4. Shay #2
Instead, I cross the room, sit on the edge of the bed, and then fall back without even taking off my jeans. I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, breathing him in.
My phone vibrates on the desk. A single buzz, then another, then a whole series of them.
The group chat. Of course. They can sense a disturbance in the force from miles away.
If I don’t answer, Jude will be up here kicking my door in, with Milo wringing his hands behind him and Benji looking ready to commit a felony on my behalf.
Except Jude and Milo and Benji are mated and moved out, so really it’s just Soren who’d knock politely and offer tea, and I don’t know which is worse.
I drag myself up and grab it. Forty-seven messages.
Jude: SHAY. WHERE ARE YOU.
Benji: If Bar Daddy killed him I call his sneakers.
Milo: Benji.
Benji: What? They’re nice. It’s what he would have wanted.
Soren: I haven’t heard him come in, maybe he slipped in late? ??
Jude: NO ONE JUST GOES HOME. HE GOT STOOD UP. HE STAYS OUT OF SPITE. IT’S HIS ENTIRE brAND.
Benji: he has a point.
Milo: Has anyone actually tried calling him?
Jude: YES. THREE TIMES. HE’S SCREENING MY CALLS.
I sit at the desk, phone in hand, staring at the blinking cursor in the group chat. What do I even type? I did something stupid. I almost write it. Then I erase it. I got claimed. The words feel like poison just thinking them.
The cursor blinks. Patient. Accusatory.
I know exactly what would happen. Jude would send a string of key-smash gifs and demand a full report in all caps.
Milo would text me privately to ask if I’m okay, his gentleness a weapon I have no defense against. Benji would find a way to make it brutally funny, which I’d need before I could let it be real.
And some small, stupid part of me would be waiting for them to say it’s okay. That Declan is a good thing.
That’s the part I hate the most.
My phone buzzes again.
Jude: if you're alive, react to this with literally any emoji
I manage a thumbs-up.
Jude: OH MY GOD HE'S ALIVE
Benji: Bare minimum achievement unlocked.
Milo: Are you okay?
The question lands hard. I type back before I can think about it. Fine. Went home. Needed sleep. It’s not even a lie. I did go home. I desperately need sleep.
Jude: did you at least hook up with Declan before you fled the premises
I just look at the words.
Shay: Go to bed.
Jude: THAT IS NOT A NO
Benji: Oh, he fucked Bar Daddy.
Soren: benji ??
Benji: He did though.
Milo: We can talk tomorrow. No pressure.
There it is. The escape hatch. The offer of quiet understanding that I absolutely cannot handle right now. I flip the phone face-down on the desk before I’m tempted to use it.
Coffee. I need coffee. Coffee is a system. Beans, water, heat. A predictable outcome.
I start to pull the Henley over my head and stop, the motion arrested by a sudden, hollow cold. My own body makes a low noise of protest in my throat.
“Shut up,” I mutter, and yank the shirt back down. It’s just fabric. It’s just warm. That’s all.
Downstairs, the kitchen is quiet. A soft beam of light peeks from under Soren’s door, but there’s no movement.
I focus on the mechanics of making coffee, the scoop and the pour, and try not to catch my reflection in the dark window over the sink.
The gurgle of the machine is a good sound.
Grounding. I lean against the counter and press my fingertips to the mark on my neck.
It doesn’t hurt. It hums. A low thrum of energy under the skin, a current pulling steadily in one direction.
Back toward the bar. Back to his bed, to the solid weight of him, to that rough voice telling me he had me.
I press my whole palm flat against it, and the pull gets stronger, a hot, deep ache that’s almost pleasure.
My body answers with a soft purr, and a wave of self-disgust washes through me. This isn’t real. It’s a biological trap. A chemical reaction designed to make me stupid and dependent.
Except it feels more real than anything else.
I squeeze my eyes shut. My mother used to say the trick was how safe they made you feel at first. They’d hold you, buy you dinner, swear they were different.
Then one day the calls would stop, and you’d be left with their smell on your pillows and no idea how you were going to make rent.
But I’m not my mother. I don’t wait for alphas to call.
I run away before breakfast and steal their shirt. Major upgrade.
A laugh almost escapes, but it’s thin and humorless.
My phone won’t stop buzzing. It vibrates against the countertop, a frantic, insistent demand I don’t have the energy for. The coffee maker finishes its cycle with a final, gurgling sigh.
I turn the phone over.
The screen is a wall of text.
Jude: wait hang on
Jude: milo you have intel???
Milo: It’s just something I overheard at the Coffee Spot. A guy who delivers their pastries was talking.
Benji: Get to the point, Reyes.
Milo: He said Byrne’s landlord is jacking up the rent. And that some chain wants to buy the whole building.
For a second, the words don’t connect. They’re just shapes on a screen.
Then my brain does the thing it does when the floor gives out. It starts building a new one.
Problem: Rent increase, potential buyout. Declan’s whole life could evaporate because his landlord smells profit.
Assets: Established customer base, prime location, brand loyalty.
Liabilities: Outdated decor, zero social media presence, inefficient use of patio space, no event programming.
Opportunities: Student loyalty campaigns, local business partnerships, happy hour overhaul.
I don’t care. I don’t. This isn’t my problem. My fingers are already twitching toward my laptop, and I hate myself a little less for it because it’s the first useful thing my brain has done all morning.
The focus is cold and clean. A wave of something useful washing out the panic.
Jude: holy shit he could lose the bar???
Milo: I don’t know. It sounded serious.
Benji: Fuck. That place is the only reason half of us pass our finals.
Soren: But Declan loves it so much. :(
Soren’s text hangs there. My hand clenches on my coffee mug.
Declan loves it.
I see him. Not asleep, not in his bed. Behind the bar, a towel over his shoulder, his hands moving with a slow, steady competence. The way his eyes find our booth across the room, a flicker of something that isn’t quite a smile, like we’re a disaster he’s fond of. The solid, quiet fact of him.
I shove the image away. This isn’t about him. It’s a business analysis. A local establishment with a weak Q4 strategy and an obvious path to revenue diversification. That’s all. I’m not building a PowerPoint. I’m just… ideating.
I flip open the screen. The coffee sits next to me, untouched, going cold. I open a new document and start to type.