5. Noah
Noah
I wake up knowing exactly what day it is before I even open my eyes.
One year. One year since I ran from Alex’s apartment in the middle of the night, barefoot and terrified, my body still burning from a heat that had come a week early. One year since I realized what real fear feels like—not the anxiety of disappointing my parents or failing a test, but the bone-deep terror of understanding that someone you trusted was trying to take away your choice forever.
My phone shows the date in innocent black numbers. June 17th. Just another day on the calendar. Except it’s not.
I drag myself out of bed, ignoring the heaviness in my limbs, the pressure building behind my eyes. I’ve been doing so well. New apartment. Growing business. No panic attacks in almost two months.
But anniversaries have a way of dragging everything back to the surface.
I go through the motions of my morning routine. Shower. Coffee. Check orders. My hands shake as I measure beans into the grinder, and I have to stop, bracing myself against the kitchen counter.
“You’re fine,” I whisper to myself. “You’re safe.”
I finish making my coffee and take it to the small living room, curling up on the couch with my laptop. Work will help. Work always helps.
Except today, the orders blur before my eyes. I can’t focus. Every small noise makes me twitch. The refrigerator humming, a car horn from the street, the muffled sounds of Dean moving around next door.
Dean.
It’s been a week since the incident with Alex. A week since Dean stood between me and my past like an immovable wall. We’ve seen each other briefly in the hallway since then, exchanged nods, but nothing more. No mention of what happened. No awkward questions about why my ex showed up drunk at my door.
I’m grateful for that. For his quiet understanding. For the space he gives me even while I can feel his eyes tracking me, checking for signs of distress.
I try to focus on work again, but it’s useless. My skin feels too tight, my chest constricted. I know the signs. I’ve been here before.
The panic attack builds slowly at first—tingling fingers, racing heart, shallow breaths. Then it accelerates, crashing over me like a wave. Suddenly I can’t breathe at all. My lungs won’t expand. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
I slide from the couch to the floor, knees pulled to my chest, trying desperately to remember the grounding techniques my therapist taught me. But I can’t think. Can’t focus. All I can do is gasp for air that won’t come and try not to pass out.
Through the roaring in my ears, I vaguely register a knock at my door. I ignore it. Can’t answer. Can’t speak. Can’t breathe.
The knocking becomes more insistent. Then a voice, deep and urgent.
“Noah? Are you okay?”
Dean.
I try to call out, but all that emerges is a choked whimper.
There’s a pause, then: “I’m coming in.”
I hear the door open—I’d forgotten to lock it, stupid—and heavy footsteps approach. Then Dean is kneeling in front of me, his eyes filled with concern.
“Can’t—breathe—“ I manage to gasp.
“Yes, you can,” he says, his voice calm and steady. “You’re having a panic attack. Your body thinks you’re in danger, but you’re safe.”
I shake my head frantically. I can’t breathe. I’m going to die.
“Look at me.” His voice is firmer now, commanding without being threatening. When I meet his eyes, he nods. “Good. Now, we’re going to breathe together. Four counts in, hold for four, four counts out.”
He demonstrates, taking a slow, deliberate breath. I try to follow, but my lungs seize.
“Again,” he says, not discouraged. “With me. One, two, three, four.”
It takes three attempts before I can manage even a shallow inhale. Dean never loses patience, never shows frustration. He just keeps counting, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of my panic.
“That’s it,” he encourages when I finally complete a full breath cycle. “Again.”
Gradually, breath by breath, the vice around my chest loosens. The black spots fade from my vision. My fingers begin to tingle less as oxygen returns to my bloodstream.
Dean stays with me through all of it, kneeling on my living room floor, counting breaths until my breathing normalizes and the worst of the panic subsides.
When I can finally speak again, I whisper, “Thank you.”
He nods, shifting to sit beside me against the couch, giving me space without leaving.
“How did you know what to do?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
“Firefighting,” he answers simply. “Saw a lot of panic attacks. Had a few myself.”
This surprises me. The idea of Dean—solid, unshakeable Dean—overcome by panic makes him suddenly more human. More accessible.
“Does it get better?” I ask, pulling my knees closer to my chest.
He considers this, taking his time to answer. “Yes. But not in a straight line. More like...waves. The peaks get lower. The good stretches get longer.”
The honesty in his words—the lack of empty reassurance—means more than he could know.
We sit in silence for a while, my breathing slowly returning to normal. I’m acutely aware of his presence beside me, the warmth radiating from his body, his scent that somehow helps ground me in the present.
“Today’s the anniversary,” I find myself saying, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “Of when I left Alex.”
Dean doesn’t push, doesn’t ask questions. He just waits, giving me space to continue or stop as I need.
“We’d been together for eight months,” I continue, staring at my hands. “It was nice, at first. Or I thought it was. He was charming. My parents loved him. Another lawyer from a good family. Perfect match on paper.”
I pick at a loose thread on my sweatpants, gathering courage.
