Fuck.
I close my eyes. I am lying in a firehouse bunk, surrounded by my crew, and I am rock-hard over my little sister's best friend's hookup profile.
It's not just that he's attractive. I see attractive people all the time. It's the softness he tries so hard to hide. The way his whole face changes when he laughs, nose crinkling, eyes squeezing shut. The first time I saw it—that day I first met him, when he handed me a warm cookie in Ava's kitchen with flour on his cheek—every thought I had just stalled. I immediately filed him under "Off Limits" and slapped a padlock on it.
I look at the photo again. I can't look away. It's not a practiced thirst trap. It's vulnerable. He's nervous. He's putting himself out there for some alpha who won't know what the fuck they're looking at. Some random asshole who'll see a soft body, get him into bed, and not even think to ask if he's satisfied. The thought of someone careless getting their hands on him makes my chest tight. My alpha instinct flares, possessive and loud.
I close the app and shove the phone under my pillow like I'm a teenager hiding a dirty magazine. I'm not doing this. He's Ava's friend. He's twenty-one. He thinks I'm just his best friend's big, boring older brother.
I stare at the water-stained ceiling. I need to think about something else. Grocery list. Repotting the ferns. The weird noise my truck is making.
But it's not working. If I don't swipe right, someone else will. Someone who won't know that he stress-bakes when he's anxious, that a multi-layer cake on a Tuesday means a full-blowncrisis. Someone who won't realize he's a pleaser who will focus entirely on them and forget to ask for what he actually needs.
The idea of not being the one to protect him from that feels wrong. Just fundamentally wrong.
I pull the phone back out. Open KnotMe. The profile is still there. My thumb hovers over the screen.
I swipe right.
The screen explodes with obnoxious neon pink confetti.It's a Match!
I stare at it. He swiped right on me too. My profile doesn't even have a bio. It's just a cropped picture Ava took of me at a barbecue, laughing, with my truck in the background. And Milo saw it and swiped right.
My heart is hammering against my ribs like I just pulled someone out of a burning building.
The chat window opens. A blank white space with a blinking cursor.
I typeheyand delete it. I typeyou're beautifuland delete it because that's way too much for a supposedly anonymous alpha. I need to keep it simple. Safe.
Your profile pic made me smile. How's your night going?
I hit send before I can overthink it. I set the phone on my chest and try to breathe normally.
The reply comes three minutes later.
honestly? kinda boring now. my friends just left and i'm lying in bed staring at the ceiling so. thrilling stuff
He's in bed. I picture it instantly—Milo curled up in a nest of blankets, dark curls smashed against the pillow, wearing that oversized sweater.
Sounds like you need better entertainment. What were you doing before the ceiling got your attention?
stress-baking banana bread and then letting my friends bully me into making this profile lol. the banana bread was the better decision
There he is. Self-deprecating, sweet, deflecting.
I don't know, the profile seems like a pretty good decision from where I'm sitting. And I'm a sucker for banana bread.
We go back and forth a few more times. I keep it generic so he doesn't figure out it's me. He's funny and warm, and every message makes my chest ache a little more. Then he sends one that stops me cold.
sorry if this is weird but you're like. actually talking to me? most guys on here just open with a pic of their knot and call it conversation
I frown at the screen. Fucking idiots.
That's not weird at all. And those guys are idiots. You deserve someone who asks how your day was before they ask for anything else.
I stare at the words. Too much? Probably.
His reply takes a full minute.