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Chapter Text

The scent of pine and honey wafted in the air like a saccharine haze. For Izuku and Katsuki, it had always been this way—an indistinguishable blend, seeped deeply into their pores–clinging to everything like a second skin. Over time, it was familiar enough to fade into the background. Others might wrinkle their noses at how thick and cloying it was, their two scents tangled together, but for them it was comfort. 

Home.

The academy’s lawns were velvet green, trimmed to impossible perfection, dotted with marble fountains and shiny, polished limestone statues of great warriors and scholars past that shimmered under the late afternoon sun. Students of all academic ventures lounged in scattered groups across the grass, the breeze carrying threads of scent that twisted and coiled briefly before dispersing in a neutral mist.

Izuku lay on his back beneath the shade of a birch tree, trying to focus on the lecture notes he had forgotten to review. Beside him, Katsuki sat cross-legged, sharpening a blade against a whetstone. The metallic rasp filled the air, steady as breathing, underscored by the faint creak of leather as Katsuki adjusted his grip.

But what held Izuku captive wasn’t the sound. It was the scent.

Pine and smoke, threaded with something sharper—like lightning trapped in resin. That was Katsuki. His Kacchan. It had been Katsuki since childhood, when Izuku had first curled up against him in a blanket fort, nose buried in his best friend’s shoulder, imprinting before he even understood what imprinting meant.

Over the years, their scents had intertwined so thoroughly that Izuku could no longer separate where his own ended and Katsuki’s began. To others, it must’ve been overwhelming, but to Izuku it was simply home. He breathed it in now, stabilizing the ache in his chest.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend. Pretend Katsuki was his, that they were already bound, that one day the tradition of scent-matching would confirm what Izuku’s heart had known forever. He lived on that fragile hope, delicate as spun glass, careful not to let it crack.

“You’re staring again, dork,” Katsuki’s voice broke in, low and amused, nudging Izuku’s shin with the toe of his boot. “What? I got something on my face?” 

“I… I’m just—” Izuku stumbled over words, cheeks burning with an embarrassed, pinkened flush. Izuku sat upright, tendrils of curls bouncing, and brushed stray blades of grass from his trousers. “Just… distracted.”

Katsuki smirked handsomely, tossing the whetstone aside and ran his thumb along the edge of the knife. The sunlight caught in his hair, a bright burnished gold, haloing soft, spiky wisps that made Izuku’s throat close at how angelic he appeared. With burning, wanting emerald eyes, Izuku’s gaze slid down the crisp line of his jaw, strong and uncompromising, to exposed skin kissed golden by the sun, a contrast to the deep black of his academy uniform.

His arms, corded with muscle, tugged the fabric tight across his broad, robust chest. He radiated a heat, that same bonfire heat Izuku had always known, something that burned just close enough to sear without permission. Izuku was doomed. He never stood a chance. How was he supposed to not love him? Every little thing—his careless grace, the strength simmering under his movements, the scent that wrapped Izuku in warmth—pulled him deeper.

A flicker of movement in the courtyard drew Izuku’s eyes for just a moment. Shoto Todoroki passed by, tall and calm, a dark shadow cutting through the sunlit paths and huddles of squealing, blushing omegas and simpering betas. The other alpha’s presence was measured, controlled—a quiet contrast to Katsuki’s fire.

Katsuki’s jaw tightened, just slightly, as he followed the motion of Shoto’s walk with his eyes. “Tch… of course he shows up.” His voice was low, more to Izuku than anyone else. “Walking around all perfect and calm… like he’s better than the rest of us.”

Shoto Todoroki, the youngest alpha son of the great Endeavor. His namesake invoking reverent tones of unforgiving brutality, glory, and immense power. He was one of the most sought after alpha despite the tradition of scent-matching. Many have eyed him with longing and awe, craving for the fortunes that come with his legacy. Even with his popularity and title, Shoto remained mysterious, cold, and aloof.

“–Striding around like the world should bend for him,” Katsuki sneered as he rambled, “Just because his father is some famous warrior. Watching everyone from above, all calm and smug. Bet everyone here thinks he’s flawless. Bet he even smells like it. Ugh.”

Katsuki opened his mouth to continue with his tirade, but then—he stilled. The knife lowered. His head lifted slightly, nostrils flaring.

“Do you smell that?”

Izuku blinked. “Smell what?”

“That—” Katsuki sat up, inhaling deeply, as if something invisible had hooked into his lungs. The blonde rose to his feet, the grass flattening under his boots. He inhaled again, glowing crimson-colored eyes narrowing, pupils blown wide with instinct. “That scent. Sweet… sharp… gods, it’s perfect.” His voice went low, reverent. “It has to be my match.”

Izuku’s stomach dropped. 

Perfect? 

The word lanced through Izuku like cold water. The curly-haired omega forced a shaky laugh, hoping his voice wouldn’t crack. 

“P-Probably someone wearing too much perfume.”

Izuku’s throat tightened, his pulse loud in his ears. He had imprinted on Katsuki’s scent years ago, so deeply he no longer noticed the pine-and-honey that clung to everything they owned. But the way Katsuki said it—like it was new, like it wasn’t already here—made something inside Izuku fracture. Katsuki’s expression had shifted into something Izuku had never seen before– wonder, hunger, awe. His whole body leaned toward the scent, like a compass needle straining north.

“It’s them,” Katsuki whispered, eyelids drifting half-mast. “It has to be. My match.”

“K-Kacchan, wait–” 

The blonde alpha pushed past him, already grabbing his jacket. “I have to find them.”

And just like that, the frail glass of Izuku’s hope shattered.

He sat frozen in the grass, the birch leaves whispering overhead, while Katsuki strode off across the lawn, following the invisible thread of scent with single-minded certainty. Izuku’s chest ached with a bruised kind of hollowness. The air around him still smelled of pine and smoke. Nails dug crescents into his palms. For the first time, it wasn’t comforting. 

It was suffocating.

It made him sick.

Izuku followed and watched Katsuki cut through the throng of students on the lawn. He moved like a hound on the hunt—shoulders taut, nostrils flaring, every step purposeful. Izuku’s stomach twisted. He’s chasing a scent. 

Chasing someone else.

The air carried fragments to him as well—sugar and spring blossoms, light as spun air. Pleasant, yes, but faint. Nothing compared to the grounding warmth of pine and smoke. Nothing compared to Katsuki. To his Kacchan.

And yet Katsuki was entranced.

Students turned their heads as the alpha stalked past, eyes following him with curiosity. Some omegas stiffened instinctively at the weight of his presence, while others tilted their heads, intrigued. Izuku trailed behind at a distance, unable to stop himself, though each step felt heavier than the last.

Then Katsuki halted.

Just ahead, near the marble fountain where water caught the light in jeweled arcs, stood her—Uraraka Ochako, an omega from their year. She laughed at something her friends said, tossing her light, brown hair over one shoulder. Everything about her radiated the epitome of a proper omega; gentle voice, approachable warmth, her scent carrying faintly like peaches and wild honey. She didn’t even need to speak loudly to command the group’s attention; they leaned in naturally, charmed by her presence. She was exactly the kind of person alphas noticed. The kind of person an alpha like Kacchan deserved.

And in that moment, the breeze shifted. Her scent bloomed, light and sugary, stronger now.

Izuku saw Katsuki’s whole expression transform. His eyes softened, his lips parted as though he’d stumbled on something holy. Reverence flickered there, sharp and certain.

“Found you,” Katsuki breathed soundlessly.

The words cracked something in Izuku’s chest clean in two.

Ochako turned at the sound of his voice. Her gaze landed on Katsuki, curious, then shyly flattered. She ducked her head, but not before offering a smile—a smile that Katsuki returned, slow and earnest.

The knife in Izuku’s gut twisted deeper.

“Kacchan—” his voice croaked out, but Katsuki didn’t hear him. Or worse, didn’t care. The alpha had already stepped closer to Ochako, speaking low, his posture unconsciously protective, attentive, everything Izuku had once dreamed would be his.

Izuku swallowed hard, the back of his throat burning. He could still smell pine and smoke clinging to him, could still feel the ghost of Katsuki’s presence at his side. But watching Katsuki lean toward someone else—watching him give that scent, that smile, that look—felt like standing outside in the cold after years of being wrapped in warmth.

He turned before the sight could hollow him out further, retreating beneath the birch tree’s shade. His legs trembled as he sank back to the grass.

Around him, the world carried on: fountains sang, laughter carried, sunlight burned bright on marble. 

But all Izuku could taste was ash.

Later that night, Izuku lay on his side, staring at the faint glow of their desk lamp, his fleece blanket pulled high under his chin. Across the room, Katsuki stretched out on his bed, his voice spilling into the quiet like he couldn’t keep it contained.

“Can you believe it, Deku?” Katsuki let out a laugh, sharp but oddly buoyant. “I actually found her. My scent-match. Tch, took long enough, but—shit—she’s perfect. Gorgeous. Strong too, not some useless extra.”

Izuku’s throat bobbed. “…That’s… that’s great, Kacchan.” His voice was soft, almost swallowed by the hum of the wind whistling outside their partially open window.

“Damn right it’s great,” Katsuki went on, restless with excitement. He propped himself up on his forearm, bicep bulging, turning to face Izuku. “The way she looked at me—hah—I thought she’d burn holes through me. And her scent? Fucking unreal. Like fire and sugar.”

Izuku forced a sound—something between a hum and agreement. His fingers curled tighter in the blanket. Each word was a punch, slamming harder on the fragile tether inside him that had always stretched toward Katsuki.

