4. Dean
Dean
T he soap sits on my kitchen counter, small and perfect. I’ve been staring at it for ten minutes like it might explode.
Cedar and vanilla. He made it to smell like me. Has he been paying that much attention?
I pick it up again, bringing it to my nose. The scent is subtle but unmistakable—woody and warm, with just enough sweetness. It’s good. Really good.
Not that I know anything about handmade soap. But I know scents, and this one is...right. Balanced.
The note is still on the counter too. I’ve read it five times, analyzing every word like there’s some hidden code I need to crack. It’s just a thank-you note.
So why does it feel like more?
I set the soap down and grab my tools. I promised to help with his shelving today, and I’m already running late after my morning shift ran long. The crew hit an unexpected support beam that wasn’t on the blueprints, and I had to stick around to sort it out.
Now it’s almost 2:00, and I still need to shower off the construction dust before heading over to Noah’s. I don’t want to track dirt all over his apartment.
The shower is quick but thorough. As I’m dressing, I catch myself hesitating between a plain black t-shirt and a dark blue shirt that Ethan once said brought out my eyes.
“What the hell are you doing?” I mutter to myself, grabbing the black t-shirt.
It’s just shelves. Helping a neighbor. Not a date.
When I knock on Noah’s door at 2:15, I’m half expecting him to have given up on me. Instead, the door swings open almost immediately, and there he is, looking...different.
He’s wearing fitted jeans and a soft gray t-shirt that hugs his torso instead of his usual oversized sweaters. His dark hair is slightly damp, like he’s just showered too, and there’s a flush to his cheeks.
“Hey,” he says, sounding slightly breathless. “I wasn’t sure if you were still coming.”
“Sorry I’m late. Work ran long.”
“No problem. Come in.”
I follow him inside, trying not to notice how the jeans fit him as he walks ahead of me. His apartment smells strongly of soap and essential oils today, overlaid with something baking.
“I, uh, made cookies,” he says, gesturing to the kitchen. “If you want some. As another thank you for yesterday.”
First soap, now cookies. What’s next, a fruit basket?
“You don’t need to keep thanking me,” I say, more gruffly than intended.
His face falls slightly. “Right. Sorry. I just thought...”
Great. Now I feel like I kicked a puppy.
“The soap is nice,” I add, trying to soften my response. “Thanks.”
His expression brightens immediately. “You like it? I wasn’t sure if cedar was too on-the-nose, but it seemed to fit.”
It fits perfectly, but I’m not about to admit how much I like having something that smells like a combination of us. That’s a level of weird I’m keeping to myself.
“It’s good,” I say simply. “Where are these shelves going?”
“Oh! Right. In here.”
He leads me to the second bedroom, which he’s converted into a workroom. There’s a large table in the center covered with soap-making supplies, molds, and what looks like candle-making equipment. Oils, fragrances, and colorants are arranged neatly on a smaller side table. Finished products line the windowsill, soaps in various shapes and colors, candles in small jars.
In the corner are several unassembled floating shelves and the tools he’s gathered—a drill, a level, a pencil, and a stud finder that looks like it’s never been used.
“I want to put them along that wall,” he explains, pointing to the empty wall opposite the window. “For displaying finished products and storing supplies.”
I nod, surveying the wall. “You have anchors? These shelves will be heavy once they’re loaded.”
“Anchors?” He looks momentarily panicked. “I thought the screws would be enough.”
“Not into drywall.” I’m already digging through my own toolbox. “I brought some, just in case.”
Relief washes over his face. “This is why I need you. I’d have had shelves collapsing within a week.”
There’s something gratifying about being needed, even for something as simple as hanging shelves. I try not to dwell on it.
“Let’s mark the studs first,” I say, reaching for the stud finder.
Noah watches intently as I find and mark each stud. He stands close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, smell his scent under the soap and essential oils. It’s distracting.
“Can I try?” he asks when I’ve found the third stud.
I hand him the stud finder, and our fingers brush. He doesn’t flinch away like he did that first day, which feels like a small victory I have no right to claim.
“Like this?” He places the tool against the wall, mimicking how I held it.
“Press the button and move it slowly.”
He does, his brow furrowing in concentration. When the tool beeps, his face lights up like he’s discovered gold instead of a wooden beam inside a wall.
“Got one!”
I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips. His enthusiasm over the smallest things is - God help me - cute .
We work together marking the remaining studs, then measuring and marking where each shelf will go. Noah is particular about the spacing, wanting them to be aesthetically pleasing as well as functional. I don’t mind. It’s oddly relaxing, this methodical process.
“You’re good at this,” Noah comments as I pre-drill the first hole. “Were you always into building things?”
