6. Dean
Dean
I wake at 3:17 AM with every muscle in my body pulled tight, heart hammering against my ribs.
The scent hits me like a hammer—sweet honey turned molten, citrus sharpened to something almost painful, vanilla deepened to a rich, intoxicating spice. All of it laced with a primal call that bypasses my brain entirely and speaks directly to something ancient and instinctive in my blood.
Omega. Heat.
Noah .
I sit bolt upright in bed, my body responding instantly, painfully. A growl builds in my chest that I have to consciously swallow back.
This isn’t happening. Can’t be happening.
But the scent filtering through our shared wall tells a different story. It’s faint still, just the early stages, but unmistakable to any alpha. Especially to me. Especially to whatever part of me recognized Noah from the first moment, the part I’ve been fighting since he moved in.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
I need to get out of here. Need to put distance between us before his scent gets stronger, before the rut response fully kicks in and turns me into exactly the kind of alpha he fears.
I throw back the covers and stand, pacing the length of my bedroom like a caged animal. My skin feels too tight, my blood too hot. The instinct to go to him, to claim and protect, pounds through me with each heartbeat.
This isn’t me. I don’t lose control. Haven’t lost control since—
Since Ethan.
The thought of him is like ice water down my spine. Ethan, with his quiet laugh and steady hands. Ethan, who loved rainy days and bad science fiction movies. Ethan, who died before we could complete our bond, leaving me with a hollow space where our connection should have been.
Eight years, and I still feel the phantom ache of that almost-bond when I let myself think about it. Eight years of keeping everyone at arm’s length, of building walls so thick and high that no one could scale them.
Until Noah.
Noah, who looks at me like I’m a puzzle he wants to solve. Noah, who left homemade soap at my door. Noah, who trusted me with his darkest memories yesterday and then invited me to stay, to make candles of all things, like I’m just a normal person who does normal things with friends.
Noah, who is in heat on the other side of this wall, his scent calling to me in a way I haven’t felt since—
No. I won’t go there. Won’t make comparisons that aren’t fair to either of them.
I grab my phone and keys, shoving them into the pockets of my sweatpants. I need to get out, clear my head. Maybe crash on someone’s couch for a few days until this passes.
But as I reach for the door, another wave of scent hits me, stronger now, tinged with distress. I freeze, hand on the doorknob, every instinct screaming at me to go to him, to help.
He doesn’t want that from me. He made it clear yesterday what an alpha tried to do to him during his last heat. The last thing he needs is me crashing through his door, half-wild with a rut I can already feel building.
But I can’t just leave him like this either. Not without making sure he has what he needs.
Pulling out my phone, I stare at the screen, trying to think through the haze of pheromones clouding my judgment. Who would Noah call in this situation? His friend Jesse, maybe? But I don’t have Jesse’s number.
Mrs. Patel? She’d help, but the thought of discussing Noah’s heat with her feels like a violation of his privacy.
Which leaves...me. I have to handle this. Carefully. Respectfully. Without letting my instincts take over.
I force myself to sit on the couch, taking deep breaths through my mouth to minimize the effect of Noah’s scent. Think, Dean. What does he need?
Heat supplies. Food. Water. Safety.
I can provide that without crossing any lines. I can help without imposing my presence.
First things first: heat supplies. I pull up a 24-hour delivery service on my phone and place an order—electrolyte drinks, energy bars, easy-to-prepare meals, painkillers designed specifically for omegas. I hesitate over the heat aids section before adding the basics. Nothing presumptuous, just the standard items any omega might need during an unexpected heat.
The delivery is scheduled for 5 AM. Two hours. I can hold it together for two hours.
I spend the time pacing, trying not to listen to the increasingly distressed sounds coming from Noah’s apartment. Trying not to imagine what he’s going through, alone and unprepared. Trying not to think about how easily I could ease his suffering.
By the time my phone pings with a delivery notification, I’m drenched in sweat, my body fighting a war between instinct and control. I collect the supplies from the lobby, grateful that the delivery person is a beta who doesn’t comment on my clearly agitated state.
Back upstairs, I arrange everything in a box and add a note:
Noah – Heat supplies. I’ll be staying with a friend until it passes. Text if you need anything else delivered. – Dean
I set the box outside his door, knock once, and retreat quickly to my apartment. Through the wall, I hear him moving around, then the sound of his door opening. A pause. The rustling of the box being taken inside. His door closing again.
Good. He has what he needs. Now I can go.
I throw some clothes into a duffel bag, not paying attention to what I’m grabbing. Just need to get out before—
“Dean?”