“And when she smiled at me—hell, Deku,” Katsuki kept talking, voice rough with awe, “I didn’t think I’d care about shit like that. But it’s different. With her. My match.”

Izuku blinked hard at the wall, vision blurring. The corners of his eyes burned, though no tears fell. He wouldn’t dare let them fall. His chest felt heavy, as though something inside had cracked and was slowly leaking away. He couldn’t breathe deep enough to fill it. His own scent—the faint ozone and greenery Katsuki had teased him for—dulled, curling tight against his skin like it was retreating.

“Guess that means I don’t gotta worry about… y’know. All that soulmate crap anymore.” Katsuki’s laugh was softer this time, almost vulnerable. “I actually got lucky for once.”

“…I’m happy for you, Kacchan,” Izuku whispered, swallowing around the lump in his throat.  Silence stretched for a beat. For a moment, Izuku thought Katsuki would catch on that something was horribly wrong, but it was apparent Katsuki didn’t notice the tremor in Izuku’s tone when he flopped back against his pillow, grinning at the ceiling.

Izuku tucked his knees closer to his chest beneath the blanket, heart thrumming too fast. His skin felt prickly, too hot, too cold all at once. The beginnings of something unknown whispered through him—an ache of exhaustion, of fragility, of instincts curling inward for safety he couldn’t reach. His body craved warmth, touch, grounding, but all he had was the empty space between their beds and Katsuki’s voice still full of someone else.

Izuku pressed his face into his pillow and breathed shallowly, hoping Katsuki wouldn’t hear the faint tremor of his breath.

Chapter Text

Days bled together.

Katsuki’s efforts to court Ochako grew more deliberate—small gifts left on her desk, training offers, moments of unguarded giggling when she teased him. Yet something about it never settled right. The sweetness of her scent tugged at him, grating his nerves. Like hearing the right melody played on the wrong instrument.

Izuku felt each moment like a splinter. The omega learned that heartbreak wasn’t always loud; sometimes it was just… quiet. A constant ache. A silence where laughter used to live.

The lecture hall was a cavern of polished wood and echoing stone, sunlight spilling through tall arched windows to pool across rows of desks. The murmur of voices filled the space as students shuffled into place, parchment rustling, pens scratching. The air carried the faint smell of chalk dust, beeswax polish, and the subtle haze of layered scents from dozens of students—sharp alphas, sweet omegas, neutral betas—yet one stood out like a sore thumb.

That honey-water-and-petal fragrance.

Ochako slipped into their row, her bag casually slung across one shoulder. She glanced sideways once with a soft, distracted smile—not at Izuku, of course, but at Katsuki. And Katsuki, seated right beside Izuku, leaned forward without hesitation, his grin cocky, boyish, and bright in a way Izuku hadn’t seen since they were young whelps.

“Saved you a seat,” Katsuki murmured, sliding a colorfully bright, wrapped present closer to her desk. His voice carried warmth meant for her alone.

Izuku turned away quickly, pretending to fuss with his ink bottle, though his hand trembled against the glass stopper. He knew he should be used to it by now—the easy way Katsuki angled his body toward her, the way his voice softened, the way he noticed little things, like how she always doodled floral patterns in the corners of her notes.

He’d noticed those things about Izuku, too. Once.

A tightness pulled in Izuku’s chest. He breathed deep through his nose, but instead of grounding himself in Katsuki’s scent, all he caught was the mix of pine-and-smoke tangled with Ochako’s soft sweetness. The two mingled almost too well. His body ached with it, instincts whispering betrayal in his own bones.

It should have been me, Izuku thought anguishly,  It’s always been you and me.

But here he was—sitting inches away, yet already excluded from a world they were building together.

The lecture began once Professor Aizawa swept in at the front, his dark robes rustling as he crossed the dais. He tapped his pointer once against the wooden podium, and the low hum of conversation quieted.

“Quills ready,” he said, his voice clipped, authoritative but not unkind. “Today we begin our study of the The Bonding Accord—the laws that govern scent-matching, drafted to codify instinct into order and protect the bonds our society is built upon. If you value your grade, then you will value your notes.”

Words rolled from Aizawa’s lips about first pacts, protections and penalties surrounding rejection or interference in a match, but Izuku heard none of it. He sat motionless, quill in hand, staring at the ink well until the black surface wavered with his reflection. Around him, the steady scratching of pens began in earnest.

He risked a glance sideways. Katsuki was leaning forward, brows furrowed in concentration. At one point, Katsuki laughed quietly at something Ochako whispered, the sound low and intimate. His face lit like a flame. Their shoulders brushed as they leaned close. The scent in the air shifted immediately, instinctual and undeniable. 

Katsuki’s spicy-scorched smoke curled outward, wrapping over and around Ochako’s sweeter, honey-light fragrance until the two mingled and thickened in the space between them. Too close. Too intertwined. It pressed against Izuku’s senses, suffocating in its intimacy.

And just like that, Izuku’s focus unraveled. His stomach dropped. His body recognized the wrongness before his mind could reason it out. A tremor ran through him. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out the lecture, drowning out the laughter. His breathing shortened, shallow and uneven. The pressure mounted, bearing down around his temples, clawing at his chest.

Suddenly, his grip on his quill–tight and knuckle-white–snapped the brittle shaft between his fingers, splitting it in two. The sharp crack startled even him, ink splattering across his notes in an ugly blot. Several students turned. 

So did Katsuki.

“Deku?” Katsuki whispered, his brows knit in concern, voice pitched low. His eyes flicked from Izuku’s clenched hand to the ink splatter. “Hey, are you okay?”

Izuku swallowed hard, heat rushing to his face, blooming in ugly splotches across the apples of his cheeks. His dark freckles stood starkly against his flushed skin. His throat locked around words he couldn’t say. His pulse slammed in his throat. He wanted to respond and say yes. That he’s been hurting for days. That he’s been breaking in front of the other without any notice or consolation.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, too quickly–shamefaced and self-consciously. His palm pressed over the spill, smearing ink into a dark stain. He kept his eyes down, unwilling to see the worry etched across Katsuki’s face. 

Katsuki lingered a moment longer, scent curling warm and insistent, opening his mouth as though debating whether to push. But then Ochako leaned toward him with a whisper and a touch to his sleeve, and his focus shifted back to her. 

Just like that.

Izuku kept his gaze down, breathing shallowly. The ache in his chest flared, too sharp to swallow, threatening to burst at the seams of his wilted heart. Before he could sink fully into a panic, Izuku blinked. Only then did he notice the sting in his palm, a thin red line where the quill’s splinter had bit skin. A drop of blood swelled at the edge.

“You cut yourself,” a voice to Izuku’s left broke the silence. Deep-toned. Gentle. 

Izuku glanced up, viridescent-colored eyes shining. The seat to his left, usually empty, was occupied now by an alpha he recognized faintly from the courtyard. Shoto Todoroki. His hair swayed forward–white strands catching like swirls of snow, red gleaming like embers; His heterochromatic eyes, sharp in their colors of storm-grey and clear turquoise, regarded Izuku with sincerity and sympathy. His scent carried a grounding cleanliness—sharp cedar and pristine rain. It didn’t claw for attention the way Katsuki’s did; it simply settled around him, steady and calm against the chaos in Izuku’s heart.

“It’s nothing,” Izuku murmured, heat climbing his neck, the embarrassed flush a permanent blemish. His voice lacked conviction.

“Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’,” Shoto said simply. Without waiting, he pulled a folded handkerchief from his pocket, the fabric white with a faint stitched border of dark blue, and offered it across the desk. “Here. Wrap it before it gets worse.” 

His tone was quiet enough not to draw attention. He inclined his head slightly, an unspoken patience in the gesture, as though he could wait forever for Izuku to accept. The fabric was soft against his skin when Izuku eventually accepted it, already faintly scented with cedar. Shoto’s fingers brushing briefly against his own—steady where his own were trembling. Izuku wrapped it around his hand with shaky fingers, trying to steady his breathing and the rapid beat of his heart.

Shoto leaned back slightly, giving him space. “Better?”

Izuku swallowed, nodding once. “...Yeah.”

“Good.” Shoto’s gaze lingered for a second longer—something like reassurance there—before he nodded toward the broken quill in Izuku’s hand. His expression wasn’t mocking, only congenial. “Want to borrow mine?”

Izuku blinked owlishly, turning his attention to his broken quill. For a moment he just stared, ink-stained fingers frozen around splintered wood. Then he nodded mutely. Shoto slid a spare quill across the desk without fuss, his eyes crinkling faintly in solace before turning back to the lecture.

Izuku clutched it, throat constricting as he stared down at his ink-stained parchment, his hand quivering and wavering beneath the handkerchief. He pressed the cloth to his palm. The sting dulled under the steadying weight, but what lodged in his chest was something else entirely: the quiet certainty in Shoto’s tone, the unhurried calm that made the world feel less sharp for just a moment. The tendrils of torment eased, ever so slightly, loosened by that presence beside him. 

The ache in his chest hadn’t left, but for the first time in days, it felt like someone had noticed he was bleeding.

The clang of the dismissal bell rang through the lecture hall, and the scrape of chairs followed in a rising chorus. The hall emptied slowly, students shuffling out in clusters, voices carrying down the wide corridor. Izuku lingered behind, stuffing his stained notes into his satchel with fumbling hands. Shoto’s handkerchief was still tied neatly around his palm.

“Midoriya.”

Izuku squeaked, startled by the low, even voice at his side. Turning bewildered emerald eyes, his gaze settled on the unassuming alpha. Shoto stood there, his satchel slung neatly over one shoulder. His gaze, clear and unwavering, landed on Izuku’s hand where the handkerchief was darkened with ink and a faint blush of blood.

