9. Noah
Noah
S even days since Dean left. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. Not that I’m counting.
I stare at the note for what must be the hundredth time, the paper creased and soft from repeated folding and unfolding.
Noah,
Taking a construction job in Portland. 3 weeks, maybe longer.
If you need anything fixed while I’m gone, Mrs. Patel has a list of backup handymen.
- Dean
No explanation. No acknowledgment of what happened between us. Just the bare facts of his absence, like we’re nothing more than neighbors who occasionally nod in the hallway.
Maybe that’s all we are now. Maybe that’s all we ever were.
I shove the note back in my pocket and continue pacing my apartment. It feels too big suddenly, too empty, despite the fact that Dean never actually lived here. Never even spent a full day here. Just one heat-soaked night that apparently meant a lot more to me than it did to him.
“Stop it,” I tell myself. “He doesn’t owe you anything.”
It’s true. We never made promises. Never talked about what would happen after my heat passed. It was just biology, bringing us together.
That’s what I’d told Jesse last week, trying to convince myself as much as him.
The memory of Jesse’s exasperated face makes me wince. “You’re making excuses because you’re scared,” he’d said, seeing through me with infuriating ease.
Maybe he was right. Maybe I am scared. But what am I supposed to do now? Chase after Dean based on feelings that developed during a heat? Beg him to come back when he clearly wanted to leave?
I glance at my phone, checking for notifications I know aren’t there. I’ve typed out at least a dozen messages to Dean over the past week. Deleted every one without sending.
Thanks for helping with my heat. Too clinical.
I miss you. Too needy.
Why did you leave? Too accusatory.
I think I might be falling for you. Too much, too soon, too terrifying to even consider.
A knock at the door interrupts my spiral. Probably Mrs. Patel, checking on me again. She’s been hovering ever since Dean left, bringing me food, asking if I need anything fixed, dropping not-so-subtle hints about how Dean has never taken an out-of-town job before.
I open the door without checking the peephole, a mistake I realize immediately when I find myself face to face not with Mrs. Patel’s concerned frown, but with Alex’s smug smile.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he says, leaning against the doorframe like he has every right to be here. “Miss me?”
My blood runs cold, then hot. He’s sober this time, hair perfectly styled. The calm, collected Alex is almost worse than the drunk, raging one. At least with the latter, I knew what I was dealing with.
“What do you want?” I ask, one hand still on the door, ready to slam it shut if needed.
“To talk,” he says, looking past me into the apartment. “I’ve been worried sick.”
A year ago, those words might have worked. Might have made me doubt myself, question whether I’d overreacted. Not anymore.
“You tried to force-bond me,” I say flatly. “Against my explicit wishes. There’s nothing to talk about.”
His expression hardens slightly, the mask slipping. “You were confused. In heat. I was trying to help you.”
“By holding me down?” The memory flashes through my mind—his weight pinning me to the bed, his teeth at my neck, the blind panic that gave me the strength to fight him off. “By ignoring me when I said no?”
“That’s not how it -”
“That’s exactly how it happened, and we both know it.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, the air between us charged with old pain and new anger.
“Fine,” he finally says, straightening his jacket. “You want to play it that way? I spoke with your parents last week.”
The statement is meant to throw me off balance, and it works. My parents and I have a complicated relationship at best, non-existent at worst. They were thrilled when I started dating Alex—lawyer from a good family, perfect alpha match for their son. They were considerably less thrilled when I dropped out of law school to make candles and soaps.
“What does that have to do with anything?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“They’re concerned about you,” Alex says smoothly. “Living alone, no alpha, working on this...hobby of yours instead of using your education. They think you might be having some kind of breakdown.”
“It’s not a hobby. It’s my business. And I’m doing just fine without an alpha, thanks.”
Alex raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “Are you? Because you look like shit, Noah. Bags under your eyes, weight loss. You’re not taking care of yourself.”
The casual cruelty lands exactly as intended. I’ve always been sensitive about my appearance, my weight—something Alex knows all too well and used to manipulate me throughout our relationship.
“Leave,” I say, gripping the door tighter. “Now.”
