3. Noah
Noah
T he sky opens up without warning, like someone upstairs turned on a celestial faucet at full blast. One minute I’m checking my phone for delivery updates, the next I’m getting drenched on the sidewalk outside my building.
“No, no, no.” I shove my phone in my pocket as I scan the street.
The delivery truck pulls up just as thunder cracks overhead, because of course it does. Perfect timing. The driver hops out, already looking annoyed at the weather. He hauls the back door open and starts pulling out my boxes.
“You Noah Reynolds?” he shouts over the downpour.
“That’s me!” I push my soaking hair out of my eyes. “Need help with those?”
He glances at the five large boxes and gives me a look that says what do you think?
I hurry forward, reaching for the first box, which is already getting wet despite the plastic wrapping. This shipment is everything I need for the next three months of orders—specialty oils, waxes, molds, fragrances, packaging. Exactly the kind of stuff that doesn’t mix well with torrential rain.
The driver hands me the digital clipboard to sign, which is instantly covered in water droplets. I scribble something that barely resembles my name and hand it back.
“Thanks,” I manage, as he dumps the last box on the sidewalk and dashes back to his truck, clearly done with this whole interaction.
I stare at the pile of boxes, rain pelting my face, and try not to panic. I’m going to need multiple trips, and everything will be soaked through by the time I get it all upstairs.
“Shit,” I hiss, kneeling to grab the first box. It’s heavier than I expected, and the cardboard is already weakening from the rain. If it gives out, my supplies will be scattered across the sidewalk.
I’ve barely made it three steps when the box begins to tear. I lurch forward, trying to keep everything contained, but it’s a losing battle. The bottom splits, and I watch in horror as supplies tumble onto the wet concrete.
Glass bottles of essential oils roll in all directions. Bars of raw shea butter and cocoa butter skid across the sidewalk. Packaging materials immediately begin soaking up water like sponges.
“No!” I drop to my knees, frantically trying to gather everything before it’s ruined.
That’s when a large shadow falls over me. I look up through the rain to see Dean, his broad shoulders blocking some of the downpour. He’s wearing a dark gray raincoat, the hood pulled up, and he’s frowning down at me like I’m a particularly confusing puzzle.
“Inside,” he says, voice barely audible over the rain. “Get the boxes inside first.”
Before I can respond, he’s already grabbing two of the remaining boxes, stacking them easily in his arms.
I blink rain from my eyes. “But my supplies—“
“Inside,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “Then we’ll come back for this. They’ll get more wet if we do it the other way.”
He’s right, and I know it, but leaving my supplies scattered across the sidewalk feels wrong. Still, I scramble to my feet and grab one of the remaining boxes while Dean heads toward the building entrance.
By the time we’ve gotten all the intact boxes to the lobby, my teeth are chattering and my clothes are plastered to my skin. Dean doesn’t look much better despite his raincoat. Water drips from the edge of his hood onto his face, running down his stubbled cheeks in rivulets.
“Wait here,” he says, disappearing back outside.
I stand there, dripping all over the lobby tiles, wondering what the hell he’s doing. When he returns a minute later, my jaw drops.
He’s carrying a plastic storage bin filled with my scattered supplies, having somehow managed to collect everything from the sidewalk.
“How did you—“
“Found it in the maintenance closet,” he says, nodding toward a door I hadn’t even noticed near the building’s back entrance. “Figured it would keep everything contained.”
“Thank you.” Genuine relief washes over me. “Seriously, I don’t know what I would have done.”
Dean shrugs, like rescuing someone’s entire livelihood from a torrential downpour is no big deal. “Let’s get it upstairs before Mrs. Patel sees the mess we’re making.”
I grab one of the boxes while Dean takes the storage bin and another box, and we head for the stairs. By the time we reach the third floor, my arms are burning and water is literally squishing in my shoes with each step.
“Key?” Dean asks as we reach my door.
I set my box down carefully and dig through my soaked jeans for my keys. After the broken key incident, I’d immediately had three spares made.
Inside my apartment, Dean sets down the bin and box, then goes back for the remaining boxes while I stand there dripping onto my hardwood floors, feeling useless and overwhelmed.
When he returns with the last of it, I’m still standing in the same spot, shivering.
“You should change,” he says, eyeing my soaked clothes. “I’ll put these in the kitchen.”
I nod, grateful for the direction. My brain feels waterlogged, unable to process the simplest next steps. I shuffle to my bedroom, leaving a trail of water behind me, and quickly strip out of my wet clothes. I pull on dry sweatpants and my favorite oversized sweater, the soft blue one with the slightly frayed cuffs that feels like a security blanket.
When I re-emerge, Dean has arranged all the boxes and the bin in my kitchen, and is examining one of the glass bottles of essential oil that escaped unscathed.
“Lavender,” he says, reading the label.
“For sleep blends,” I explain, hovering in the doorway. “It’s calming.”
He nods, placing the bottle back in the bin. I notice that he’s arranged everything with surprising care—glass bottles together, packaging materials spread out to dry, wax and butter bars stacked neatly.
“Some of this got wet,” he says, gesturing to a few items. “Not sure if it can be salvaged.”
I move closer to examine the damage. It’s not as bad as I feared. The glass bottles are fine, and most of the natural ingredients are sealed well enough that a little external moisture won’t hurt them. The packaging will need to dry out, but it’s mostly usable.
“This is...incredibly organized,” I say, glancing at Dean with newfound appreciation. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
He shrugs again. “Figured you’d want to see what made it.”
I realize he’s still in his wet raincoat, water pooling around his boots on my kitchen floor.