“Don’t forget to wash that cut,” he murmured, nodding toward Izuku’s hand. The slight tilt of his head caused his two-toned hair to shift, white falling across one eye until he pushed it back absently with one hand. A faint crease touched his brow. Izuku’s fingers twitched against the wrapped cloth, wanting to smooth it out for himself. 

“I won’t.”

Shoto gave a short, reassuring ghost of a smile before striding out with the flow of students. His scent faded with him, leaving the faintest echo in Izuku’s lungs. Izuku exhaled, ready to escape too, when a scrape of a chair beside him made him freeze. Izuku’s heart lurched. Katsuki hadn’t left with Ochako as he had presumed—hadn’t even moved at all in fact. He was still there, leaning against his seat with his arms folded, crimson eyes fixed on Izuku with a weight that made his skin prickle.

“Since when are you and Candy Cane… chatting?” Katsuki asked lightly, his tone going for casual, though the tilt of his mouth was tighter than usual and his ruby-colored eyes sharp. Izuku glanced at the blonde alpha precariously, the strap of his satchel slipping from his fingers momentarily before he grasped it firmly. 

“Since today, I guess,” Izuku replied, voice thin and unsure, “Why?”

Katsuki shrugged, but it was the kind of shrug too sharp to be careless. The line of his body was pulled taut like an arrow straining in vain to be released. His lips curled, perturbed, revealing pearly, white alphan canines biting into the flesh of his bottom lip.

“He just… helped,” Izuku explained softly, his voice meek and careful as if he were speaking to an agitated animal.

“Helped,” Katsuki echoed, his troubled gaze flicking to the cloth wrapped around Izuku’s hand. His jaw tightened, a vein ticked and pulsed with each grind of his teeth. “You should’ve asked me.”

There was something in his voice Izuku couldn’t quite name. A thread of something brittle.

“It wasn’t a big deal, Kacchan,” Izuku muttered, rolling his eyes now, annoyance bubbling beneath the surface of his wariness. He tugged the satchel strap over his shoulder, careful of the overgrown curls sticking out haphazardly. “Todoroki was just being… nice. It’s not like he was offering the handkerchief as a courting gift.”

“It’s just…Why didn’t you say something? I was right there,” Katsuki said, growling as his eyes remained laser focused on the handkerchief tied around Izuku’s palm. 

“It’s nothing, Kacchan–”

“‘Nothing’ doesn’t bleed.” Katsuki spat, his voice dropped lower, edged with something Izuku still couldn’t read. His scent spiking strongly, pine and smoke curling like a net around him. Izuku’s throat worked, unsettled by the palpable distress of his–no, not his–of Kacchan. 

“It’s handled–”

“By him?” Katsuki scoffed meanly, eyes cut to where Shoto disappeared out into the corridor with the other students. “Tch… Figures the academy’s golden boy would stick his nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

Izuku faltered. Belong? What did that even mean? There was absolutely no way the alpha was… jealous. He was just being Kacchan. Kacchan was just being protective because of their friendship. Because he was an alpha and Shoto was his rival… Right?

“What does it matter to you?” Izuku sighed, trying to ignore the way his heart jumped at the possibility of Katsuki being jealous.

Katsuki stepped closer, scent brushing warm against Izuku’s nerves and filling the space. Burnt spice clung to the air, searing him with memory and longing. It took all of his willpower to restrain himself from baring his neck, to keep his eyes from rolling into the back of his head. Fingers tilted his chin upwards, his thumb caressing the divot of his cheeks. Izuku peered up at the alpha through a dark fan of lashes, his breath caught in his throat. He remained immobile, too afraid to break whatever this was. 

“If you’re hurt,” Katsuki’s voice, deep and molten, entranced with the way Izuku’s peach-colored lips parted like flower petals in the spring. “You should come to me.” His gaze dropped briefly to the cut, then lifted again, sharp and insistent. “Not… anyone else…”

The words caught Izuku off guard. His chest fluttered painfully, torn between anger and yearning. 

“You were busy,” the green-haired omega whispered before he could stop himself. The bitterness slipped out like poison. Katsuki’s jaw clenched, his carmine eyes narrowing into angry slits. 

“I wasn’t busy. What the hell, Deku?”

For a moment, their eyes locked, the air between them taut with something unspoken. Jealousy? Frustration? Maybe even something deeper, rawer, something neither of them were ready to name.

“Yeah?” Izuku’s breath hitched, staring resolutely with a defiance only he was capable of showing to an alpha like Katsuki. “Well.. you certainly looked like it.”

For a heartbeat they just stood there, inches apart, words breaking before they could form.

“You think I’d—” Katsuki started in disbelief, then broke off, raking a hand through his hair. He stepped away from the omega, leaving Izuku feeling cold and isolated. “You think I wouldn’t notice if something was wrong with you?”

“You didn’t,” Izuku snapped back, quieter than he meant to, voice trembling.

Katsuki froze. His gaze locked on Izuku’s, searching, torn between anger and something hot, restless. His nostrils flared, drinking in Izuku’s scent the way he hadn’t in years. His throat bobbed.

“I…” He swallowed hard, the word caught. “You smell—different.”

Izuku’s stomach dropped. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The heat in Katsuki’s eyes was too much, too dangerous. Izuku wanted. He wanted so much. He wanted Kacchan.

Kacchan. Kacchan. Alpha. Mine.

Katsuki leaned in the smallest fraction, then stopped himself–his eyes shuttering, jerking back like he’d touched fire. He shook his head, breaking the moment with a brittle laugh. “Forget it. Just—You’ve got me, alright?”

Izuku wanted to scream, to cry, to grab him by the shoulders. 

Demand and ask, then why didn’t you choose me? 

But instead he only nodded, the ache sunken and vast in his chest.

Katsuki lingered a second longer, caught in some confusion he couldn’t name, before shoving his hands deep into his pockets and striding out of the lecture hall.

Izuku followed in silence, his heart hammering with things neither of them dared to say.

Chapter Text

More days passed by since then. Izuku carried the weight of that whispered exchange like a ponderous-laden stone. Every time Katsuki’s fervid gaze slid toward him in the lecture hall, every time their arms brushed in the cramped space of their dorm room, it lit a spark that Izuku smothered down until he could barely breathe.

So, Izuku kept his distance.

He adjusted his routine like clockwork—when Katsuki snapped, “Where the hell are you going now?” Izuku only muttered something vague and fled, slipping out of the dorm early to avoid walking with the alpha to morning lectures, taking his meals at odd hours, ducking behind shelves in the library when Katsuki’s voice echoed nearby. 

It wasn’t subtle, but it was effective. Safer this way. At least, that’s what Izuku told himself. The ache didn’t ease, though. Every absence whittled away at him more with each passing day, leaving a raw space where Katsuki’s constant presence used to be.

The spring air was warm that afternoon, carrying the hum of bees in the lavender beds lining the stone path. The courtyard shimmered under the midday sun, the air warm and bright with the scent of freshly cut grass and running water. Students lingered on the paths or sat on the stone benches, their chatter rising and falling like a tide. 

Izuku cut across the inner courtyard, slowing his pace as he passed under the archway. His satchel was heavy on his shoulder. He was in the midst of adjusting the strap when he caught sight of them. He hadn’t meant to stop—hadn’t meant to look—but there they were. His gaze snagged against his will—drawn, helpless—toward the fountain.

There, framed by sunlight, were Katsuki and Ochako.

Katsuki stood tall, looming over the pretty omega with his arms crossed over his chest, his usual scowl softened into something more private, more real. A smile Izuku so rarely saw, one that felt like it had been stolen right out of his mind’s eye. Ochako leaned against the fountain’s edge, sunlight gilding the spray of water and catching in Ochako’s hair. She was laughing, quiet but bright–tinkling like bells. Katsuki veered in close, one hand braced against the stone rim as though the whole world had narrowed to just her. 

Izuku watched, unable to tear himself away, even as his vision blurred at the edges. 

From where he stood, he could smell it—Katsuki’s pine-and-smoke warmth curling toward her, mingling with her own delicate, floral undertone. Together, they melded too naturally, too comfortably, as if the world had conspired to make them fit. It should have been unbearable, yet Izuku stayed rooted in place. His fingernails bit into the material of his strap. His throat burned, and his heart thrummed fast and uneven.

The tendrils of a throbbing sting coiled tighter, heavier than days before. His body sagged under the invisible weight—limbs heavy, thoughts sluggish, breath shallow. It wasn’t crippling, not yet, but it scraped along his nerves, left him raw, left the world feeling muted and unsteady. The laughter at the fountain became knives. He peeked through fluttering lashes, caught Katsuki’s head thrown back in a laugh—loud, sharp, but tender at the edges when directed at Ochako. He watched her hand brushing his arm in a casual touch. Katsuki didn’t pull away.

The sight chipped and shaved away at him further than any avoidance ever could. The stone was cool beneath Izuku’s palm when he leaned against it for support, but his skin burned anyway. His fingers tightened on the pillar until his knuckles went white. He told himself to move, to leave, but his feet wouldn’t obey. Instead, he drank in the moment like something poisonous, every laugh and stolen glance etching itself deeper into the bruise of his heart. Cutting profoundly, carving places Izuku couldn’t defend. His knees threatened to give.

Alpha… Alpha… Kacchan… Don’t– Please–

A hand brushed his arm.

Izuku startled, nearly jumping out of his skin, and turned to find Shoto standing there beneath dappled light filtering through the arches, his mismatched gaze fixed wholly on the omega–calm and anchored. It made Izuku feel seen in ways he wanted and dreaded all at once. The alpha tilted his head slightly, brows drawn in mild concern.

