The Omega Next Door

1. Noah

Noah

T he key snaps in the lock with a sharp crack that feels like a perfect metaphor for my life.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I jiggle the broken metal now wedged in the doorknob. Just my luck. Third floor walkup, arms trembling from carrying boxes, and now I’m locked out of my own apartment. An apartment I haven’t even technically moved into yet.

I set down the heavy box marked “KITCHEN” with a thud that echoes down the empty hallway. The building is quiet on a Tuesday afternoon, which is exactly what I wanted when I picked it. Peaceful anonymity. No nosy neighbors. No questions. Definitely no run-ins with-

“Problem?”

The voice comes from behind me. I nearly jump out of my skin, whirling around so fast I almost lose my balance.

And—oh.

Oh.

The man standing in the doorway of the next apartment over is nothing short of massive. Six-foot-something of broad shoulders, muscled arms, and dark, slightly curly hair cropped close on the sides. His jaw is strong and covered in scruff that looks like it would burn against sensitive skin.

My skin.

The thought sends an unwelcome shiver through me that I immediately suppress.

He’s wearing a simple gray henley with the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and a few scattered scars. His faded jeans have seen better days, and there’s a small tear at the knee. Work boots, scuffed and worn.

But it’s his eyes that hit me hardest. A deep, intense green-gray that reminds me of storm clouds. And right now, they’re narrowed at me with what looks like irritation.

Alpha. Every cell in my body recognizes it instantly.

My throat goes dry. I take an instinctive step back, my shoulder blades hitting my door.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Just a small issue with the key.”

He raises one dark eyebrow, glancing pointedly at the broken metal in the lock.

“Doesn’t look fine to me.”

His scent hits me then—cedar with something warmer underneath, like vanilla or amber. It’s unexpectedly comforting, which makes it all the more dangerous. I’ve learned the hard way that comfort from an alpha comes with strings attached.

I straighten my posture, digging my hands into the pockets of my large hoodie as if it could somehow shield me from his gaze. Or his scent. Or the way my traitorous instincts are practically purring.

“I’ll figure it out,” I say with as much confidence as I can muster. “I’ll just call the landlord.”

He watches me for a long moment, long enough that my cheeks start to heat under his scrutiny. Then he sighs, like I’m some great inconvenience in his day, and steps fully into the hallway.

“Mrs. Patel won’t be back until tomorrow. She’s visiting her daughter in Connecticut.”

Great. Just great.

I close my eyes and count to five in my head, trying to keep the frustration from showing on my face. This is not how I wanted to start my fresh beginning. Locked out, at the mercy of a scowling alpha who clearly wants nothing to do with me.

When I open my eyes, he’s moved closer. My pulse quickens, and I have to actively fight the urge to press myself harder against the door.

“I have tools,” he says, his voice slightly less gruff. “I can get the broken piece out.”

“You don’t have to—“

“I know I don’t have to.” His jaw tightens, and I can see him visibly restraining his impatience. “Do you want help or not?”

Pride wars with practicality. I could call a locksmith, but that would take hours and cost money I don’t exactly have to spare after putting down the security deposit on this place. Plus, all my stuff is sitting in a U-Haul downstairs, just waiting to be stolen.

“Yes,” I finally admit. “Help would be appreciated.”

He nods once, sharply, then turns back to his apartment. “Wait here.”

Like I have a choice.

I take the moment alone to collect myself, pressing a hand to my chest where my heart is still racing. It’s been months since I’ve been this close to an alpha, and my body is having all sorts of inappropriate reactions. Warmth pools low in my stomach, and I can feel my scent changing, sweetening with interest despite my mental objections.

I quickly dig through my backpack for my emergency suppressant spray, giving myself a quick spritz at my pulse points. It won’t completely mask my scent, but it should tone down the “interested omega” notes that I’m unwillingly broadcasting.

When the alpha returns, he’s carrying a small toolbox. His nostrils flare slightly, and I know he caught at least a hint of my scent before I masked it. A muscle in his jaw ticks, but he says nothing as he sets the toolbox down beside my forgotten moving box.

“I’m Noah,” I offer, because the silence is unbearable. “I just moved in. Obviously.”

He glances at me. “Dean.”

Just Dean. No last name. No pleasantries. No “nice to meet you” or “welcome to the building.” He kneels in front of my door, his broad back to me as he opens his toolbox and selects a small pair of pliers.

I should probably be concerned about letting a strange alpha mess with my apartment door, but something about him feels...safe. Not safe like harmless—Dean is obviously dangerous in the physical sense—but safe like predictable. Controlled. His movements are precise and deliberate, nothing wasted.

“You’ve done this before?” I ask, hovering awkwardly behind him.

“Mmm.” Not exactly an answer, but I’ll take it.

I watch as his large hands work with surprising delicacy, manipulating the broken key with the pliers. There’s a gentleness to his touch that seems at odds with his intimidating presence. My eyes trace the line of his shoulders, the way his henley stretches across his back as he works, and I quickly look away before my scent can betray me again.