“God, I’m sorry—you’re soaked too. Do you want a towel? Or coffee? Or...something?” I’m babbling, I know, but I’m genuinely at a loss for how to thank him properly.
“I’m fine.” He takes a step back. “Just need to change.”
“Right, of course.” I run a hand through my damp hair. “Thank you, seriously. You saved me today. Those supplies are basically my entire business for the next few months.”
Dean’s eyes drift to the items in the bin, and he picks up a small silicone mold in the shape of geometric crystals. “This is for...?”
“Soaps. I do a crystal line that’s pretty popular. Different scents and properties for each stone type.”
He nods, turning the mold in his large hands. “Creative.”
It’s hardly effusive praise, but something in his tone feels genuine. I take the mold from him, our fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. A small jolt travels up my arm at the contact.
“I should let you go change,” I say quickly, setting the mold down. “Thanks again for your help.”
Dean hesitates, like there’s something else he wants to say, but then just nods. “Check everything once it dries. Make sure it’s still usable.”
“I will.”
He turns to leave, then pauses at the door. “If you need help with those shelves tomorrow...”
“Oh! Yes, if you’re still willing, that would be great.”
“After noon,” he says. “I have a morning shift.”
“Perfect. I’ll be here.”
Another nod, and then he’s gone, leaving wet footprints in his wake and the faint scent of cedar and rain hanging in the air.
I exhale slowly, leaning against the kitchen counter. What just happened? The grumpy, antisocial alpha from next door just saved my entire inventory without being asked, then carefully organized it all in my kitchen.
It doesn’t fit the image I’ve been building of him—the brooding loner who barely strings together complete sentences. There was care in how he handled my things, real attention to detail.
I shake my head, turning to the task of fully assessing the damage and drying what can be saved. As I work, I can’t help but replay the way Dean’s large hands so carefully arranged my supplies, how gently he handled the glass bottles and delicate molds.
Not at all what I expected from an alpha.
***
“So, Grumpy Neighbor Guy saved your ass in the rain?” Jesse raises an eyebrow over his coffee cup. “That’s interesting.”
We’re at our usual spot, a small café two blocks from my new apartment. Jesse insisted on seeing me in person after I texted him about the supply delivery drama yesterday.
“It wasn’t like that,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure what ‘that’ would be. “He was just being neighborly.”
“Uh-huh.” Jesse gives me a knowing look that makes me want to throw my scone at him. “And you said he organized all your stuff? This is the same guy who, quote, ‘looks like he eats nails for breakfast and communicates exclusively in grunts,’ right?”
I roll my eyes. “I may have exaggerated slightly.”
“Or maybe there’s more to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Broody than meets the eye.” Jesse leans forward, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “Is he hot? You conveniently left that detail out of your texts.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “He’s...not unattractive.”
Jesse bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, he’s gorgeous, isn’t he? Your face is so red right now!”
“Shut up,” I mutter, taking a large bite of my scone to avoid further comment.
“Hey,” Jesse’s tone softens, “I’m just teasing. But seriously, it’s okay to find someone attractive, you know. It doesn’t mean you have to do anything about it.”
I swallow the too-large bite of scone, nearly choking. “I’m not—it’s not like that. I’m not looking for anything. Especially not with an alpha .”
The last word comes out harsher than I intended. Jesse knows about Alex, about what happened. He’s one of the few people who stuck by me after everything fell apart.
“Noah,” he says gently, “not every alpha is like Alex.”
“I know that,” I reply automatically, but we both know it’s not that simple.
Jesse sighs. “Look, I’m not saying jump into bed with the guy. Just...don’t let what happened with Alex color everything. Trust your instincts.”
“My instincts are what got me into trouble last time,” I point out.
“No, ignoring your instincts is what got you into trouble.“ Jesse reaches across the table to tap my hand. “You knew something was off with Alex early on. You told me yourself. But you ignored it because he was charming and from a good family and said all the right things.”
I stare into my coffee, not wanting to admit he’s right.
“So what do your instincts say about Grumpy Neighbor Guy?” Jesse asks, gentler now.
I think about Dean’s careful hands organizing my supplies. The way he didn’t hesitate to help, didn’t make me feel weak or helpless for needing it. How he respected my space, never pushed for more than I offered.
“I don’t know,” I finally admit. “He’s...different.”
Jesse smiles. “Different can be good.”
I change the subject then, asking about Jesse’s latest tattoo designs, but his words stick with me for the rest of our coffee date.
Trust your instincts. Different can be good.
***
When I get home, I spend the afternoon making a small batch of lavender soap using the supplies Dean helped save. The familiar process centers me, the methodical measuring and mixing requiring just enough attention to quiet my racing thoughts.
As the soap sets in its molds, I glance at the wall I share with Dean’s apartment. It’s quiet over there. He’s probably still at work.
Before I can overthink it, I grab one of the freshly made soaps from a previous batch—a cedar and vanilla blend that seems fitting—and write a quick note on a piece of kraft paper:
Thanks again for rescuing my supplies yesterday. I’d still be fishing essential oils out of puddles if not for you. Hope this small token of appreciation doesn’t violate your “no dinner” policy. —Noah
I fold the paper around the soap and tie it with twine, then slip out into the hallway before I can change my mind. I leave the package at Dean’s door, then retreat quickly back to my apartment.
It’s just a thank-you gift, I tell myself. Nothing more. Just being neighborly.
But as I close my door, I can’t help but hope he likes it, that maybe he’ll recognize his own scent in the soap, the cedar notes I chose specifically to complement the warm, woodsy smell that clings to his skin.
It doesn’t mean anything. Just a simple thank you.
Even if my instincts are whispering something entirely different.