch. Beneath the smell of old books and carpet cleaner, I catch a thread of my own scent. It's sweeter than usual. Sharper. It has that honeyed edge that means my body has made a decision my brain hasn't signed off on.
I'm producing slick at the circulation desk. At the fucking circulation desk.
It's been two days since we matched. Two days, and I've become a person who hides in the bathroom at work to check his phone. A person whose traitorous, embarrassing body responds to text on a screen like it's actual hands.