I shrug. “My dad was a contractor. Learned from him.”
“Is that why you went into construction?”
“Partly.” I focus on drilling the next hole, not wanting to get into my career change. Not wanting to mention firefighting, or why I left it behind.
Noah seems to sense my reluctance. “My dad’s a corporate lawyer. He wanted me to follow him into the family firm.”
“But you make soap instead,” I observe, lining up the first shelf bracket.
He laughs, a soft sound that does strange things to my chest. “Huge disappointment. I was supposed to be the Reynolds legacy at Winston & Price. Instead, I’m mixing essential oils in my apartment.”
There’s an edge to his humor, something bitter underneath.
“You enjoy this more,” I say, a statement rather than a question.
“Yeah. It’s mine , you know? Something I created, not something handed to me because of my last name.”
I nod, understanding that feeling completely. “Hand me that screw.”
We work in companionable silence for a while, finding a rhythm together. He holds things steady while I drill and secure the brackets. When I need to measure, he’s already holding the tape measure. When I reach for a screw, he’s placing one in my palm.
It’s easy. Too easy. Like we’ve been doing this together for years instead of minutes.
By the time we finish the third shelf, the afternoon sun is streaming through the window, casting the room in warm golden light. Noah’s standing back, admiring our work, when a loud bang from outside makes him jump.
“Sorry,” he says, laughing nervously. “Still getting used to city noises.”
I’m about to respond when another sound cuts through the apartment—not a bang this time, but a voice. Loud, slurred, angry.
“NOAH! I know you’re in there! Open the fucking door!”
Noah freezes, the color draining from his face so quickly it’s alarming. His scent changes instantly, sharp with fear, sour with panic.
“It’s him,” he whispers, more to himself than to me. “How did he find me?”
Another bang, this time clearly someone pounding on his door. “OPEN UP! We need to talk!”
I’m moving before I even make a conscious decision, positioning myself between Noah and the door. “Stay here.”
“Dean, don’t—“ Noah reaches for my arm, but I’m already heading toward the front door.
The pounding continues, accompanied by more shouting. “I swear to god, Noah, if you don’t open this door—“
I wrench it open mid-knock, coming face to face with the owner of that voice. A man dressed in an expensive suit, reeking of alcohol and entitlement. His face is flushed with anger and booze, his eyes bloodshot.
Alpha. I can smell it on him, that aggressive, dominant scent that some of us wield like a weapon.
He blinks, momentarily confused by my presence. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Nobody who wants to hear you banging on this door,” I say evenly, though there’s nothing even about the rage building inside me. “Time for you to leave.”
He tries to look past me into the apartment. “Is he in there? Noah! Come out and talk to me, baby. I just want to talk.”
“He doesn’t want to talk to you.” I step fully into the doorway, blocking his view completely. “I won’t ask again. Leave.”
The other alpha draws himself up, puffing out his chest. In another context, it might be comical—he’s a good four inches shorter than me and clearly unused to physical confrontation.
“This is between me and my omega,” he snarls. “Get out of my way.”
My omega . The words trigger something primal and dangerous in me. A low growl starts in my chest before I can stop it.
“He is not your omega.” Each word comes out rough and sharp. “And you need to leave. Now.”
I can smell the fear starting to cut through his drunken bravado. Good. He should be afraid.
“You fucking him?” he asks, his lip curling. “Is that it? You’re his new knot?”
I don’t respond to the bait, just continue to stare him down, letting my scent communicate what words can’t—that I’m seconds away from physical violence.
“Whatever,” he sneers. “He’ll come crawling back. He always does. Needy little omega can’t take care of himself.”
My control snaps. I grab the front of his expensive suit and slam him against the wall opposite Noah’s door, knocking the air from his lungs.
“Listen carefully,” I say, my voice deadly quiet. “You will leave this building. You will not come back. You will not contact him again. If you do, what happens next won’t be a conversation.”
Fear floods his scent now, acrid and sharp. Up close, I can see he’s younger than I first thought, probably Noah’s age. Soft, despite his aggressive posturing. He’s never been in a real fight in his life.
“Get your hands off me,” he hisses, but there’s a tremor in his voice.
I release him with a slight push, stepping back to give him an exit. He straightens his suit with shaking hands, trying to salvage his dignity.
“He’s damaged goods anyway,” he spits, a final attempt at dominance. “Frigid little tease.”
I take a single step toward him, and he flinches, backing toward the stairs.
I watch until he disappears down the stairwell, then turn back to Noah’s apartment. The door is still partially open. Noah stands just inside, his arms wrapped around himself, looking smaller than I’ve ever seen him.
“He’s gone,” I say, keeping my voice gentle, all traces of the growl gone.