His voice, muffled through the wall, stops me in my tracks.
“Thank you,” he calls, sounding strained but sincere. “For the supplies. And for...”
For giving him space. For not being like Alex. For respecting his boundaries even when every cell in my body is screaming to break them down.
“It’s nothing,” I call back, my voice rougher than I intended.
“It’s not nothing,” he replies, and I can hear the effort it’s taking him to speak clearly. “It means a lot.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing, standing frozen in the middle of my living room, duffel bag in hand.
“Are you really leaving?” he asks after a moment.
“Yes,” I manage. “It’s better if I’m not...”
Better if I’m not here, smelling him, wanting him, fighting this losing battle against my own nature.
“Okay,” he says, so quietly I almost miss it. “Be safe.”
Something in his tone twists in my chest. Be safe. Like he’s worried about me when he’s the one in a vulnerable state.
“You too,” I reply, then force myself to move, to get out before I change my mind.
***
I end up at a motel on the edge of town, unable to bring myself to impose on anyone I know, unwilling to explain why I’m suddenly homeless with a duffel full of random clothes and a rut building in my system.
The room is bland and impersonal. Beige walls, generic floral print above the bed, carpet that’s seen better days. It smells of industrial cleaner and stale cigarettes, which is actually a blessing. Nothing here reminds me of Noah.
I take a cold shower, willing my body to calm down. It helps, a little. Enough that I can think more clearly, at least.
My phone buzzes as I’m toweling off. A text from Noah.
Thank you for the supplies. They’re perfect. You didn’t have to leave.
I stare at the message, water dripping down my back. How do I explain that yes, I absolutely did have to leave? That staying would have broken something in me, either my control or my promise to respect his boundaries?
I type carefully: Better this way. You deserve privacy.
His response comes quickly: I appreciate that more than I can say.
Then, a minute later: But I’m sorry you had to leave your home because of me.
Typical Noah, worrying about others even in the middle of his own crisis. I find myself almost smiling despite everything.
Focus on taking care of yourself. Drink lots of water.
Yes, sir, he replies, and I can practically hear the teasing tone, imagine the small smile that might accompany it.
Sir. The word does things to me that I refuse to acknowledge.
Let me know if you need anything else, I text back, keeping it neutral.
I will. Thank you. Really.
I set the phone down, not trusting myself to continue the conversation. Even these brief texts have my heart rate picking up, my body responding to just the thought of him.
This is going to be a long few days.
***
By the second day, I’m climbing the walls of the motel room. My body has settled into a low-grade rut response that keeps me on edge without pushing me over into the mindless state I’m fighting to avoid. It’s the worst of both worlds. All the discomfort with none of the release.
I try to distract myself with TV, with push-ups until my arms give out, with a run that leaves me exhausted but no less restless. Nothing helps for long.
Memories of Ethan keep surfacing, more vivid than they’ve been in years. The way he looked at me the first time we met, like he could see right through all my defenses. The sound of his laugh. The feel of his hand in mine.
The hollow emptiness after he was gone.
We’d been planning to bond during his next heat. Had it all arranged—time off work, a cabin in the mountains, everything perfect. I was at the station when I got the call. Didn’t believe it at first. Couldn’t process it. By the time I got to the hospital, he was already gone.
The almost-bond between us made it worse, somehow. Like a phantom limb, the connection that should have been there reaching for something that no longer existed.
In the years since, I’ve avoided omegas in heat entirely. The few times I’ve been exposed to heat pheromones, I’ve felt nothing but a distant biological response, easily ignored. Nothing like the visceral, overwhelming pull I feel toward Noah.
What does that mean? That I’m finally healing? Or that there’s something different about Noah specifically?
Either way, it scares the hell out of me.
Just as I’m contemplating another freezing shower, my phone rings. Mrs. Patel’s name flashes on the screen.
“Hello?” I answer, keeping my voice even.
“Where are you?” She sounds concerned. “I knocked on your door to ask about that leak in 4C, but no answer.”
“I’m staying with a friend for a few days,” I lie. “Needed a change of scenery.”
“Hmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Does this have anything to do with Noah being, shall we say, indisposed?”
Of course she knows. Mrs. Patel misses nothing that happens in her building.
“I thought it would be more comfortable for both of us if I wasn’t next door,” I say carefully.
She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “You know, you’re a good man. Most alphas wouldn’t be so considerate.”
I grunt noncommittally.
“But sometimes being considerate isn’t the same as being kind,” she continues. “Sometimes it’s just another way of keeping people at a distance.”