Shoto. Alpha…

“You’re pale,” Shoto said softly, his gaze flicking over Izuku’s frame. “And trembling.”

“I—I’m fine, really. I just…” Izuku sucked in a breath, his voice caught, cracked. He swallowed hard. “I just… got distracted.”

The alpha’s gaze flicked once toward the fountain before returning to Izuku. He positioned himself in front of Izuku, his frame–tall and broad-shouldered–blocking the view. His posture wasn’t imposing, but protective, as though he had stepped into the storm without hesitation.

“You’re hurting yourself,” he said evenly, the words not scolding but simple truth.

Izuku’s laugh was shaky, bitter. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not.” Shoto tilted his head, studying him with quiet intensity. His eyes flicked briefly down to Izuku’s hand, still wrapped in his handkerchief from the cut days ago. “That hasn’t healed yet, has it?”

Izuku looked away, scoffing, jaw tight. “It’s fine.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that to me.” Shoto’s tone wasn’t accusing, but each word sank in heavy and unshakable. “Do you always lie so easily… or only when it hurts?”

Izuku’s breath faltered, lips wobbling. He stared at the sunlight breaking across the cloister floor, throat raw. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe not,” Shoto admitted. His gaze softened, his voice dropping further. “But I know what it looks like when someone is standing still and breaking apart.”

The words landed like a touch, tender and dangerous. Izuku’s chest clenched, an agonizing thrum zipping through his nervous system like a noxious flare. He wanted to shove him away, to tell him to leave—but then Shoto’s scent reached him. Cedarwood and clean rain, hushed and immovable. It wrapped around him like shelter, cutting through the ache of Katsuki’s pine tangled with Ochako’s floral. Against his will, Izuku’s body eased, trembling less under the weight of his own restraint.

“I’m not—” His voice cracked. Izuku pressed his lips together, fighting to keep himself contained before turning his attention to the alpha. “I’m not supposed to feel like this.”

Shoto didn’t look away from his distraught stare. His eyes, mismatched and unyielding, held his own with startling gentleness. 

“Supposed to?” the alpha murmured, a soothing rumble reverberating in his chest. A placid call meant to cushion Izuku’s frail omega. Izuku bit down on his tongue, but silence betrayed him more than words ever could. The ache in his chest throbbed with every heartbeat.

Shoto didn’t push further. Instead, he stepped closer—not touching, but near enough for his warmth to brush against Izuku’s skin. He leaned casually against the pillar, inclining his head to peer down at the omega, like he belonged at his side. For a long moment, the courtyard noise blurred, leaving only their breath, their scents, the tension strung taut between them.

Finally, Shoto said, low and certain, “You don’t have to watch.”

“I can’t seem to stop,” Izuku’s voice wavered, small and broken as his eyes slid closed, lashes trembling. The words felt like mercy and temptation in one. 

A hum escaped Shoto, deep and soft. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be alone when you can’t.”

Izuku startled at that, eyes flying open. But Shoto wasn’t watching the fountain. Wasn't even pretending indifference. His gaze was turned to Izuku now, steady and intent, as if offering him something unspoken.

And for the first time in days, Izuku let go of the pillar. His fingers brushed against Shoto’s sleeve—by accident or by gravity, he couldn’t tell—and he didn’t pull away.

The fabric beneath his fingertips was softer than he expected, warmed by Shoto’s body heat. The contact was small, almost nothing, but Izuku felt it like a spark, a thread pulling taut between them. Shoto didn’t move, didn’t flinch. If anything, the faintest curve of something unreadable touched his mouth—a shadow of a smile, or maybe just understanding.

“Come on,” he said quietly, as though they were sharing a secret. “You’ve stood here long enough.”

Izuku hesitated, his pulse loud in his ears. Over his shoulder, the fountain still glittered, laughter still carried across the courtyard. He could feel it yanking at him like a festering wound, but Shoto’s presence was heavier, grounding.

“I…” His voice broke again, and he hated the way it sounded—fragile, exposed. “I don’t know where to go.”

“Anywhere but here,” Shoto replied, calm as water. His hand shifted just slightly, brushing against Izuku’s, not quite a grasp but enough to make the offer clear. “Walk with me.”

It was ridiculous, Izuku thought. Absurd that something so simple could feel like a lifeline. But his chest loosened, just a fraction. Finally, he nodded. Shoto waited until he stepped away from the pillar, matching his pace without a word. They moved through the courtyard together, side by side, and for once Izuku didn’t look back.

They walked in silence at first, their footsteps echoing softly against the flagstones accompanied by the sound of gravel crunching underfoot. The courtyard faded behind them, replaced by quieter paths winding between trimmed hedges and blooming dogwoods. The air smelled faintly of earth and rain—Shoto’s scent clinging to it like an anchor.

Shoto walked beside him quietly, long white strands occasionally falling into his eyes before he pushed them back with a careful hand. His uniform was impeccably neat, sleeves straight, tie flat—a stark contrast to Izuku’s rumpled posture, hunched shoulders, and uneven breathing. Shoto’s heterochromatic eyes followed him calmly, unblinking, observing with a patience fit for a monk.

Izuku’s satchel weighed heavy on his shoulder, but not as heavy as the pressure behind his ribs, in the depths of his heart, pulsing dully with the thought of…them. He kept his eyes down, tracing the cracks in the path, trying not to think about the image burned into his mind: Katsuki leaning close, Ochako’s laughter, the easy way they “fit” together.

“You were going to stand there until it hurt too much to breathe,” Shoto said at last. His voice was mild, but there was no mistaking the sharpness of his perception.

“Was it that obvious?” Izuku questioned as he let out a strained, self-depreciating laugh. 

“Yes,” Shoto replied simply. He slowed just enough to match Izuku’s uneven pace. “You feel and care for things deeply. It… shows.”

That stung. Not because it was cruel, but because it was true. Izuku bit his tongue and kept walking, but Shoto wasn’t finished.

“I don’t think it's a weakness,” Shoto added after a moment. “But I think it’s… heavy. And you keep carrying it like no one else is allowed to see.”

Izuku stopped, frowning at the ground. “It’s not something I want anyone to see.” Especially him, was left unsaid.

Shoto turned slightly, catching his gaze. His eyes, one like ice and the other like a smoky overcast, held an intensity that made Izuku’s pulse skip. The lantern light kissed his profile, tracing the sharp lines of his face, amplifying the tranquil elegance of his refined nose and sculpted jawline. Izuku understood now why he was deemed “The Prince” by his fanclub.

“Why?” Shoto inquired, “Because it’s Bakugo?”

Izuku’s throat closed. He looked away sharply. “Don’t.”

“I’m not judging you, Midoriya,” Shoto said, softer now. “You love him.” The words were stated as fact, not accusation; a simple, quiet truth. “But loving someone doesn’t mean you have to bleed for them.”

Izuku flinched. Something in his chest gave a small, traitorous twist. “You don’t understand—”

“I understand more than you think.” Shoto stepped closer, and this time Izuku felt it. His presence was deliberate, his warmth brushing against Izuku’s sleeve. It wasn’t accidental now; Shoto was closing the space between them on purpose, steady and unhurried. “I know what it’s like to want something you can’t have. To watch it stay just out of reach.”

Izuku’s breath stuttered, caught between surprise and something else he couldn’t name. 

“Todoroki—”

But Shoto’s expression didn’t shift. It stayed calm, unflinching. Only his voice dipped lower, quiet enough that Izuku almost thought it wasn’t meant for him to hear. 

“You’ll drop if this continues.”

“Drop?!”

“Yes,” Shoto replied plainly, “You’re beginning to respond to the rejection of your true scent match.”

Izuku swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the worn edges of his bookstrap. How could he have not known? How could he not notice the creeping tendrils of it–an omega drop–for days? The dull pressure that clawed at the base of his spine and coiled in his chest whenever Katsuki’s and Ochako’s scents mingled. He had thought it was just heartbreak, just frustration, just… weakness. He hadn’t realized. Not really.

“What if I… What happens if I just ignore it?” Izuku asked helplessly. “I mean… it should go away on its own… right? I–I’ll get over it… someday…”

“The only way to recover,” Shoto explained, “is with another alpha. Someone who can ground you, stabilize you. Someone you trust.”

“Another… alpha?” He blinked rapidly, heat flushing his cheeks. “H-how do you… know that?”

Shoto’s gaze darkened slightly. For a moment, the calm veneer slipped, and a shadow passed over his features. 

“Because I’ve seen it happen. My father forced my mother into a bond where there shouldn’t have been one. She… she fell into a drop so deep she never fully recovered. I watched it destroy her. I know what it does.” His jaw clenched, the edges of his mouth tight. “I know what happens when you ignore the need for another alpha.”

“Oh Todoroki, I… I’m so sorry…” Izuku whispered, voice small and fragile. Big, wide emerald eyes shining with solace. For a long moment, they stood in silence. The sounds of the academy—students chatting, distant footsteps, birds calling—faded into the background.

“I can be your alpha… for however long you need one…”

The meaning slid between them like a shadow. Izuku felt it, clear as the pressure of Shoto’s shoulder brushing his. His heart stumbled, confused and aching, and he hated the way part of him wanted to lean closer, just for the warmth.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“Todoroki, I…” He shook his head, hands tightening on the strap of his satchel. “It’s not fair. To you. To anyone. I don’t think I can–”

Shoto studied him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. Then, almost imperceptibly, he stepped back—not away, but giving Izuku the space he seemed desperate for. 

“I’m not asking you to love me,” the alpha said hoarsely, clearing his throat, an unmistakable flush donning his cheeks. “But I’d rather be close to you, even if it’s unfair, than watch you break alone.”

