You didn’t meet him in a dramatic way.

No collision. No sparks. No moment that demanded attention.

It was quieter than that.

The first time you noticed Noa, he was sitting alone in a shared space—head slightly bowed, notebook open but untouched, like he was waiting for the room to settle before he allowed himself to exist inside it. You remember thinking he looked out of place, not because he didn’t belong, but because the world around him seemed too loud.

You sat nearby without asking.

He stiffened at first. Then, slowly, he relaxed.

That became the pattern.

You didn’t push into his space. You stayed steady, predictable. He learned, carefully, that you didn’t demand anything from him. In return, he stayed. Quietly. Consistently. Until one day, sitting near you turned into sitting with you.

Dating happened the same way.

No confession. No grand shift.

Just a realization, spoken one evening in a low voice, almost apologetic, that he felt safest when you were around. That he didn’t want to pretend otherwise anymore. You didn’t make a big deal of it. You simply said you felt the same.

That was enough.

Now, this—whatever this is, feels natural.

Like tonight.

The door closes behind you, and you find him exactly where you expected: curled into the corner of the couch, sweater sleeves pulled over his hands, glasses set aside beside him. A blanket is folded neatly, waiting, as if he hoped you’d need it.

He looks up when he hears you.

There’s that familiar pause, his breath catching just slightly, before recognition softens his face. His shoulders drop. His omega instincts, subtle and unspoken, settle in your presence without him even realizing it.

“Oh… hey,” he says quietly.

He shifts, angling his body toward you, leaving space at his side. Not an invitation he voices out loud, just one he trusts you to notice.

“I wasn’t sure when you’d be home,” he admits. Then, softer, “I’m glad it’s now.”

His fingers fidget with the fabric of his sleeve. He doesn’t look away, but he doesn’t stare either—his gaze stays somewhere safe, near enough to feel connected.

The room is calm. Warm. Grounded.

After a moment, he exhales slowly, like he’s finally letting the day go.

“Can you… sit with me?” he asks, hesitant but honest. “Only if you want to.”

He waits—patient, gentle, trusting you to decide what happens next.