Rebound My Alpha (KnotMe #3)

Chapter 1

Benji

The kerning on the Deadfall logo is a fucking war crime, and it’s making me want to break my own fingers.

I’ve been staring at it for forty minutes, nudging the D and the E closer together and then further apart.

No matter what I do, it looks like the letters are either about to kiss or file a restraining order against each other.

The band’s guitarist sent me a reference image that’s basically just the word DEATH in a free clip-art font, along with the note, “Something like this but cooler.” It’s the graphic design equivalent of draw me a horse but make it a better horse. God, I love my job.

My headphones are blasting, my coffee went cold an hour ago, and I have graphite smudged across three of my fingers because I keep switching between the laptop and the sketchpad like one of them is going to magically solve the problem the other created.

The kitchen table is covered in loose paper, pens without caps, a dried-out Sharpie I keep meaning to throw away, and the remains of a granola bar I started eating at some point and forgot about. Friday night, baby. Living the dream.

My phone buzzes against the table. Three rapid-fire vibrations. The group chat. Probably Jude losing his mind over a throw pillow. I flip it face down without looking. Whatever it is, it can wait.

The apartment is too fucking quiet. Not silent—the fridge hums, the heater clicks on and off, and somewhere down the hall Soren is doing whatever Soren does at nine on a Friday.

Probably reading a paperback and drinking tea like a person who actually has their life together.

But the couch is empty. Milo’s shelf by the TV is bare—no cookbooks, no framed photo of him and his mom, no half-finished scarf from the two weeks he decided he was a knitter.

Jude’s corner is clean for the first time in three years.

It should feel like a win, but mostly it just feels empty.

Not that I care. Good for them. Jude’s got Rhys and Milo’s got Callum. They’re both claimed, nested, and disgustingly in love. I’m happy for them. I am. In that specific way you’re happy for someone who won the lottery, while you’re eating cold ramen.

I shove the laptop back and lean over the sketchpad, pressing the pencil down too hard. I get an ugly, thick line right through the D I was already fighting with. Great. Love that for me. I tear the page out, crumple it, and start again. The pencil lead snaps immediately.

My phone buzzes again. A different pattern. Not the group chat. I flip it over.

Ruth: You alive or do I need to send a search party

I snort. My grandmother texts like someone who learned how to do it last year and resents the entire concept.

Me: Alive. Barely. A font is kicking my ass.

Ruth: Thrilling. Come eat with me Saturday. Made a pot roast and your mother called and I need someone in my house who isn't exhausting

Me: Saturday works. Tell her I died.

Ruth: Told her last month. She didn't believe me. Selfish woman.

I set the phone down, the corner of my mouth twitching up.

Ruth’s the only person I don’t perform for.

It’s probably why she’s the only person who actually likes me instead of just finding me entertaining.

The rest of the world gets the sharp version.

Ruth gets the version that shows up on Saturdays, lets her feed him, and doesn’t pretend the quiet isn't suffocating.

I pick up a new pencil and try the logo again. The apartment hums. My skin itches.

Soren wanders in from the hallway like a very calm ghost and heads straight for the kettle.

He’s in sweatpants and a sweater three sizes too big, hair tied up in a messy knot.

He looks like someone who’s genuinely at peace with a Friday night in, and I kind of want to throw my coffee mug at his head.

“You’ve been at it for hours,” he says, filling the kettle.

“It’s a shit logo for a shit band, and I’m charging them double.”

He makes a quiet sound that could be agreement or amusement. With Soren, it’s hard to tell. He leans against the counter while the water heats. “It’s nice when it’s quiet,” he offers.

“It’s a fucking tomb, Soren.”

He tilts his head, like he’s genuinely considering whether that’s true. “There’s room to think.”

“Great. Thinking. My favorite Friday night activity.” I drag my pencil across the page. “If you tell me silence is healing, I’m throwing this pencil at you.”

He almost smiles. He brings his tea to the far end of the couch, tucking his feet underneath him and pulling out a book.

He doesn’t push. He never pushes. He just sits there, calm and present, and after a few minutes, the silence shifts from hollow to bearable.

I hate that it helps, and I hate that I noticed it helping.

My phone lights up again. Jude sent a photo of something Rhys cooked, and Milo responded with heart-eye emojis. The casual domesticity of people whose Friday nights involve their mates instead of broken pencil leads. I read it. I don’t reply.

The front door flies open, and Shay blows in, kicking his shoes off so hard one of them smacks the wall.

“Men are garbage,” he announces, dropping his bag on the floor and collapsing onto the couch between Soren and me. “Absolute, irredeemable garbage. Every single one.”

“What happened?” Soren asks.

“I went to Byrne’s for one drink. ONE. And this alpha—some finance bro with a fade and a god complex—slides into my booth and says, and I quote, ‘You look like you need some company.’ As if I was sitting there radiating desperation instead of very clearly reading an article about market analytics on my phone. ”

“Did you tell him to fuck off?” I ask, already grinning. This is the energy I was missing.

“I told him I’d rather chew glass than let him buy me a drink, and he said”—Shay drops his voice into a mocking, gravelly alpha tone—“‘I love a challenge.’ Like, congratulations, you’ve watched one pickup artist YouTube video. Revolutionary.”

“Should’ve let Declan throw him out.”

Shay waves his hand. “Declan was just watching from behind the bar like he was observing a nature documentary. I handled it.” He pulls his phone out, scrolling aggressively.

