2. Dean
Dean
I can still smell him.
Three hours later, and his scent lingers like a ghost in my apartment. Sweet and bright—wildflower honey and something citrusy, with a hint of vanilla. It clings to my clothes, caught in the fabric of my henley where he stood too close in the hallway.
I strip it off and toss it in the hamper, but that doesn’t help. His scent is in my nose, on my skin. In my head.
“Fuck,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair as I pace the living room in just my jeans.
I don’t do this. I don’t react to omegas. Haven’t in years. Sure, I notice them—I’m not dead—but I don’t react . Don’t feel that immediate, bone-deep recognition. That pull.
But the moment Noah stumbled into my hallway, arms full of boxes and frustration rolling off him in waves, something inside me had woken up. Something I’d buried so deep I thought it was gone for good.
Mine.
The thought is so clear, so primal, it makes me slam my fist against the wall before I can stop myself.
Not mine. Not anyone’s, from the defensive way he held himself. The way he shrank back when I got too close.
Someone hurt him. The knowledge sits like a rock in my gut.
I need a shower. Need to wash away his scent before I do something stupid, like knock on his door with some bullshit excuse just to see him again.
Christ, what is wrong with me? The guy just moved in. Clearly wants his space. The last thing he needs is his neighbor breathing down his neck like some stereotypical knot-headed alpha.
The shower does little to clear my head. I stand under the spray until the hot water runs cold, then throw on clean clothes and force myself to focus on dinner. Simple routine. Chicken. Rice. Vegetables. Nothing fancy, but it keeps me going.
As I eat at my small kitchen table, I hear movement through the wall. Noah, unpacking probably. The building is old, walls thinner than they should be. I can hear the muted bass of music, occasional thuds as he moves furniture, the faint squeak of the kitchen faucet being turned on and off.
It’s irritating how aware I am of every sound. How it draws my attention away from my food, away from the book I try to read after dinner, away from the mindless TV I flip on when reading proves impossible.
I never should have helped him with the door. Should have kept my distance from the start. Now I know what he smells like, what his voice sounds like. I know too much, and it’s all useless, dangerous information that I have no business collecting.
The clock reads 11:30 when I finally force myself to go to bed. Construction starts early, and I need sleep more than I need to lie awake listening to the movements of the omega next door.
Sleep comes eventually, but it’s fitful. Broken.
And then I hear it. A small, distressed sound from the other side of the wall. My eyes snap open in the darkness.
Another sound—a whimper that prickles the hair on the back of my neck.
Nightmare. Noah’s having a nightmare.
Before I can think, I’m sitting up, fully alert, every instinct screaming at me to go to him. To protect. To comfort.
“Not your problem,” I growl to myself, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes.
The sounds continue, growing more distressed. I can make out muffled pleas now. “No... please...don’t...”
My chest tightens. My instincts are in overdrive, demanding action. I fight them back brutally, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed and planting my feet on the cool hardwood floor. The physical contact with the ground helps, gives me something to focus on besides the increasingly desperate sounds from next door.
Then, abruptly, silence. He must have woken up.
I sit perfectly still in the darkness, straining to hear. Soft footsteps. The sound of a faucet running. A shaky exhale just loud enough to carry through the wall.
He’s okay. He doesn’t need me. Doesn’t even know me.
I lie back down, but sleep doesn’t come. I stare at the ceiling, listening to the occasional sounds of movement as Noah presumably tries to calm himself down and go back to sleep.
It’s none of my business. I repeat this to myself until morning comes.
***
Mrs. Patel corners me in the hallway as I’m leaving for work the next day.
“Dean! Just the man I wanted to see.” She beams up at me, all four-foot-eleven of her radiating the particular energy of someone about to ask for a favor.
“Morning, Mrs. Patel.” I shift my lunch cooler to my other hand. “How was Connecticut?”
