Blind Alpha And His Unwanted Mate
Barista in the blue apron keeps tucking her hair behind her ear, same motion every minute or so, and I know it’s habit, not nerves, because she doesn’t even notice she’s doing it.
The guy two tables over flips his pen between his fingers, rhythm perfect until it slips once, clatters to the floor, and he mutters a curse under his breath. The couple near the window... second date, not first. She leans in, smiling too wide, nodding fast. He scratches at his jaw every time she pauses. Their rhythm is still off, but not awkward. Just new.
I catch every flicker, every pause, every shift.
But it all blurs at the edges, background noise. Because none of it is what I’m really waiting for. None of it
Bab Populer