8. Dean
Dean
I wake before Noah, my body curved protectively around his smaller frame, one arm draped over his waist. For a few minutes, I just lie there, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair fans across the pillow.
He looks peaceful in sleep. Younger. The worry lines that often crease his forehead are smoothed away, his lips slightly parted on soft exhales.
Something shifts in my chest, an ache that’s both painful and sweet. This feeling—this bone-deep rightness—I’d forgotten it was possible.
I breathe Noah in, his scent changed now that his heat has passed. Still honey-sweet and citrusy, but mellower, intertwined with my own cedar-smoke smell in a way that makes me practically purr with satisfaction. Marked. Not in the permanent way of a bond, but enough that anyone with a decent nose would know he’d been with an alpha. With me.
My thumb traces small circles on his hip, a point of contact I can’t seem to break even half asleep. The night replays in my mind. Noah’s heat-flushed skin under my hands, the sounds he made when I was inside him, the way he looked at me like I was something good, something worth choosing.
I’d expected guilt this morning. Expected Ethan’s ghost to loom large between us. But the space in my chest where that old grief lives feels different somehow. Still there, still real, but no longer raw and bleeding. Like a wound that’s finally starting to scar over.
Noah stirs, his breathing changing as he drifts toward consciousness. I hold still, not wanting to rush him into awareness, into whatever comes next.
His body tenses slightly as he wakes fully, registering my presence. Then, without warning, he shifts away from me, breaking the contact between us. It’s a small movement, just a few inches of space opening between our bodies, but it lands like a blow.
“Morning,” he murmurs, not quite meeting my eyes.
“Morning,” I reply, keeping my voice neutral despite the sharp pang in my chest. “How are you feeling?”
He stretches cautiously, wincing slightly. “Better. Sore, but...better.”
I nod, already pulling further away, giving him the space his body language is clearly requesting. “Heat’s fully broken?”
“Yeah.”
The awkwardness between us is sudden and stifling. Last night, we couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t touch enough of each other. Now there might as well be a wall between us on the bed.
“I should probably get going,” I say, reading the room. “Let you rest.”
Noah glances at me, then away again. “You don’t have to rush off.”
But his tone says the opposite. His body, curved away from mine now, says the opposite.
“Work today,” I lie, already sitting up, scanning the floor for my clothes. “Construction doesn’t stop for hangovers or...other things.”
A flicker of something crosses his face—relief? disappointment? It’s gone too quickly for me to read.
“Right. Of course.”
I dress quickly, efficiently, years of early-morning construction shifts making the process automatic. Noah remains in bed, sheet pulled up to his chest, watching me with unreadable eyes.
“Do you need anything before I go?” I ask, pausing at the edge of the bed. “Water? Food?”
He shakes his head. “I’m good.”
The urge to touch him, to lean down and kiss him goodbye, is nearly overwhelming. But his body language is closed off, protective. I respect the boundary he’s setting, even as it tears something inside me.
“I’ll see you around, then,” I say, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears.
Noah nods, offering a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. See you.”
I let myself out of his apartment, the door clicking shut behind me with a finality that echoes in my chest.
***
My apartment feels wrong. Empty. Foreign.
I strip the sheets off my bed, toss them in the washer along with the clothes I was wearing. Try to ignore how Noah’s scent still clings to my skin even after a scalding shower.
Work is out of the question. I wasn’t lying about having a shift scheduled, but there’s no way I can focus on blueprints and load-bearing calculations with my mind in this state. I call in, claiming a stomach bug, something I’ve never done in the years I’ve worked for the company.
Time stretches empty in front of me. I clean my already clean apartment. Do sit-ups and push-ups until I’m shaking. Try to read a book and give up after reading the same paragraph four times.
All the while, I’m acutely aware of Noah’s presence on the other side of our shared wall. I can hear the shower running, the occasional thud of a drawer closing, the quiet murmur of his voice on the phone.
Not my business. Not my right to listen, to wonder who he’s talking to, what he’s saying.
I force myself to eat lunch, though I barely taste the sandwich I make. Force myself to sit on the couch and turn on a baseball game, though I couldn’t tell you the score or who’s playing five minutes in.
Around two, a knock at Noah’s door catches my attention. Followed by a voice I don’t recognize. I sniff. Beta? Noah opens the door readily enough. Must be the friend he mentioned - Jesse.
“Dude, you look like shit,” Jesse says, voice carrying easily through the wall. “But also kind of glowy? It’s a weird combination.”
“Shut up and get in here,” Noah replies, and I hear his door shut.
Their voices become muffled then, too indistinct to make out words. I turn up the volume on the game, telling myself I’m not trying to drown them out, not trying to avoid hearing whatever Noah might be saying about last night.
It doesn’t work. Their voices rise and fall in the rhythm of conversation, occasionally punctuated by laughter. I find myself straining to hear despite my best intentions, catching fragments—
“...helped me through it...”
“...never expected him to...”
“...different somehow...”
I should leave. Go for a run. Go anywhere that isn’t here, listening to Noah dissect what happened between us with his friend.
But then his voice rises suddenly, clear and pained: “If I weren’t an omega, would he even want me? Or was it just my heat making him respond?”
The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs.
“Seriously,? After everything you told me?” Jesse’s voice is incredulous. “The guy left you heat supplies and then left the building to give you space. That’s not normal alpha behavior.”
“I know, but—“
“But nothing. You’re making excuses because you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared,” Noah protests. “I’m being realistic. He was responding to pheromones, Jesse. Basic biology. Any unmated alpha would have reacted the same way.”