“Mrs. Patel—“
“I know about your mate,” she interrupts gently. “Not the details—you’ve always been private about that. But I know you lost someone special. And I know you’ve been alone ever since.”
My chest tightens. “I prefer it that way.”
“Do you?” she challenges. “Or is it just safer?”
I don’t have an answer for that.
“Life doesn’t give second chances often, dear,” she says, her voice softening. “When it does, it’s usually best to take them.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Of course it is. You let Noah choose, but did you ever stop to think maybe he’d choose you?”
The question hits me right in the chest. “He doesn’t need an alpha complicating his life right now. Especially not one next door.”
“Maybe not,” she agrees. “But what if he wants one? What if he wants you?”
“Mrs. Patel—“
“Just think about it,” she says. “That’s all I’m asking. Now, about that leak in 4C...”
I let her change the subject, grateful for the reprieve from her uncomfortable insights. We discuss the leak, and I promise to look at it when I return. After we hang up, though, her words continue to circle in my mind.
What if he wants you?
The thought is both terrifying and exhilarating. I try to push it away, but it persists, worming its way into the cracks.
***
By day three, I’m half out of my mind with a combination of rut symptoms and emotional turmoil. The motel room has become a prison, everything in it irritating me to an irrational degree. The hum of the air conditioner. The drip of the bathroom faucet. The murmur of voices through the too-thin walls.
I need to get out. Need fresh air. Need to move.
I throw on a clean shirt and jeans, grab my keys, and head for my truck. No destination in mind, just driving to clear my head.
Somehow, I end up at the cemetery.
I haven’t been here in months. Used to come every week, then every month, then just on anniversaries. Now I’m standing in front of Ethan’s grave with no idea why my subconscious brought me here today of all days.
“Hey,” I say quietly, feeling awkward as always talking to a stone. “It’s been a while.”
The grave doesn’t answer, of course. Just sits there, peaceful under the afternoon sun, Ethan’s name carved into granite along with the dates that encompass too short a life.
“I met someone,” I continue after a moment. “An omega. Noah. He’s...different. Makes me feel things I haven’t felt since you.”
Saying it aloud makes it more real somehow. More frightening.
“I don’t know what to do with that,” I admit. “Doesn’t seem fair to you. Doesn’t seem fair to him either.”
A light breeze stirs the leaves of the oak tree shading the grave. Birds call to each other overhead. Life continuing, as it always does.
“He’s been hurt,” I say. “By an alpha who tried to force a bond. Now he’s in heat, and I’m hiding in a motel because I don’t trust myself around him. Because I’m afraid of what I feel. Afraid of losing someone again.”
I sink down to sit on the grass beside the grave, like I used to do in those first raw months after the accident.
“But I think I’m more afraid of missing out on something important. Something real. And I don’t know if that’s a betrayal of what we had, or if it’s finally moving forward like you always wanted me to.”
In my mind, I can hear Ethan’s voice clearly: Don’t be an idiot, Dean. Being miserable doesn’t honor my memory. Being happy does.
He was always more emotionally intelligent than me. Always pushing me to open up, to feel more, to be vulnerable when all I wanted was to build walls.
“I miss you,” I say simply. “I think I always will. But maybe...maybe there’s room for both. Missing you and moving forward.”
For the first time in years, the thought doesn’t feel like a betrayal. It feels like a truth I’ve been avoiding for too long.
I stay a while longer, watching the shadows lengthen across the cemetery, feeling some knot inside me slowly begin to loosen. Not untie completely—that might never happen—but enough that I can breathe a little easier.
When I finally leave, I feel different. Not healed, exactly, but unburdened. Like I’ve put down a weight I’ve been carrying so long I’d forgotten it was there.
***
It’s nearly dark by the time I return to the apartment building. I sit in my truck for a long moment, debating whether to go back to the motel. Noah’s heat should be winding down by now, but it’s still risky. Still too easy to let instinct override reason.
But Mrs. Patel’s words echo in my mind: Life doesn’t give second chances often .
I need to at least check on him. Make sure he has enough supplies. That’s all. I can control myself that much.
Decision made, I head inside and up the stairs, stopping at a convenience store on the corner first to grab more electrolyte drinks and food. Better to be overprepared.
As I approach our floor, I catch Noah’s scent immediately, still heat-rich but less frantic than before. End stages, probably. The relief that floods through me is quickly followed by a wave of want so intense it nearly doubles me over.
I force myself to keep walking, to focus on my breathing. Just leave the supplies and go. That’s the plan.
I’m almost at his door when it opens.