“Oh, the baby is beautiful! Growing so fast. I have pictures.” She reaches for her phone, and I resign myself to being late.
Ten minutes of cooing over baby photos later, she finally gets to the point.
“So, I see you’ve met our new tenant.”
My shoulders tense. “Briefly.”
She gives me a knowing look that I don’t like one bit. “Such a sweet boy. Making those lovely soaps and candles. Did you know he’s setting up a little studio in the spare bedroom? So creative.”
I grunt noncommittally. I’m not getting dragged into this conversation.
“Thing is,” she continues, undeterred by my obvious disinterest, “the shower has that leak I mentioned last month. And now that someone’s actually moved in...”
“I’ll look at it this weekend,” I say, cutting her off before she can elaborate further.
Her smile widens. “Wonderful! I knew I could count on you.”
Just as I think I’m free to escape, she adds, “Oh, and the kitchen sink is draining slowly. And one of the cabinet doors is loose. Maybe you could check those too?”
Jesus Christ. Is anything working properly in that apartment?
“Fine.” I’m already mentally cataloging what tools I’ll need. “Saturday morning.”
“Perfect! I’ll let Noah know to expect you.”
So much for keeping my distance.
Mrs. Patel pats my arm. “You’re a good man, Dean. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
I don’t have a response to that, so I just nod and head for the stairs. As I reach the first landing, I hear Noah’s door open. Without thinking, I pause, listening to the exchange above me.
“Good morning, dear! How was your first night?” Mrs. Patel’s voice carries easily down the stairwell.
“It was...fine. Thank you.” Noah’s voice is softer, but I can still make it out clearly.
“Wonderful! Oh, I wanted to let you know, Dean will be by on Saturday morning to fix those issues in your apartment. The shower, the sink, and that cabinet.”
A pause. “Oh. That’s...he doesn’t have to do that.”
“Nonsense! Dean’s the best handyman we’ve got. He can fix anything.”
“Right. Okay. Um, thank you.”
I can hear the discomfort in his voice. He doesn’t want me in his space. Can’t blame him.
“Don’t worry about a thing. Dean’s a bit gruff, but he’s a teddy bear underneath it all.”
I roll my eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t fall out of my head. Teddy bear. Sure.
“I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.” Noah sounds skeptical, which is the only sensible reaction.
I continue down the stairs before they can catch me eavesdropping like some creep. Outside, the spring air is cool against my face. I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head as I walk to my truck.
***
Saturday arrives too quickly.
I knock on Noah’s door at 9 AM sharp, toolbox in hand, determined to get this over with as efficiently as possible. Professional. Detached. That’s the plan.
It takes him longer than it should to answer, and when the door finally opens, I immediately see why. Noah looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, hair tousled from sleep. He’s wearing the same oversized hoodie as before, with a logo from some fancy school. The neckline is stretched out so much that it hangs off one shoulder, revealing pale skin and a delicate collarbone. His sleep pants are too long, covering his feet almost entirely.
He blinks up at me, clearly not fully awake. “Dean?”
My name in his sleep-rough voice does things to me that I refuse to acknowledge.
“Mrs. Patel sent me. To fix your shower.” I keep my voice neutral, professional. “And the sink. And a cabinet.”
“Oh.” He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more. “Right. Sorry, I forgot that was today.”
He steps back, opening the door wider to let me in. The apartment is mostly unpacked now, minimally but tastefully furnished. There are candles everywhere—on the coffee table, the kitchen counter, the small dining table. Their fragrance mingles with Noah’s natural scent, creating an atmosphere that’s both comforting and unsettling in how much I like it.
“Coffee?” he offers, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen. “I was just making some.”
“No.” Then, remembering basic courtesy, I add, “Thanks.”
Noah nods. He disappears into the kitchen while I stand awkwardly in the living room, trying not to look too closely at the personal touches he’s added to the space. Photos on the wall. Books stacked on a small shelf. A soft-looking blanket thrown over the couch.