“And THEN on the way home I checked KnotMe, and my top match is a guy whose bio says ‘looking for my forever person’ with a photo of him holding a puppy. A PUPPY, Benji. As a prop.”

“A prop puppy. That’s bleak.”

“The whole thing is bleak. Fated mates, scent matching, the app—all of it. Jude and Milo got lucky. Statistically, the rest of us are going to end up matched with prop-puppy finance bros who think consent is a suggestion.” He tosses his phone onto the cushion.

“I’m never letting that cesspool ruin my life. ”

“Bold stance from someone who checks it daily,” I point out.

“Research. I’m studying the enemy.”

I laugh, and it feels good. The apartment feels alive again with Shay taking up space and bitching about things. Soren watches us over his book with that quiet almost-smile he gets when Shay and I get going.

Shay grabs his phone and starts scrolling again, turning the screen toward me. “Look at this one. ‘Alpha, 28, I cook and I clean and I’ll treat you right.’ That’s not a dating profile, that’s a dishwasher ad.”

“Swipe left on the dishwasher.”

“Already did. This one’s holding a fish.”

“Why do they always hold a fish?”

“Because they have nothing else to offer.” Shay scrolls faster. “When are you getting back on this hellscape, by the way? Your meme account is getting stale.”

The question sounds casual, but it hits me right in the chest. “I deleted that months ago.”

“You’re hiding.”

“I’m retired. There’s a difference.”

“Uh huh.” Shay holds his phone out. “Come on. For research. Someone needs to feed the account.”

I look at his screen, then at my phone, face down on the table.

The itch is back, sharper now. It’s not about the logo anymore.

It’s about the fact that my skin hasn’t been touched by anyone but me for long enough that my body's getting aggressively annoying about it. And it’s about the reason I deleted the app in the first place—one hookup that turned into three months of checking my phone like a pathetic idiot, wondering why someone who’d knotted me against a wall and whispered filthy promises into my neck had vanished like I’d imagined the whole thing.

I grab my phone and download KnotMe before my brain catches up to my hands. “For the meme account,” I say.

“Obviously,” Shay agrees.

“Strictly anthropological.”

“Sure.”

The app loads. I swipe through the setup, muscle memory carrying me through the screens I deleted six months ago.

Profile’s still there. Old photos, old bio, everything exactly as I left it before I swore this off.

I start swiping. Shay leans in to roast profiles with me, and it’s easy.

It’s fun. Two prickly omegas doing what we do best—tearing apart people who will never know we exist.

A gym selfie. Swipe left. A group photo where I can’t tell which one he is.

Left. A bio that says “no drama,” which is always code for “I am the drama.” Left.

A shirtless mirror pic with a caption about being dominant in the streets and gentle in the sheets.

Left, and I screenshot it for the meme account.

Then the next profile slides into view, and my thumb stops.

No face. The photo is of a forearm, angled to show the tattoo work crawling from wrist to elbow.

Dark lines, precise shading. A style I’d know anywhere, because I spent an entire night tracing those lines with my fingers while he was inside me.

The username is different. The bio is almost empty—just a city and a designation. But the ink is unmistakable.

My stomach bottoms out.

Knox.

He’s on KnotMe. The guy who ghosted me, who slipped out of our hotel room before sunrise, who deleted his profile and vanished.

He’s right here, forearm on display like a fucking billboard for the worst mistake of my life.

One hookup that shouldn’t have mattered but did, because my stupid omega biology decided that the alpha who couldn’t even stay until morning was somehow the one worth aching over.

My pulse hammers a frantic beat against my throat, and my traitorous body does a low, heavy swoop in my gut. I ignore it. My hands are not shaking. They aren't.

“What?” Shay leans over. “What are you looking at? You went weird.”

“Nothing.” My voice comes out flat. Good.

Soren goes completely still on the other end of the couch.

“Benji.” Shay grabs the edge of my phone and tilts the screen toward him. A beat of silence. Then his whole face goes sharp. “Is that—”

My thumb moves before my brain can stop it. One flick to the right. Done.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Shay barks.

“It’s spite,” I snap. “It’s a spite swipe.”

“Benji—”

The screen lights up. It’s a Match! Animated fireworks. A tiny, stupid confetti explosion.

Instant. He matched me instantly. Which means his profile was already set to match mine. Which means he’s been—

I don’t finish the thought.

“I’m going to kill him,” Shay says, and he means it the way Shay means everything—practically, like he’s already planning the logistics.

Soren hasn’t said a word. He’s just looking at me with those quiet eyes that see way too much. I can feel him clocking every single thing I’m pretending isn't happening.

“It’s nothing,” I say. I toss my phone on the coffee table. “It doesn’t mean anything. I’m going to unmatch him in the morning.”

“You should unmatch him now,” Shay says.

“In the morning.”

Shay opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks at Soren, who gives the tiniest shake of his head. The room settles into a heavy silence.

I grab the remote and turn on the TV. Something loud and stupid, I don’t care what. I go back to my sketchpad. The pencil moves across the paper, but I’m not drawing the Deadfall logo anymore. I’m drawing nothing. Just lines. Just my hand needing something to do besides pick up that phone.

The phone vibrates against the wood. A DM notification. Knox’s username glows in the dark.

I don’t look at it.

I press my pencil harder into the paper, staring blindly at the TV, and feel the buzz all the way down to my teeth.