“Then things changed. Slowly. Comments about my clothes. Checking my phone. Telling me which friends I could see. I kept making excuses for him. He’s just protective, he just cares, he’s under stress at work.”
Dean listens silently, but I can feel the tension in his body beside me.
“My heat was scheduled for the following week. I was on suppressants, had been for years. But it came early. I was at his apartment when the first symptoms hit.”
The memory floods back. The sudden fever, the ache, the desperate need.
“He was excited. Said it was a sign. That we should bond right then. I said no. I wasn’t ready.”
My voice breaks, and I have to take a moment to steady myself.
“He didn’t listen. Said I didn’t know what I wanted. That it was just the heat making me confused. That he knew what was best for me.”
Dean’s breath catches, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“He tried to force it. Held me down. Started the bonding bite.” My fingers drift unconsciously to the side of my neck, where the scar would have been if Alex had succeeded. “I managed to knee him where it counts and ran. Middle of the night. No shoes. Pre-heat. Jesse found me wandering downtown and took me in.”
I’ve never told the whole story to anyone but Jesse and my therapist. Never put it all into words like this. It feels both terrible and liberating, like lancing a wound.
Dean is very still beside me. When he finally speaks, his voice is controlled, but I can hear the rage simmering beneath.
“He won’t touch you again.”
It’s not a question or a reassurance. It’s a statement of fact.
Dean shifts, turning to face me more fully. “What you did, getting away. That took courage.”
The simple words hit me hard. No one’s ever called me courageous before. Stupid for getting involved with Alex in the first place. Naive for not seeing the signs earlier. But never brave.
“It doesn’t feel like courage,” I admit. “Most days it feels like running.”
“Sometimes running is the bravest thing you can do.” His eyes hold mine, intense and sincere. “You protected yourself when no one else would. Don’t diminish that.”
Something breaks open inside me at his words, a dam I’ve built around my shame and guilt. Tears spill over before I can stop them, hot and sudden.
Dean doesn’t try to hug me or offer empty platitudes. He just stays, a solid presence beside me as I finally let myself cry for everything I’ve been through. For the choices taken from me. For the trust I lost.
When the tears finally subside, I feel emptied out but somehow lighter. Like I’ve put down a weight I’ve been carrying for too long.
“Sorry,” I mumble, wiping my face with my sleeve. “This isn’t how I planned to spend my morning.”
The corner of Dean’s mouth twitches. “Think you needed it.”
I laugh shakily. “Yeah, maybe I did.”
We fall silent again, but it’s a comfortable silence. I’m suddenly aware of how close we’re sitting, shoulders almost touching. I can feel the heat of him beside me, and for once, the proximity of an alpha doesn’t make me want to run.
“You want some water?” he asks, breaking the moment.
I nod, and he rises smoothly to his feet, heading to my kitchen with an easy familiarity that makes my gut clench. He returns with a glass of water and hands it to me before settling back down, this time in the armchair across from me. I miss his warmth immediately but appreciate the space.
“Thank you,” I say after taking a long drink.
“Anyone would have done the same.”
“No,” I say firmly. “They wouldn’t. Believe me.”
He holds my gaze for a moment, then nods. “Are you working today?”
I glance at my abandoned laptop, where my order sheet lies neglected. “Trying to. Not very successfully.”
“Take the day off,” he suggests. “Do something else.”
“Like what?”
He thinks for a moment. “Something with your hands. Something tangible.”
It’s good advice. Working with scents and textures has always centered me, brought me back to my body when my mind is spiraling.
“I could make candles,” I say, considering. “I have a new scent blend I’ve been wanting to try.”
Dean nods. “Good.”
He stands, and I realize he’s preparing to leave, to return to his own apartment and give me back my space. Part of me is relieved—I’ve been vulnerable enough for one day. But another part, a stronger part, doesn’t want to be alone.
“You could stay,” I hear myself say. “If you want. I could show you how I make them.”
He looks surprised by the offer. “You sure?”
“Yeah. It might be nice to have company. Unless you have plans?”
“No plans.” His expression is unreadable, but he doesn’t immediately refuse, which I count as a win.
“Then stay. I’ll even let you name a candle.”
That gets me the barest hint of a smile. “Not good at naming things.”
“We’ll see about that.”
***
Dean stays for hours.
It turns out he’s a good assistant. Attentive to details, careful with measurements, patient with the process. I show him how to measure and melt the wax, how to add fragrance at just the right temperature, how to center wicks in the containers.
We don’t talk much as we work, but it’s a comfortable silence. I find myself relaxing in his presence in a way I haven’t relaxed around an alpha since before Alex.
By late afternoon, we’ve made a dozen candles in three different scent profiles. The apartment smells amazing—sandalwood and amber, lavender and vanilla, citrus and sage.
“What are you calling this one?” I ask, holding up the sandalwood blend.
Dean considers it seriously, taking a sniff. “Quiet Night.”