He sighs, like I’m being unreasonable. “Baby, I’m trying to help you. Your parents want you to come home, get yourself sorted out. I told them I’d talk to you, see if we could work things out between us.”
A surge of something hot and fierce rises in my chest. “There is no ‘us’ to work out. There never will be again. And I’d sooner live on the street than go back to my parents’ house or your apartment.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Alex scoffs. “You’re not equipped to be on your own, Noah. You’re an omega. You need guidance, protection—“
“I don’t need anything from you.” The words come out stronger than I expected, backed by a conviction I didn’t know I possessed. “And I think you should leave before my neighbor gets back. You remember him? The alpha who scared you off last time?”
It’s a bluff. Dean won’t be back for at least two more weeks according to his note—but Alex doesn’t know that. His eyes flicker briefly to the door across the hall, and I see a flash of genuine fear before he recovers.
“Your guard dog isn’t here,” he says, but there’s a note of uncertainty in his voice. “I checked. He’s out of town.”
Well, shit. So much for that plan.
“Mr. Harrington, isn’t it?” Mrs. Patel’s voice comes from behind Alex, making us both jump. She’s standing at the top of the stairs, her arms crossed over her chest, expression thunderous despite her diminutive size. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”
Alex turns, drawing himself up to his full height, clearly ready to intimidate a little old lady. “This is a private conversation.”
Mrs. Patel is unimpressed. “This is private property, and you are not a resident nor an invited guest. I’ve already called Noah’s friend Jesse, and he’s on his way. I’d suggest you be gone before he arrives.”
“You can’t—“
“I absolutely can,” she interrupts crisply. “I may be a beta, but I know my rights as a property owner. Leave now, or I call the police and report you for trespassing and harassment.”
For a tense moment, I think Alex might actually try something. Then he adjusts his tie, shooting me a look that’s pure venom.
“This isn’t over,” he says quietly. “You’ll come to your senses eventually. You always do.”
“No,” I say, finding a strength in my voice I didn’t know was there. “I won’t. And if you come here again, I’ll get a restraining order. If you contact my parents again, I’ll tell them exactly what you tried to do during my heat. How their perfect alpha tried to force himself on their son.”
The threat lands. Alex’s face pales slightly. For all his faults, he cares deeply about his reputation, his family name.
“You’re making a mistake,” he says, but the fight has gone out of him.
“The only mistake I made was not leaving you sooner.”
He stares at me for another long moment, then turns on his heel and stalks past Mrs. Patel toward the stairs. She watches him go, then hurries to my side.
“Are you alright? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
I shake my head, surprisingly steady despite the confrontation. “No. I’m fine. Thank you for stepping in.”
“I’ve already called Jesse,” she says, patting my arm. “He’s on his way over. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“Actually,” I say, realizing it’s true, “I think I’m okay. Better than okay.”
And I am. For the first time since Alex tried to force-bond me, I faced him without falling apart. Stood my ground. Found my voice.
Mrs. Patel studies my face, then smiles. “Yes, I can see that. You’re stronger than you think, Noah Reynolds.”
The simple statement settles something inside me, a piece clicking into place. She’s right. I am stronger than I thought. Strong enough to leave Alex. Strong enough to start over, build a life for myself. Strong enough to handle my heat without losing myself.
Strong enough, maybe, to go after what I really want.
“Mrs. Patel,” I say, suddenly needing to know, “was Dean planning to leave before...before my heat?”
Her expression softens. “No, dear. He’s lived across the hall for five years without ever taking a job out of town.”
The implication is clear. Dean left because of what happened between us. Because of me.
“I need to talk to him,” I say, the decision crystallizing in my mind. “I think I made a mistake.”
I need to fix this.
Mrs. Patel nods as if she can hear my thoughts. “I hope you can, dear. He deserves to be happy. You both do.”
As she leaves, I close my door and immediately call Jesse, needing to talk this through with someone who knows me better than I know myself sometimes.
He answers on the second ring. “Noah? Mrs. Patel called me. I’m on my way—“
“Alex was here,” I say without preamble. “But he’s gone now. And I’m okay.”