Noah nods, not quite meeting my eyes. “I heard.”
I close the door behind me, unsure what to do next. The protective rage is still burning in my veins, but I force it down. The last thing Noah needs right now is another alpha letting his instincts run wild.
“Are you okay?” I ask, keeping my distance. His scent is still sharp with fear, but there’s something else now—shame, maybe. Or embarrassment.
“I’m fine,” he says automatically, then sighs. “No, that’s not true. I’m not fine. I’m...I don’t know what I am.”
“Sit,” I suggest, nodding toward the couch. “I’ll make coffee.”
Noah looks surprised by the offer, but nods and moves to the couch while I head to the kitchen. Making coffee gives me something to do with my hands, a way to be useful without crowding him.
As the coffee brews, I hear him take a shaky breath in the living room.
“That was Alex,” he says, voice steady despite the tremor in his scent. “My ex.”
“I figured.” I keep my tone neutral, though the word ‘ex’ sends a wave of relief through me that I have no right to feel.
“I’m sorry you had to deal with that. He’s not usually so...I mean, he can be intense, but he’s never tracked me down before.”
I want to ask how the ex found him, how long they were together, what happened between them. But it’s not my place to pry.
I bring two mugs of coffee to the living room, handing one to Noah before taking a seat in the armchair across from him, giving him space.
He wraps his hands around the mug, staring into it. “Thank you. For stepping in. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did.”
His eyes lift to meet mine, questioning.
I clear my throat. “Nobody should be harassed in their own home.”
It’s not the whole truth. The whole truth is that I would have torn that alpha apart if he’d taken one step closer to Noah. The whole truth is that the protective instinct I felt was more than neighborly concern. But Noah doesn’t need to know that.
“Still. Thank you.” He takes a sip of his coffee, then asks, “How did you know what to do? You were so calm.”
I wasn’t calm. I was furious. But I understand what he means.
“Part of my old job,” I say. “De-escalation training.”
“Old job?” Noah picks up on it immediately. “What did you do before construction?”
I hesitate, then decide there’s no harm in telling him. “Firefighter. For eight years.”
His eyes widen. “That’s...wow. That’s amazing. Why did you leave?”
The question hits like a punch to the gut, even though it’s perfectly reasonable. I take a breath, deciding how much to share. “There was an accident. I needed a change.”
Noah’s expression softens with understanding. He doesn’t push, and I’m grateful.
Instead, he says, “Mrs. Patel mentioned you’ve lived here for five years.”
“Yeah.” I sip my coffee. “It’s quiet. Simple. What I needed.”
He nods, like that makes perfect sense to him. Maybe it does.
We sit in surprisingly comfortable silence, drinking our coffee. Noah’s scent gradually loses its fearful edge, returning to that honey-citrus warmth that’s become familiar.
A knock at the door makes him tense again. I’m on my feet immediately, but his hand on my arm stops me.
“It’s okay,” he says, getting up. “It’s probably just Mrs. Patel. She usually checks in around this time.”
Sure enough, Mrs. Patel’s voice comes through the door. “Noah, dear? Is everything alright? I thought I heard raised voices earlier.”
Noah opens the door, revealing our tiny landlady with her concerned expression. Her eyes dart from Noah to me and back again, a small smile replacing her frown.
“Oh! Dean is here. Good, good.” She pats Noah’s arm. “I was worried when I heard that commotion, but if Dean’s with you, I’m sure everything is fine.”
The way she says it, like my presence alone ensures Noah’s safety, makes something warm and uncomfortable settle in my chest.
“Everything’s fine,” Noah assures her. “Just a misunderstanding. Dean helped sort it out.”
Mrs. Patel beams at me like I’ve performed some heroic feat. “Of course he did. Dean’s very good at sorting things out, aren’t you, dear?”
I grunt noncommittally, which only makes her smile wider.
“Well, I’ll leave you boys to it. Noah, remember what I said about that pumpkin bread recipe. Dean loves pumpkin bread.”
Before either of us can respond, she’s gone, humming to herself as she heads back downstairs.
Noah closes the door and turns to me with a raised eyebrow. “Pumpkin bread?”
“She’s been trying to fatten me up for years,” I admit, the corner of my mouth twitching. “Says I’m too serious because I don’t eat enough carbs.”
Noah’s laugh is unexpected and bright, cutting through the tension of the afternoon like sunlight through clouds.
“She might be onto something there,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
And just like that, I’m in trouble. Deep trouble.
Because I want to make him laugh again. I want to keep him safe. I want things I have no right to want after knowing him for less than two weeks.
Ethan would understand , I think suddenly. He’d like him.
The thought should hurt, but somehow, it doesn’t. Not as much as it used to.