Page 73 of My Shy Alpha

But then he asks, “If that was in the past, what’s making you afraid again now?”

My stomach flips. “Oh. I don’t know.”

“Is it what we talked about? With my dad?”

“No. Absolutely not.” I pull him closer, ensuring he knows I’m serious. “It’s not you, Noah. Please don’t think that. I think I’m torn because I’m happier than I’ve been in years when I’m with you. At the same time, I’m stressed from all this change, even though it’s what I’ve always wanted. And sometimes even good stress makes me feel like I have to do... things. To try to cope, or hang on to control. Like re-locking the door without realizing it.”

“O-oh...”

Maybe I made a mistake. Or shared too much. Or confused him. Or–

“I-is it–?” Noah shakes his head to stop himself.

But I step closer, touching his chest. “Is it, what? You can ask.”

“Is it... From trauma?”

“Part of it, yeah. I’ve always done a few of these things, but it got really bad after my parents died.” My voice shrinks as I speak. “And then... Something else happened. At my cabin. Something that makes me want to lock the doors, even if no one knows where I live.”

Noah’s expression darkens. Our bond sparks with concern.

And deep, boiling anger.

I grab his hand, unable to meet those gorgeous eyes.

But he holds tight, grounding me to the earth. “Is there any way I can help you feel less afraid of that happening again?”

At first, I’m overcome with affection that he’d think to ask.

But he’s staring, waiting for an answer.

Whirring through possibilities, no solution seems to stick except eventually having Noah there for the most extreme Prolonged Exposure session for my PTSD yet: having a male figure enter my home, unannounced, and with no further explanation. Noah would be the first man I’d trust to help me with an exposure this deep, knowing he’d never actually hurt me. Eventually, my brain would realize that not everyone who walks through my door is entering to hurt me.

But God, I don’t even know how to categorize that type of exposure. Would it also include Exposure and Response Prevention, considering I’ve developed OCD compulsions around locks? I’d need Jenny’s guidance on juggling triggers from both disorders at once, the mere idea sending my head spinning.

I’m not ready for that yet, even with Jenny’s help. If I give Noah a key in the meantime, it won’t stop a potential severe PTSD flashback when Noah enters on his own. I can’t imagine how terrifying that would be for him - coming home to me shaking and crying like I’m dying over something so seemingly simple. Relying on the key would also give OCD another excuse to lock the door, intensifying its power over me.

But is this really about keys and locks, or am I avoiding the past again?

I groan, dropping my jumbled head. “I-I don’t know, I’m confusing myself. I’ve never had anyone to help with this besides Amy, and it’s... complicated. I don’t want to accidentally make things worse, so I’ll have to ask my therapist what to do.”

Noah pulls me closer, stroking my hand with his thumb. “Okay. Please let me know. I want to help.”

His soft voice fills me with enough warmth to want to cry, but it’s too early in the morning for that.

So I wrap my arms around his waist, nuzzling into his chest. “I like this, though. Can we just stay like this the whole day? I don’t want to go to work.”

It’s an obvious breach of subject, but Noah chuckles, cuddling me back. “Me neither. I wish I could hold you all day, trust me.”

But I have to go to work. So I do - hours zipping by in a chaotic haze.

After two toddler meltdowns and a full day of soothing a scared three-year-old who wouldn’t let go of my pants leg, I’m exhausted by the time the last preschooler is picked up by their grown-up.

I can’t stop thinking about what I told Noah about my disorder. At least he responded better than my ex, but what if...?

I stop myself there, recognizing that “what if” thought pattern early this time.

Fuck. I’m scared shitless. I never want to feel like this is taking over my life again. I don’t want to relapse. I can’t. I’d never want anyone else with OCD to feel ashamed, but it’s always been adept at making me feel like an exception. The one who ruins everything.

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