“What? Are you sure? Did he—“
“I handled it,” I interrupt. “Me. By myself. And, I realized something.”
“What’s that?” he asks, caution in his voice.
“I pushed Dean away because I was scared. Not because I didn’t have feelings for him.”
There’s a beat of silence, then: “No shit, Sherlock. I’ve been telling you that for a week.”
“I know, I know. But this is different. I really get it now.” I pace my living room, energy thrumming through me. “I’ve been hiding behind excuses—it was just biology, just heat, just convenience. But that’s not true.”
“Again, something I’ve been saying—“
“I love him,” I blurt out, the words shocking us both into silence.
“Wow,” Jesse finally says. “That’s...are you sure?”
Am I? I think about Dean’s careful hands fixing my shower. The way he organized my supplies in the rain. How he stepped between me and Alex without hesitation. How he helped me through my panic attack, then stayed to make candles because I asked him to.
How he left heat supplies outside my door and then left the building entirely to give me space and choice.
How he held me during my heat like I was something precious, checking in constantly, making sure I was present and consenting.
“Yes,” I say firmly. “I’m sure. It’s not just biology. It’s him. Everything about him.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” I can practically hear Jesse’s grin through the phone. “Go get your grumpy alpha, Noah. And for the record, I told you so.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in days. “I’ll call you later.”
I hang up and immediately pull up the messaging app, staring at the blank screen. What do I say? How do I fit everything I’m feeling into a text?
No. This isn’t a text conversation. I need to see him, tell him in person.
I grab my keys and head for the door, determined to go to Dean’s apartment and wait for him if necessary. Three weeks isn’t that long. I can be patient if it means a chance to fix this.
But when I reach his door, something feels off. The energy is wrong somehow, the space too quiet. I knock anyway, waiting for a response I know deep down isn’t coming.
After a minute, I try the handle. To my surprise, it turns easily in my hand. The door swings open to reveal... emptiness.
The furniture is still there—couch, coffee table, TV stand—but all the personal touches are gone. No books on the shelves. No photos on the walls. No jacket thrown over the back of the chair. It looks like a staged apartment, ready for a new tenant.
My heart sinks to my stomach, a cold dread spreading through me. This isn’t the apartment of someone who’s gone for three weeks. This is the apartment of someone who’s left for good.
I back out, closing the door, then nearly run down the stairs to Mrs. Patel’s first-floor apartment. She opens on my first knock, her expression falling when she sees my face.
“He’s not coming back, is he?” I ask without preamble.
She sighs, stepping back to let me in. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” But I already know. I can see it in her eyes.
“He called yesterday to say he’s requested a permanent transfer to the Portland office. Said he’d be back tonight to collect the last of his things, then the apartment would be available to rent.”
The floor seems to shift under my feet. “Tonight? What time tonight?”
“He didn’t say, just that it would be late. After his shift ends.”
I check my phone—3:47 PM. Construction usually wraps up around 5 or 6, and Portland is a three-hour drive. That means he could be here as early as 8 or 9.
“I need to talk to him before he leaves for good,” I say, my voice shaking slightly. “Is it okay if I wait in his apartment?”
“Good luck, dear,” she says, squeezing my hand before leaving.
I settle on Dean’s couch to wait, trying not to think about how empty the apartment feels without his presence, his scent. I pull out my phone, drafting and deleting messages to him. Should I warn him I’m here? No—he might decide not to come back at all.
As the hours tick by, I become increasingly nervous. What if he doesn’t show up tonight? What if he sends someone else to collect his things? What if he does come, but won’t listen to me?
By 9:30, I’m a jittery mess of anxiety and determination. I’ve paced every inch of his apartment, rehearsed what I want to say a dozen different ways, and checked my phone approximately eight million times.
Just as I’m starting to think he’s not coming tonight after all, I hear it—the familiar rumble of his truck pulling up outside. My heart leaps into my throat.
This is it. My one chance to fix this.
I move to the center of the living room, facing the door, and wait for the man I love to walk through it, hoping against hope that I’m not too late.