When he returns with his coffee, he looks marginally more awake. “So, um, what do you want to do first?”
“I’ll start with the shower,” I say, already heading toward the bathroom.
“Right. Yes. It’s through there.” He points unnecessarily, then hovers in the doorway as I set down my toolbox and examine the shower head. “Is it...should I leave you to it, or...?”
The thought of him leaving, going back to bed maybe, where the sheets would catch and hold his scent...I push the image away violently.
“Whatever you want.”
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I should probably shower at some point today, so I guess I’ll stick around. If that’s okay.”
I grunt in acknowledgment, focusing intently on the shower head to avoid looking at him.
The leak is simple enough to fix—just a loose fitting that needs tightening and some fresh plumber’s tape. It takes me less than ten minutes, during which Noah leans against the doorframe, sipping his coffee in silence.
I’m acutely aware of his presence. Of his scent, stronger here in the small bathroom.
“All set,” I say, turning the shower on to check my work. No leaks.
“That was fast. Thank you.”
I nod, gathering my tools. “Sink next.”
He follows me to the kitchen, where I kneel to check under the sink. The pipes are old, like everything in this building, but well-maintained. I find the problem quickly—a minor clog that I clear with a small hand auger.
Noah hovers nearby, watching. I can feel his eyes on me, and it takes all my concentration to focus on the task at hand.
“You’re good at this,” he says after a while.
I shrug. “Basic stuff.”
“Still. It’s impressive.”
Something about his tone makes me look up. He’s watching me with genuine admiration, no hint of the fear I’d seen yesterday. It does strange things to my chest.
I clear my throat and return to the pipes. “Construction’s not that different. Just bigger scale.”
“What kind of construction do you do?”
“Commercial, mostly. Office buildings.”
“Do you like it?”
The question takes me by surprise. People don’t usually ask that. “It’s honest work.”
He waits, like he expects more, but I don’t have anything else to offer. Eventually, he nods and goes back to his coffee.
The awkward silence stretches between us as I finish with the sink and move on to the cabinet door. It just needs the hinge tightened, another quick fix.
As I’m packing up my tools, Noah speaks again. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have asked you to dinner. Mrs. Patel mentioned you keep to yourself, and I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
I look up, surprised again. “You didn’t.”
“Oh.” He tugs at his sleeves. “Good. That’s good.”
I should leave now. My job is done. But instead, I find myself saying, “It’s not personal. I don’t do dinner with anyone.”
Not since Ethan.
Noah’s expression softens. “I understand. I’m not really the social type either, these days.”
There’s a story there, one I shouldn’t want to know but do.
He continues, “Anyway, thank you for fixing everything. I’m sorry Mrs. Patel volunteered you.”
“It’s fine.” I close my toolbox, searching for something else to say. Something normal. “How’s the unpacking going?”
“Almost done. Just need to finish setting up my work area.” He gestures toward the hallway, where I assume the second bedroom is. “I’ve got some shelving to install, but I’m not exactly handy.”
“I could help.” The offer is out before I can stop it.
Noah looks as surprised as I feel. “Really? I mean, that would be great, but you’ve already done so much.”
I shrug, trying to play it casual when there’s nothing casual about volunteering to spend more time in his space. “It’s not complicated.”
“Well...if you’re sure. I’d really appreciate it.”
I nod, already regretting the offer but unable to take it back. “Next weekend.”
“Next weekend,” he agrees, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
As I leave his apartment, I’m all too aware that instead of maintaining distance, I’ve just signed up for more time with the one person who makes me feel things I don’t want to feel. Things I’ve spent five years burying.
But when I catch the faint scent of fear from Noah as another alpha passes him in the hallway—how his body tenses, how he makes himself smaller—something protective and possessive flares inside me.
Mine , that primal part of me insists again.
Not mine, I remind myself firmly as I close my apartment door behind me.
But the wall between us feels thinner than ever.