The words landed heady and sure, like a promise. And when they started walking again, Izuku’s heart was still racing—too fast, too uncertain—but the tightness in his chest had loosened, just enough for him to breathe.

“Think about it,” Shoto said faintly. “Not for me… but for you.”

The path they were on eventually curved toward the quieter edges of campus, where the gardens thinned and the air felt less heavy. A breeze tugged at Izuku’s curls, carrying the faint rustle of banners being strung somewhere in the distance. Shoto noticed first. 

“They’ve started decorating.”

Izuku blinked, following his line of sight. 

Between the branches, glimpses of wooden booths stood half-constructed, brightly colored banners draped across tall poles, fluttering in the breeze. Groups of older students carried boxes stacked high with decorations, tacked signs, and strings of lanterns. Their chatter and laughter rose in rhythmic bursts. Stages were being assembled, scaffolding adjusted with careful hands. Everywhere, the scent of fresh paint, polished wood, and faint floral garlands hung in the air. 

Oh... The academy festival. He’d forgotten it was so close.

“Guess it’s that time again,” Izuku grumbled.

“You sound thrilled,” Shoto said dryly, quirking a fine brow.

Izuku’s lips pressed into a tight line. 

“…I would be, normally,” Izuku admitted. His fingers dug into the strap of his bag, leaving faint crescent-shaped marks on the fabric. “But… it’s all pointless now. Kacchan… I can’t… I can’t watch the confirmations, the scents… the matching.” 

Shoto’s gaze softened slightly, deepening into something more thoughtful rather than envious. 

“Do you plan to avoid him the whole time?”

The green-haired omega hesitated, exhaling shakily. 

“It’s easier that way,” Izuku murmured.

“Easier,” Shoto repeated, tasting the word like it didn’t quite fit. “But you’ll still be here. You’ll still see him.”

“That’s different,” Izuku said quickly, too quickly. “It’s just… background noise then. I can handle background noise. I… I can handle it.”

Shoto hummed, low and skeptical, but didn’t press. Instead, he let the silence stretch, their footsteps syncing without effort. Then, casually, almost as if it were nothing, he said, “You don’t have to handle it alone. There are quiet places where we can hide, even during the festival.”

Izuku glanced at him, his green eyes wide and uncertain, caught off guard. 

“You’d… really do that?”

“Yes,” Shoto said, his tone smooth. “We can walk the gardens, the library alcoves, or the hidden stairwells…” The faintest glint in his eye gave something away—curiosity, perhaps, or intention. “You might like it more if you didn’t spend it alone and instead… spent it with me.”

Izuku’s throat tightened, unsure what to do with that suggestion. His instinct was to deflect, to retreat—but the words settled somewhere warm, stubbornly refusing to leave.

“...Okay.”

With a nod, they moved. Shoto occasionally steered him past clusters of students, nudging him gently away from the busiest corners, guiding him toward ivy-draped alcoves or quieter stairwells. Every small touch—his hand brushing Izuku’s as he gestured, his shoulder against Izuku’s when stepping aside—was deliberate, protective, comforting.

They walked until the lanterns came closer, swaying gently against the evening sky. The preparations were small now, just beginnings, but the air buzzed with the promise of something larger to come. Izuku found himself watching the colors move in the wind, and for the first time that day, his chest didn’t feel so tight. Shoto slowed when they reached the steps of the library, where their paths would part. 

“I’m here for you… if you ever need someone when the weight you carry becomes too much,” he said softly, almost like a reminder.

Izuku managed a smile, cheeks flushed a pretty pink. “Thank you… Shoto.”

“Have a good night… Izuku,” Shoto replied. And then, without waiting for a response, he stepped past him, leaving only the faint trace of cedar and rain behind.

Izuku stood there longer than he should have, the image of fluttering lanterns and Shoto’s serene steadiness lingering, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Chapter Text

The dorm hall was hushed by the time Izuku returned, the kind of silence that only came when even the common rooms had gone dark. His shoes made almost no sound on the carpet, but his heart still beat too loudly. The weight of the day pressed on his shoulders, Shoto’s words lingering like an echo he couldn’t shake.

He almost made it to their door unnoticed. 

Almost.

The knob turned before he touched it. The door swung open, and there was Katsuki—hair rumpled like he’d run his hands through it too many times, a worn, black tanktop hanging loose over his frame. His eyes, though, were sharp and alive, burning fiercely even in the low light.

“Kacchan…” Izuku’s voice trembled, tentative.

“Where the hell have you been?” His voice edged with a restrained growl that made Izuku freeze in the doorway. Crimson eyes flared with frustration, scanning Izuku from head to toe.

“I—I was just… studying late at the library, that’s all,” Izuku swallowed, pushing past the irate alpha and into their dorm room and hoping his fib would go unnoticed. “I… lost track of time–” 

“Bullshit.” Katsuki stepped into the room, shutting the door with a resounding slam before closing the distance between them like a storm breaking its leash. “You didn’t even leave me a note. Everyone’s been back for hours. You just… vanished without a word.”

It was unfair, Izuku thought, the way his pulse tripped at the nearness, the way Katsuki’s scent—pine and smoke, all sharp edges—wrapped around him like something he shouldn’t want anymore but did. His mouth went dry. 

“You’ve been avoiding me for days, Deku,” Katsuki voiced with a heat he didn’t know how to burn off. 

“I… wasn’t avoiding you, Kacchan,” Izuku sighed, “Besides… you’ve been busy with Ochako, anyway.”

Katsuki snorted; a sharp, disbelieving sound. 

“Don’t give me that, Deku.” He stepped forward, the air between them crackling. “You’ve been disappearing. Hiding yourself like a fucking coward. What the hell’s going on with you?”

“I—I just… wanted some space,” Izuku replied. The lump in his throat made it hard to speak. “I didn’t mean—”

“Space?” Katsuki cut him off, low and dangerous, eyes narrowing.

“I didn’t think you’d—”

“Think I’d what? Not notice?” Katsuki’s voice cracked. His hand lifted, then stopped short of Izuku’s shoulder, fingers flexing like he wanted to grab and shake him. Izuku’s chest ached, traitorously warmed by the possessiveness threading through the anger. He hated how much he wanted it, wanted to believe it meant something. 

“It’s not your job to keep track of me,” he said, softer than he intended.

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. For a second, his expression flickered—something frustrated, almost confused—but then the edge returned. 

“Damn right it’s not. But when you start acting weird, yeah, I notice. You’ve been avoiding me for days. Now you’re sneaking back late like—”

“Like what?” Izuku asked before he could stop himself.

They were close now, too close, Katsuki’s breath brushing his face, his eyes burning with something that wasn’t simple anger. The faint tang of his sweat, the sharp spice of his alpha scent, filled Izuku’s nose, and his pulse spiked violently. Izuku’s breath hitched. He felt the subtle tremor in Katsuki’s jaw.

Their lips hovered, almost brushing, and Izuku’s chest tightened with the ache of unspoken words and unfulfilled desire. The room seemed to shrink around them, amplifying the sharp heat of proximity. The question hung there, daring the alpha to say it. But whatever answer Katsuki might’ve given died on his tongue. He clicked it shut, teeth grinding. Finally, with a low growl, with a sudden, jarring motion, Katsuki wrenched back, tension coiled tight in his shoulders. 

The magnetic pull between them snapped. 

“Damn it, Deku, don’t–” Katsuki inhaled sharply, “Don’t look at me like that… Please… Just… Forget it. Just don’t pull that crap again.”

Izuku stood there, frozen, pulse still racing, torn between relief and a bitter, secret ache. His lips tingled where they had almost touched, and his hands trembled. The storm of emotions left him dizzy, breathless, and painfully aware of how close they had been—at how much further they could have gone if not for the memory of Ochako lingering in Katsuki’s mind.

Izuku lay on his bed, curled beneath the thin blanket, staring up at the ceiling as the dim light of the dorm room stretched across the walls in soft, shifting shadows. A shiver ran through him. He hugged the blanket closer, letting it wrap around him like a fragile barrier, curling into himself. His stomach twisted, nerves coiled tight in his chest. He turned slightly on his side, pressing his face into the pillow, inhaling the faint scent of Katsuki lingering in the room.

Alpha… Alpha… Kacchan… Kacchan…Shoto?

The quiet room, the faint scent of Katsuki, the memory of Shoto’s touch—it all pressed in at once, making his pulse race and his chest ache. He exhaled slowly, the sound trembling, letting himself feel the mixture of longing, frustration, and fragile comfort that had taken root inside him.

The morning felt heavier than it should have. Izuku woke to the quiet shuffle of Katsuki getting ready, his movements sharp and efficient but threaded with something tight, like a string pulled too far. He didn’t look at Izuku when he grabbed his jacket, didn’t even say a word before heading out. The slam of the door was softer than usual, but it left a louder echo.

Izuku sat on the edge of his bed for a moment, head in his hands. Last night’s confrontation still clung to him—Katsuki’s voice low and rough, the heat of his nearness, the confusion in his eyes. It had felt like something was breaking open, but Katsuki had shut it just as quickly. By the time Izuku made it to class, the mood hadn’t lifted. The training hall buzzed with quiet chatter, but it all blurred around him.

“You didn’t sleep,” Shoto said, shaking him out of his anguished stupor.

Izuku managed a strained smile. “You noticed?”

“Hm,” Shoto replied mildly. His gaze flicked forward, but there was an undertone to his voice, quieter. “Did he say something?”

“It’s nothing–”

“Nothing looks like that?” Shoto murmured, but he didn’t press. He leaned back, letting the silence settle, his shoulder just close enough that Izuku could feel the warmth radiating off him.