I smile. “Not bad. Better than my working title of ‘Sandalwood Surprise.’”
He shakes his head. “That’s terrible.”
“Hey! I’m great at many things. Naming products isn’t one of them.”
His almost-smile widens just a fraction. “Clearly.”
As evening approaches, we order takeout from the Thai place down the street. Dean insists on paying, claiming it’s to compensate for “candle-making lessons.” I don’t argue too hard.
We eat at my small dining table, and I’m struck by how domestic it feels. How easy. There’s none of the nervous energy I felt on dates with Alex, no pressure to be charming or interesting. Dean doesn’t seem to mind my quiet moments or my occasional bursts of chatter.
It’s...nice. Unexpectedly nice.
After dinner, Dean helps clean up, then gathers his things to leave. At the door, he pauses.
“You’ll be okay?” he asks, and I know he’s thinking about the panic attack, about the anniversary.
“I think so,” I say honestly. “Today turned out much better than I expected.”
He nods, satisfied. “If you need anything -”
“I know where you live,” I finish with a smile.
After he leaves, I feel a strange mix of emotions. Gratitude for his help, warmth from the day we spent together, and something else I’m not ready to name. Something that feels too much like attraction, like longing.
I push it away as I get ready for bed. Dean is being kind, being a good neighbor. Nothing more. And even if there were something more there, I’m not ready. Might never be ready again.
Still, as I drift off to sleep, it’s his face I see behind my eyelids. His hands, strong and gentle, measuring wax and steadying containers. His rare, precious almost-smile.
***
The dream starts slowly, hazily.
I’m in my apartment, but it’s different somehow—the lights dimmer, the air heavier. I’m working at my candle-making table when I feel a presence behind me. Strong arms snake around my waist, and I know without looking that it’s Dean.
“Smells good,” he murmurs against my ear, his breath hot on my skin.
In the dream, I don’t pull away. Instead, I lean back against his chest, tilting my head to expose my neck. An invitation.
“You smell better,” I hear myself say.
His lips find my neck, trailing fire wherever they touch. I gasp, arching into him as his hands slide under my shirt, calloused palms against my stomach, my chest.
“Want you,” he growls, the vibration of his voice sending shivers down my spine.
“Yes,” I breathe, turning in his arms to face him.
His eyes are darker in the dream, pupils blown wide with desire. He lifts me effortlessly onto the table, scattering candle supplies as he steps between my thighs. Our mouths meet in a hungry kiss that makes me moan. He tastes like cedar and honey, like everything I’ve been craving.
“Been wanting this,” he murmurs against my lips. “Wanting you.”
His hands are everywhere—in my hair, under my shirt, pulling me closer. I wrap my legs around his waist, feeling how hard he is against me. The alpha scent of him is overwhelming now, triggering something primal in me.
“Need you,” I whisper, clinging to his shoulders. “Please, Dean.”
He growls again, a sound of pure possession that should frighten me but only makes me burn hotter. I feel the slick wetness between my thighs, my body preparing for him even as he lifts me again, carrying me to the bedroom.
He lays me on the bed, eyes never leaving mine as he strips off his shirt, revealing the muscled chest I’ve only glimpsed before. I reach for him, desperate to touch, to taste.
“Mine,” he says, covering my body with his, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress in the most delicious way. “My omega.”
“Yours,” I agree, surrendering completely as his hands tug at my clothes, his mouth painting fire across my skin.
The dream shifts, becomes more intense. Dean’s mouth on my chest, his teeth grazing a nipple. His hand between my thighs, fingers sliding through slick wetness. I’m writhing beneath him, begging incoherently for more.
When he finally pushes inside me, the dream becomes almost unbearably real—the stretch and burn, the fullness, the electric pleasure shooting up my spine. I cry out his name as he begins to move, each thrust bringing me closer to the edge.
“Noah,” he groans against my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot where a bonding mark would go. “So perfect for me.”
The pleasure builds, coiling tighter and tighter until I’m right on the edge. Dean’s hand slides between us, touching me exactly where I need it, his rhythm never faltering.
“Let go,” he commands, his alpha voice impossible to resist. “Come for me, Noah.”
I shatter, pleasure exploding through my body in white-hot waves. As I come, I feel Dean’s knot begin to swell, locking us together, and the sensation pushes me even higher, pulls another cry from my throat—
I wake with a gasp, my body still trembling with the aftershocks of a very real orgasm. My sheets are tangled around my legs, damp with sweat and slick. The scent of my arousal fills the room, so strong it makes me dizzy.
“Oh god,” I whisper, mortified as reality comes crashing back.
I just had an intensely explicit dream about my alpha neighbor. And came from it. Without even touching myself.
As my breathing slows, I become aware of an unusual warmth in my lower abdomen, a familiar ache in my joints. I recognize the symptoms with growing alarm.
My heat. It’s starting. A full week earlier than scheduled.
And through the wall we share, I know Dean will be able to smell everything.