No. That’s not true. That’s so far from the truth it would be laughable if it didn’t hurt so goddamn much.
“That is such bullshit,” Jesse says, echoing my thoughts. “And you know it.”
Their voices drop again, and I’m left sitting there, feeling like someone just carved out my insides with a dull knife.
If I weren’t an omega, would he even want me?
The question loops in my head, each repetition more painful than the last. How can he think that? After everything?
But then, haven’t I been asking myself the same question from the other side? If Noah hadn’t been in heat, would he have chosen me? Was it just biology pushing us together, making him see something in me that isn’t really there?
Am I worthy of being chosen at all, after failing to protect the one person I was supposed to keep safe?
The spiral of thoughts is familiar, the old guilt surging back with new strength. Maybe this is for the best. Noah deserves more than a broken alpha who can’t even process his own grief properly. Deserves someone whole, someone who doesn’t carry ghosts into every relationship.
I stand abruptly, needing to move, to act, to do something besides sit here marinating in my own misery. My phone is in my hand before I’ve consciously decided what I’m doing.
Jim, my foreman, answers on the third ring. “Dean? Thought you were on death’s door with food poisoning.”
“Feeling better,” I say, cutting to the chase. “That project in Portland still need people?”
There’s a pause. “Yeah, we’re shorthanded up there. Why?”
“I want on it. I can drive up tonight, start tomorrow.”
Another pause. “It’s a three-week minimum. Maybe longer.”
“That’s fine.”
“Something going on I should know about?” Jim asks, concern edging into his normally gruff voice.
“Just need a change of scene,” I say, the understatement of the century. “Can you put me on the crew or not?”
“Yeah, I can make it happen. But Dean—“
“Thanks. Text me the address and start time.” I hang up before he can ask more questions I don’t want to answer.
Three weeks. Maybe longer. Enough time for Noah’s heat scent to fade completely from my skin, my clothes, my apartment. Enough time for whatever this is between us to die a natural death instead of being dragged out painfully.
Enough time for him to realize he’s better off without me complicating his life.
I throw clothes into a duffel bag, not paying much attention to what I’m packing. Grab toiletries from the bathroom. Check that I have my wallet, keys, phone charger.
As I’m zipping the bag, I pause, struck by a thought. I should tell Noah I’m leaving. Leaving without a word would be cowardly, would probably confirm whatever negative thoughts he’s having about me, about what happened between us.
But the thought of facing him, of seeing the regret or worse, the pity in his eyes, makes my stomach clench. I grab a notepad from the kitchen counter instead, scrawling a quick note,
I read it over, hating how cold it sounds, how impersonal. But what else can I say? That hearing him question whether I wanted him for anything beyond his omega status gutted me? That I’m leaving because I can’t bear to be this close to him and not touch him, not breathe him in, not tell him that last night was the first time in five years I’ve felt fully alive?
That I’m giving him space because I respect his agency too much to force my presence on him when he’s clearly having second thoughts?
No. Better to keep it simple. Unemotional.
I fold the note and slip it under his door, then grab my bag and head for my truck before I can change my mind. Mrs. Patel spots me in the hallway, her eyes widening at the sight of my packed bag.
“Where are you going?”
“Work assignment,” I say, not slowing down. “Out of town for a few weeks.”
She frowns, hurrying to keep pace with me. “But you just got back. And Noah—“
“Has my number if there’s an emergency with the apartment,” I cut in, not wanting to hear Noah’s name right now. “I left a note.”
“A note?” she repeats, sounding appalled. “Dean Carter, tell me you did not just leave that boy a note after—“
“Mrs. - Priya,” I interrupt, stopping at the top of the stairs to face her. “Please. I need to go.”
Something in my expression must convey the desperation I’m feeling, because she sighs, her stern look softening to concern.
“Running away never solved anything, you know,” she says gently.
“I’m not running away,” I lie. “It’s just work.”
She doesn’t believe me—I can see it in her eyes—but she nods anyway. “Be careful, then. And Dean? The walls in this building are thin. Remember that before you make decisions based on half-heard conversations.”
The comment catches me off guard. Before I can respond, she’s patting my arm and turning back toward her apartment, leaving me to stare after her, wondering exactly how much she knows about what’s going on between Noah and me.
Not that it matters. I’ve made my decision. This is for the best.
I head down the stairs, out to my truck, tossing my bag onto the passenger seat. As I start the engine, I can’t help glancing up at the windows of our building. Third floor, fifth from the left. Noah’s apartment.
The curtains are drawn. No sign of him watching, waiting, caring that I’m leaving.
It’s fine. It’s what I expected. What I wanted, even. A clean break, no messy emotions, no complicated explanations.
So why does it feel like I’m leaving a vital part of myself behind?
I put the truck in gear and pull away from the curb, refusing to look in the rearview mirror as I drive away from the first person since Ethan who made me feel something worth fighting for.
The first person I’ve been too much of a coward to actually fight for.
Portland is three hours north. By the time I hit the freeway on-ramp, I’ve convinced myself this is the right decision. The only decision. That I’m doing this for Noah, giving him the space to figure out what he wants without an alpha next door complicating things.
The fact that I’m also protecting myself from the inevitable rejection when he realizes I’m not worth the baggage I come with…well, that’s just an added bonus.
The miles tick by, each one putting more distance between us, but doing nothing to ease the hollow ache in my chest. My phone remains silent in the cup holder. No calls. No texts. No reason to turn around.
Just as well. Some things aren’t meant to be fixed.
Some people aren’t meant to be loved twice.