Across the room, Katsuki entered. His arrival cut through the noise instantly—sharp posture, scanning the room like he owned it. His eyes landed on Izuku in seconds, flicking to Shoto standing too close, and something unreadable flickered there before his expression hardened. He didn’t approach; rather he strode past them, taking post in the back of the hall, but Izuku could feel the weight of that gaze all the same.

The tension carried into mid-training that afternoon. The sound of boots scraping against the polished wooden floor and the occasional grunt of exertion echoed in the training hall. The drills were fast-paced, partners rotating every few minutes. The air was heavy with the scent of sweat and dust, mingling with the faint tang of chalk from the equipment. Today’s session forbade the use of their affinities, forcing students to rely purely on physical skill, balance, and strategy.

Izuku found himself matched with Ochako, muscles tensing as he prepared for the first spar. The session had been going well, both of them evenly matched in agility and speed. Her smile was bright, easy, but she tilted her head when she caught a strain in his next movements.

“You okay, Midoriya? You seem… distracted,” she asked softly as they reset their stance.

“I’m fine,” Izuku said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”

She didn’t look convinced, but the whistle blew, and they moved. There was no tension in her maneuvers, only calm precision, but something about the way she stayed close to him—steadying, watchful—made the drill feel more intimidating than it should have.

The next motion was too fast. They stepped in opposite directions, and Izuku misjudged his pivot. His shoulder clipped hers, harder than he intended, sending Ochako stumbling back with a sharp inhale. Ochako’s foot caught the edge of a mat, sending her body pitching sideways. She caught herself before she hit the polished floor, but the sound still cracked across the noise of the training hall.

“Ochako!” Izuku lunged instinctively, but Katsuki was there before the whistle even blew, boots striking the floor like a sharp blade. His hand caught Ochako’s elbow with surprising gentleness, steadying her as if she were made of glass. The way he kept his hand braced around Ochako’s arm—checking her balance, scanning her face—was protective in a way that made Izuku’s stomach twist. And when he turned, his glare was all for Izuku.

“What the hell, Izuku?” he bellowed, striding forward in his space like a storm of fury. Katsuki’s eyes narrowed to slits, the heat of his alpha scent intensifying in the air around him. “Watch what you’re doing!” 

“I—I didn’t mean—” Izuku started, the sudden intensity of Katsuki’s presence hitting him like a physical force. His stomach coiled, a low tension settling in his chest as he raised his hands slightly in a gesture of defense, but Katsuki cut him off, his scent spiking like a warning.

“Don’t care if you meant it or not. You don’t get sloppy around her. Ever.”

Ochako tried to diffuse it, laughing lightly. 

“Katsuki, I’m fine—really, it was just an accident.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he snapped, his voice softer but still laced with that sharp edge, then returned that molten glare back on Izuku. “You keep your head straight. Got it?”

Izuku’s throat tightened. The reprimand cut, but not because of the words—it was the contrast, the quiet, instinctive way Katsuki stood between them without thinking, as if Ochako were something precious and unshakable. 

Katsuki didn’t take his silence well, his tone dropped, harder, more instinctive. Assertive.

“I said… got it, Izuku.”

The command slammed into Izuku’s mind and body like a tethered chain. His knees wobbled, arms slackening involuntarily. For a heartbeat, he was paralyzed. The air seemed to hum with Katsuki’s raw power, possessive, furious—and terrifying. He briskly tilted his head, baring his neck to appease the angry alpha, the reaction quick and unwanted, his breath catching before he could mask it.

Katsuki seemed to realize it too late. His eyes flickered—something like surprise, then a flash of guilt. The heat in his posture softened by a fraction, his mouth opening as if to backtrack. Katsuki’s alpha command had flared without warning, instinct overriding judgment, and he immediately felt the weight of what he had done–it wasn’t meant to touch Izuku, not like that. Not ever.

“Shit Izuku, I—” the blonde alpha muttered, voice breaking slightly, barely audible over the noise of the hall. The anger in Katsuki’s eyes wavered. His jaw clenched as if he were forcing the next words out. Stepping back instantly, claws metaphorically retracted. “I—look, I didn’t—”

“I’m sorry… Alpha Bakugo,” Izuku cut in, his voice even, too even. Emerald eyes met Katsuki’s briefly before lowering in formal respect. “It won’t happen again.”

Izuku’s apology, the formality of it—quiet, measured, almost distant—hit harder than any shout. Katsuki stared at him for a beat too long, frustration and something raw warring behind his eyes. He had overstepped, crossed a line he wasn’t sure he could easily forgive in himself. Katsuki’s jaw worked, his hands flexed like he wanted to say more, but nothing came out. All he could do was watch as Izuku turned his face away when the whistle blew, his back straight, his focus already elsewhere.

Ochako blinked, glancing between them with faint confusion, but she let it slide, brushing her sleeve as if nothing had happened. “I’m fine, really,” she said gently, the calm in her voice cutting the moment clean.

But Izuku’s pulse wouldn’t settle. The words lingered. Even when the drill rotated and Ochako moved on, her smile still easy but a touch more careful, the echo of Katsuki’s words burned. Katsuki didn’t follow; he stayed rooted a moment longer, his stare on Izuku unreadable. Izuku kept his eyes on the floor, pretending not to feel the weight of Katsuki’s regret shrouding him like smoke.

Chapter Text

The drill ended. Students collapsed onto benches, breathing heavily, wiping sweat from their brows. Izuku’s chest heaved with exertion, damp curls clinging to his skin, his muscles still humming from the sparring session. His throat burned, parched for fresh, cool water to quell his thirst. He pushed himself to his feet, about to lift a trembling hand to wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead, when he was offered a towel.

His gaze traced the length of the pale, veiny forearm up to familiar heterochromatic, kind eyes. 

“Here,” Shoto said softly, holding out a clean towel. His hand brushed Izuku’s wrist briefly as he passed it over. It was such a small gesture. The touch was light, nothing more than contact, but it still sent a shiver down Izuku’s arm.

It shouldn’t have mattered. 

It did anyway.

“Thanks,” Izuku murmured, pressing it briefly to his face, inhaling the faint scent of soap and clean skin that was so uniquely Shoto.

“You alright?” Shoto asked, voice low. Izuku swallowed, pressing the towel to his lips, not trusting his voice at first. 

“…I’ll live,” he replied softly. “I’m just overwhelmed.”

Before Shoto could open his mouth, a familiar shadow fell over the space between them. Katsuki’s crimson eyes were dim–the usual fire replaced with something fragile. He approached warily, hands partially raised in a gesture of apology. 

“Deku,” Katsuki inhaled, his voice rough and raw with emotion. “Izuku, can we talk? I need… I need to say something.”

Izuku swallowed, hugging the towel tighter, feeling the coil of his omega instincts stirring uncomfortably. His throat felt tight, chest constricted, and he struggled to steady his voice. 

“Kacchan… now isn’t a good time,” he said softly, voice faltering under the weight of lingering tension and fear. “We can talk later. I… We need some space–”

“Space?” Katsuki asked, His hands flexed at his sides, jaw tight, a flicker of frustration and helplessness crossing his features. A desperate insistence. “We can’t just… just leave it like that! You have to know that I–I never meant…”

“Kacchan–”

“Please, Izuku, I never wanted to use a command on you. Ever! You have to believe me!”

“Kacchan, stop–”

“Enough, Bakugo,” Shoto interjected. His words carried a quiet authority, a boundary set without hostility. It wasn’t a challenge—yet—just a refusal to bend, but Katsuki took it as one nonetheless. His gaze snapped to Shoto, crimson burning against stormy grey-and-turquoise eyes. The intensity of two alphas pressed into Izuku like a physical weight. He felt his stomach twist, caught in the middle of something far bigger than himself.

“No one’s fucking talking to you,” Katsuki snarled, “Why don’t you do us both a favor and walk away before I wreck your ugly mug.”

Shoto didn’t yield an inch, straightening his posture instead, his shoulders squaring in defiance. If Katsuki was a wildfire, Shoto was permafrost, steady and immovable. His energy unfurled in calm, deliberate waves, cool cedar and fresh rain, creating a wall that dulled Katsuki’s heat before it could reach Izuku. 

A muscle ticked in Katsuki’s jaw. His hands curled into fists, faint sparks popping along his fingertips, as if his quirk was answering his temper without permission. Katsuki bristled, every line of his body wound tight. His gaze flicked past Shoto to Izuku, and for a heartbeat, the edge in his stare softened—just slightly. There was something else there now, buried beneath the anger. Remorse, longing, and the ache of regret. 

“Deku… Izuku… I’m… I’m–” The blonde alpha opened and closed his mouth to argue, to justify, but the weight of Shoto’s presence forced him to pause, teeth gritted, chest heaving.

Izuku’s throat worked, waiting but nothing came. His fingers tightened on the towel Shoto had handed him, knuckles white. There were words the alpha could have said—explanations, apologies, something—but none of them would have subdued the heaviness in his heart.

When he finally met Katsuki’s gaze, his expression was carefully neutral. “Just leave me alone, Kacchan,” he said quietly. “Please.”

And that was it.

Katsuki froze, his jaw flexing like he’d been struck. The heat in the air flickered, faltered.

“Tch,” he muttered finally, breaking eye contact. The sparks at his fingertips died away. He turned sharply on his heel, shoulders rigid, as though retreat was the only way to keep from showing too much.

Neither Shoto nor Izuku moved until the door slammed behind Katsuki. Only then did Shoto’s alpha affinity ease, the cool pressure dissipating into nothing. 