“So you’re the building handyman?” I try again, because apparently, I can’t stand silence.

“No.”

“Oh.”

More silence. This is going great.

“Construction,” he finally elaborates, glancing over his shoulder at me. “I work construction, but I fix things here sometimes. When Mrs. Patel asks.”

Progress. Actual words. I nod encouragingly, like I’m trying to coax more conversation from a particularly skittish animal, which is ridiculous considering he’s an alpha who could probably snap me in half without breaking a sweat.

“That’s cool. I run an online shop. Handmade soaps and candles, that kind of thing.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. He clearly couldn’t care less.

His only response is a grunt as he continues working on the lock.

“There,” he says after another minute, holding up the extracted piece of broken key. “Got it.”

“Thank you,” I breathe, genuine relief washing over me. “I really appreciate it.”

Dean stands, and I’m reminded again of just how much taller he is. I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, which is not a position I enjoy being in with alphas. It makes me feel small. Vulnerable.

“You have a spare key?” he asks.

My face falls. “In the apartment.”

He sighs again, running a hand through his short hair. “Of course.”

I bristle at his tone. “I didn’t plan on breaking my key on the first day.”

Something that might be amusement flickers in his eyes. “Few people do.”

Before I can respond, he’s kneeling again, this time pulling a different tool from his box. “I can pick it. Unless you want to wait for Mrs. Patel tomorrow.”

“No! I mean, if you don’t mind...that would be amazing.”

He works in silence again, and I take the opportunity to study him more carefully. There’s a small scar near his temple, partially hidden by his hairline. His hands, though skilled and gentle with the tools, are rough with calluses. Working hands. There’s a weariness to him that suggests he’s seen things, been through things.

It takes him less than a minute to get the door open. He stands, pocketing his tools and closing the box.

“You should get a spare key made,” he says, and it sounds like an order rather than a suggestion.

I nod, trying not to let my irritation show. “I will. Thank you again for your help.”

He looks at me for a long moment, and something shifts in his expression—something I can’t quite read. His scent changes too, just slightly, warming with an unidentifiable emotion.

“Welcome to the building,” he finally says, and it sounds like the words are being dragged out of him against his will.

I offer a small smile. “Thanks, neighbor.”

He nods once, picks up his toolbox, and turns to go back to his apartment.

“Wait,” I call out impulsively. “Can I...I don’t know, make you dinner sometime? To say thanks?”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I want to take them back. What am I thinking, inviting an alpha I just met into my space? But there’s something about Dean that makes me curious, despite my better judgment. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve been so isolated lately, cutting ties with everyone from my old life, that even a grumpy alpha seems like potential company.

Dean freezes, his back to me. When he turns, his expression is carefully blank, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before.

“Not necessary,” he says curtly. Then, after what appears to be an internal struggle, he adds, “I don’t do dinner. With anyone.”

The rejection stings more than it should, considering I barely know him and wasn’t even sure I wanted to make the offer in the first place.

“Right. Got it.” I pick up my box, eager to escape this increasingly awkward situation. “Thanks again.”

I slip into my apartment before he can respond, closing the door firmly behind me. I lean against it, box still in my arms, and let out a long, shaky breath.

Welcome to your new life, Noah. Off to a fantastic start.

At least the apartment itself is nice. Small but bright, with large windows letting in the afternoon sunlight. The floors are hardwood, slightly scuffed but clean. The kitchen is compact but updated, with white cabinets and a small butcher block island. It’s peaceful. Safe.

Exactly what I need after escaping Alex.

I set down the box and rub absently at the crescent moon tattoo on my wrist, my reminder that every phase is temporary, that new beginnings are always possible. I got it the day after I left him, my first act of reclaiming my body as my own.

A loud thud against the shared wall startles me. Dean must be hanging something. Or punching something. Who knows.

Great. Not only is my neighbor a brooding, antisocial alpha, but he’s right on the other side of this wall. I’ll probably be able to hear everything he does, and vice versa. So much for peaceful anonymity.

I unpack the kitchen box, trying to focus on the task at hand rather than the memory of the unexpected gentleness in those large, calloused hands. Or the way his scent made something deep inside me stir, despite all my walls and cautions and better judgment.

It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just biology. Stupid omega instincts that haven’t quite gotten the memo that alphas are not to be trusted, no matter how helpful they might be with broken locks.

No matter how their scent makes me feel inexplicably safe for the first time in months.

No matter how much I want to know what Dean’s hiding behind that scowl and those careful movements.

Another thud from next door. I sigh and turn on some music to drown it out. I have a life to rebuild, and it doesn’t include getting tangled up with the grumpy alpha next door, no matter what my traitorous body thinks about it.

This is my fresh start. My new beginning. And I’m not going to mess it up by repeating old mistakes.

Even if those mistakes suddenly look very different with storm-cloud eyes and the scent of cedar and wildness.