The quiet after Katsuki’s exit was deafening. The door’s slam still echoed faintly in the high-ceilinged training hall, a ghost of impact that lingered longer than it should have. Izuku stayed rooted to the spot, clutching the towel like a lifeline, as though he could wring the ache out of his chest if he just held on tight enough.

His breathing was uneven, shallow. His instincts twisted and coiled, caught between two alphas whose scents were still bleeding into the air. Katsuki’s scent still lingered; hot, acrid, like ozone after a lightning strike. It clung to the corners of the room–a fading storm. Beneath it, calm and unshaken, was Shoto’s scent, cutting through the heat like a cool draft in summer.

“I’m sorry,” Shoto said at last, exhaling slowly, the restless tension in his body bleeding out with every shaky, cool breath he puffed out. “I didn’t mean to interfere like that.”

Izuku shook his head; viridian, damp curls clung to the skin of his temples. 

“No,” he murmured, his tone raw with emotion, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Silence fell between them. Deafening in its wake. Shoto’s eyes searched his face, studying every tick and minute tremor that washed over the omega’s features. Reading the tightness in his jaw and the shine of unshed tears he refused to let fall, Shoto let out a sigh.

“He… he cares about you,” Shoto said gently. His voice was low enough that it barely disturbed the charged air between them. It was a simple truth offered carefully, like setting glass down on stone. Izuku released a short, bitter laugh. It scraped against the tenderness in his throat.

“Oh yeah. He cares,” the green-haired omega echoed with a sneer, staring down at the floor with contempt. Melancholic, emerald eyes fixed on the thin cracks between the polished tiles. “But not in the way it matters. Not… like that.”

Shoto stepped closer, slow and deliberate, the soft scuff of his shoes somehow louder than the distant hum of the wind filtering through the open, high arches of the windows. The alpha left just enough room for Izuku to pull away if he wanted to. 

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

Izuku’s fingers tightened on the towel. He didn’t trust himself to look up, not yet.

“What am I going to do, Shoto? It feels like I’m falling out of my own skin,” he admitted, voice breaking at the edges. His vision began to blur; he closed his eyes shut as he drew a sharp breath. It caught in his throat, painfully lodging itself until he forcibly pushed it out, the sound almost akin to a sob. “I can’t settle. Everything’s too loud, too bright—Kacchan’s scent is everywhere and he’s not even here and it still hurts.”

Izuku’s head snapped up, suddenly, eyes wide in despair, cheeks flushing hot despite the lingering chill in the air.

“I’ve loved him for years,” he whispered, staring at Shoto, distraught. “I imprinted on him when we were kids. Stupid, right? He’s supposed to be my safe place. And now he’s the one who broke me without even meaning to.”

“You’re not stupid, Izuku,” he said. Shoto’s eyes softened, a small crease appearing between his brows. “You’re hurting. And he pushed you past what your instincts could hold.”

Izuku swallowed hard, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, cresting over until they fell in a steady stream along the lines of his ruddy cheeks. 

“He doesn’t even want me. He’s courting someone else. But he still… he still reacts like I belong to him. And then he uses a command—” His voice cracked, raw, trembling. “And I listened. Like I didn’t even have a choice.”

Shoto’s gaze flicked to Izuku’s trembling hands, the pale knuckles, the subtle shake running through his frame. 

“You didn’t,” he said, gentle but firm. “That’s what an alpha command is. It overrides choice.”

“I hate this part of me,” Izuku confessed, breath shuddering. “My omega instincts… they just made me obey. I wasn’t even myself for a second. And I… I hate that it still feels good to hear him say my name like that even when I know I should be furious.”

“That’s the omega drop talking,” Shoto murmured. “Your body’s trying to reconcile instinct with reality. It’s like pulling in opposite directions at once — it tears at you.”

Izuku finally looked up, eyes glassy, desperate. 

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” he whispered. “I can’t keep going on like this. The worst part is that I… I don’t know how to stop loving him when everything in me is wired to want him.”

“Remember what I told you before?” Shoto asked after a contemplative pause. “That if you ever needed someone… I’d help you?”

Izuku blinked at him, nodding hesitantly, almost dreading what’s to come.

“That command Bakugo used seems to have accelerated the drop. You don’t have a lot of time before your body stops listening to what your head wants.”

“What? But I…” Izuku choked as he attempted to restrain the panic brewing beneath his skin. “I thought I had more time. I figured with some distance–”

“Izuku, this isn’t something you can out-stubborn.” Shoto stepped closer, not crowding, but present, calm, anchoring. “You’ve been holding yourself together with sheer will for days. It’s like you said, you can’t keep going on like this. 

“Look, I won’t push, I won’t cross a line,” Shoto continued, sensing the omega’s uncertainty, “I’m not my father. I won’t claim what isn’t mine. I’ll just keep you afloat until you’re able to overcome this drop.”

Izuku swallowed hard. His jaw trembled, the tendons in his neck pulled tight like bowstrings. 

“I hate this,” he rasped, voice barely holding. “I hate that it’s come to this. That I can’t even control my own instincts anymore.”

“I know,” Shoto murmured, and there was no pity in it—only understanding, deep and quiet. “It isn't a weakness. It’s biology. You’re not failing. You’re reacting.”

Izuku’s gaze fell to the floor, fists clenching and unclenching; the tremor in his arms betraying how close he was to losing the fight he’d been waging in silence. His breath came too fast, too shallow, like he was trying to cage a storm inside his chest.

“I don’t want…” he started, but the words tangled, broke apart before they could leave. For a long, aching beat, Izuku stood there, shaking, shoulders curled inward like he was bracing for something that had already arrived. Then, very softly–almost like a confession–he whispered, 

“…Please.”

Shoto’s hand lifted, slow, careful, and settled on Izuku’s shoulder. He gave it a firm, but gentle squeeze before he trailed it along the length of his collarbone. His fingers hovered for a breath against Izuku’s neck, just beneath his ear where the heat of the omega drop thrummed like a fever. His gaze flicked down to meet Izuku’s, asking silently for permission.

Izuku gave the smallest nod, his lips set in a thin line.

Warm fingertips brushed against the sensitive skin of his scent gland, barely there, just enough to smear the faintest trace of Shoto’s cedar-and-rain across it. The effect was immediate — not a cure, not even true relief, but a soft dampening of the relentless pressure, like air slipping into a sealed room.

Izuku exhaled, shaky, almost startled at the difference. The frantic edge in his chest dulled, the spinning slowed just enough for thought to find shape again.

“Just enough to calm it,” Shoto murmured, his tone still gentle, clinical even. “Not a bond. Not a claim. Just balance.”

Izuku swallowed, eyes falling shut for a heartbeat, leaning imperceptibly toward the calm before catching himself. 

“It’s… easier to breathe,” he admitted, voice small, like a secret too fragile to speak aloud.

Shoto withdrew his hand immediately, stepping back just enough to give him space again, as though reminding them both what this was–a kindness, not a tether. 

“Good,” he said simply, a ghost of a smile playing at the edges of his lips. “You’ll stabilize faster now.”

Izuku nodded, though his thoughts refused to quiet fully. The steadiness helped, but the ache remained. It wasn’t just chemical; it wasn’t just instinct.

It was Katsuki. His Kacchan. His alpha.

Kacchan, with his voice sharp enough to split the air and hands that shook when he held back. Kacchan, who had commanded him without meaning to. Kacchan, who smelled like burnt sugar and gunpowder and something safe buried deep beneath all the heat.

Izuku’s jaw tightened, eyes staring at the floor even as his body began to settle.

He didn’t know if this new stillness was a blessing or a cruel reminder of everything that still hurt.

Chapter Text

“I can walk you back to your dorm if you’d like,” Shoto offered quietly, briefly assessing Izuku to make sure their scenting session did not have any adverse effects on the omega.

Izuku shook his head almost immediately, tossing their towels in the laundry bin as they exited the training hall. They were greeted with brushes of the cool evening air and the soft orange glows of the setting sun. He turned to face Shoto, clutching his satchel a little tighter. 

“No. Thank you, but… I think I need to be alone for a bit.”

Shoto studied him for a long moment—not pressing, not judging, just weighing the answer against the quiet strain in Izuku’s scent. Something in Izuku’s determined features must have won over any concerns the alpha had, so finally, he gave a small nod in assent. 

“If it gets worse, come find me,” Shoto said, “Don’t wait. I’ll be in the library late tonight.”

“Okay, I won’t,” Izuku murmured, though they both knew it was a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep.

Shoto turned, heading back toward the dorms, leaving behind a thin thread of cedar and rain that faded quickly into the evening breeze.

Izuku lingered at the edge of the path, the academy’s noise bleeding into the hush of early evening until it was nothing more than a dull echo in his ears. The air smelled like damp earth and faint dogwood; soft, clean, the kind of scent that should’ve been calming. It wasn’t.

His legs felt heavy, as if every step toward the dorms would drag him through glass. Katsuki would be there. In their room. His scent in the air. All that shared history pressing in like a bruise that refused to fade. His chest tightened at the thought of opening that door, of seeing Katsuki sitting there on his bed. Waiting for him. It churned his stomach into knots.

So instead, he turned away.

The path curved off campus, weaving between trees that grew older, thicker, until the sounds of students and stone faded entirely. The quiet gave way for his thoughts to run rampant. The memory of the training hall clung to him like static: Katsuki’s voice cutting sharp like a nefarious blade across the floor, the acidic command burning down his spine before his mind could even catch up—to stop. 

His body had obeyed before his will even had a chance to scream. That flash of instinctive submission, that raw, humiliating pull, had left a sour taste in his throat and an ache deep in his bones that still hadn’t eased. He knew it wasn’t fear that would haunt him—not exactly. It was knowing how close his control had come to shattering in front of everyone. How much effort it took just to hold himself together while Katsuki’s scent filled the room like smoke; heavy, suffocating, familiar in a way that hurt worse than anything else.

Part of him wanted to see Katsuki anyway, to demand an explanation, to rip the truth from him with both hands. Another part—the quieter, more dangerous part—just wanted to collapse into the only arms that had ever felt like home, even when they hurt. His feet continued to move on instinct, not logic, carrying him down the old trail carved by years of shared secrets and too-loud arguments, toward the only place that had ever belonged to just them.

Before he realized, the trail led to a clearing high above the city—their clearing. The clearing opened like a held breath, the canopy above filtering the fading light into soft gold. A breeze stirred through the grass, carrying the smell of sun-warmed bark and wildflowers. And there, under the oak tree standing sentinel at its center; branches wide, roots deep—the one they’d claimed as kids with their initials carved into its bark years ago with clumsy, determined hands—stood him.

His alpha.

Kacchan.

He didn’t notice Izuku at first. He just stood there with his back half-turned, the late sun catching in the strands of his hair, turning the messy spikes into molten gold. Sweat still clung faintly at his temples from training, catching the light, giving his skin a subtle glow that softened the sharpness of his features. 

He held one palm pressed flat to the bark, fingertips running over carved letters, tracing them like a man trying to remember how they’d gotten there, like maybe if he followed every groove long enough, he’d find the part where everything stopped making sense. Every movement seemed careful, thoughtful; almost reverent in its caress.

His head was bent, jaw tight–always set like he was bracing for a fight–but not angry; it was something quieter, more fragile, like the weight of the world had finally pressed him into stillness. The line of his neck was tense, tendons pulled, the steady rise and fall of his chest measured, controlled as if he were wrestling with himself and losing ground slowly. His shoulders, broad and strong, looked smaller somehow; not weak, just weighed down as if the fire had burned too long and left embers in its place.

It was unfair how the image alone made his traitorous heart leap and for a moment, Izuku couldn’t breathe. This was the same boy who shouted until the air rattled, who fought like he had something to prove every second of every day—and here he was, quiet, hands gentle, looking like a memory caught in human form.

He hadn’t expected anyone to be here. Least of all Katsuki. For a heartbeat, he thought about stepping forward, about saying something. But the ache in his chest flared, and he turned instead, meaning to leave before he made things worse.

He’d barely taken a step back when a dry branch cracked under his heel. The sharp crack of the branch sounded like a gunshot in the quiet.

Katsuki’s head whipped around, every line of him bristling on instinct. Looking for the bastard who dared step foot in such a sacred place meant only for them. Crimson eyes flared hot, then softened, recognition slicing through the heat like water on embers. His ruby-colored eyes locked onto Izuku instantly.

“…Izuku,” he breathed, quiet—not a snarl, not even a growl, just Izuku’s name, ragged around the edges. Like it hurt to say and he couldn’t stop himself anyway.

Izuku froze mid-step, lungs tight, breath caught somewhere high in his chest. He hadn’t wanted this—not yet. His whole body screamed at him to backtrack, to run, but the weight of Katsuki’s gaze held him like a fist to the heart.

The air smelled of damp bark and the faint trace of smoke still clinging to Katsuki’s white blouse from training; sharp ozone folded into something warmer underneath—his scent, familiar, powerful, too much. It curled against Izuku’s senses like memory and longing braided into one.

Katsuki turned fully, boots crunching against the packed dirt. His hand lingered against the tree, thumb still pressed to the old carving like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it. Izuku swallowed hard, half-turned toward the path. 

“…Kacchan.” His name was released unbidden.

Katsuki straightened, stepping away from the tree as if the bark had just burned him. 

“What are you doing here?” Katsuki asked, voice low and too thin to hold any weight behind it. “You weren’t supposed to—” He cut himself off, jaw clenching. “…Forget it. I thought you’d be back at our dorm.”

“I…I could ask you the same thing,” he murmured. Izuku swallowed, eyes darting anywhere but those red eyes that had haunted him since the first moment he gazed into them. Katsuki huffed a humorless breath, dragging a hand through his hair. 

“Guess we were thinking the same thing,” he said. He paused, then quieter, “...avoiding each other.”

Silence stretched, heavy, punctuated only by the distant hum of cicadas and the soft rustle of leaves overhead. Izuku shifted his weight, fingers tightening around the strap of his satchel. 

“Why are you here, Kacchan?” he asked, voice barely carrying. “I thought you’d be…”

He didn’t dare say her name. Not here. He watched as Katsuki brushed his thumb over the carved initials again, slow, deliberate, like the grooves could speak for him. 

“…‘Cause it’s ours,” he muttered. “Always has been.”

Katsuki exhaled through his nose, the motion sharp, like it hurt. He took a single step closer — not enough to crowd, just enough to bridge some of the distance. 

“I’ve been sitting here for an hour, trying to figure out how to say any of this without screwing it up worse. I can’t stop thinking about training. About what I said. About the look on your face when I—” His voice cracked, the words catching like sparks against wet wood. “…I never wanted to hurt you, Izuku.”

“I just saw you freeze and I… I panicked,” the alpha continued, “I needed you to move. Didn’t think what it’d do to you. I didn’t—” 

He broke off again, teeth grit, jaw clenching like it could hold the shame inside. Izuku’s lips parted, but nothing came out. Katsuki looked down at the dirt, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. 

“I hate myself for it,” he said, quieter now, the edges of fury dulled into something fragile. “I never wanted to use that on you. Not you. Never you.”

Izuku’s throat burned. The words hit like they’d been waiting, like he’d been needing to hear them and fearing them all at once.

“I needed space,” Izuku said finally, voice low, steady despite the tremor in his chest. “You hurt me, Kacchan. Not just with that. With everything. With how you… look at her. Like she’s the only one who fits next to you. I’m your… I’m your best friend. And you–”

Izuku stared, jaw tight, the wind tugging softly at the edges of his curls. 

“And you don’t get to just say you didn’t mean it,” he said, quiet, but the edge of pain cut through the words. “It still happened. You still made me obey.”

“Fuck, I know,” Katsuki said immediately, almost too fast, like he’d been waiting for the accusation just to agree with it. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “I know. And I hate it. I lost control. I fucking overreacted. Everything just smelled so wrong, even with Ochako there, my instincts—” He cut himself off again, chest heaving. “…I told myself it didn’t matter. That I’d deal with it later. But it does matter. It matters so much I can’t even breathe right now because it’s you.”

Silence fell heavy between them, broken only by the rustle of leaves overhead and the distant thrum of the city far below. Izuku laughed softly, bitter, brittle. 

“You don’t get it, do you?” Izuku asked sardonically, “Do you know how frustrating it’s been? With Shoto… you act as if I’m…” Izuku inhaled sharply, “It doesn’t matter. I’m just so tired of it all. I can’t keep living like that—you have someone else.”

Katsuki flinched, shoulders drawing tight. 

“What? That’s not—” He stopped, exhaled sharply through his nose. His hands trembled as he shoved them into his pockets, like he didn’t trust them not to reach for Izuku. 

“…I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me,” he admitted, low, furious at himself. “I didn’t mean to… interfere with Icy Hot. I didn’t even know you two were–” He growled then, canines flashing at an invisible opponent, “I just see you with him and I feel like I’m gonna lose my damn mind.”

The wind stirred, carrying the scent of rain over warm bark and old smoke, the whole clearing thrumming with the weight of what neither of them could say.

“You need to figure it out,” Izuku whispered, voice shaking with everything he’d held back. “Because you can’t have it both ways.”

“Both ways?” Katsuki asked, “What do you– What are you saying?”

“I’m dropping, Kacchan,” Izuku confessed, the words landing like a punch to the gut. “Do you even get that? My body’s shutting down because it can’t take this anymore… because I can’t take this anymore. I tried to ignore it, I tried to pretend it was just heartbreak, but it’s not. It’s my scent-match rejecting me. It’s you. It’s always been you.”

Katsuki’s lips parted, soundless, the world tilting underneath the weight of what he’d just been handed.

“I’ve loved you since before I even knew what loving you meant,” Izuku said, tears threatening but refusing to fall. “But I can’t keep doing this—watching you with her, watching you pretend like none of this is happening while I fall apart from the inside out.”

Katsuki took a half-step forward, stopped, his hands flexing like he didn’t know if he was allowed to reach for him.

“This is killing me,” Izuku whispered, raw, unguarded. “So you need to decide. Right now. Her or me. You don’t get to keep both.”

The silence that followed was brutal. Just the low rustle of leaves, the thrum of Izuku’s pulse in his ears, the faint hiss of Katsuki’s uneven breath.

And for the first time in years, Katsuki Bakugo looked terrified—not of a fight, not of failure, but of the very real possibility that he might already be losing everything tonight.

Chapter Text

For a long time, it seemed, Katsuki didn’t say a word.

He stood there with his back to the tree–their tree–with the shallow groove of their carved initials that had outlived summers, winters, fights, reconciliations–its mark stark and prominent against its aging bark. His shoulders rose once, sharp, then stalled mid-breath, like the next inhale hurt. 

The late light slanted through the branches, catching on the sharp cut of his jaw and the flaxen-gold streaks of his hair. His eyes—normally a wildfire of instinct and impulse—were wide, searching, and quiet in a way that felt wrong.

Izuku’s chest was still heaving; breaths shallow, body coiled tight from the confession he’d barely managed to get out. His heart thudded against his ribs, uneven, too loud in the hush between them. The silence stretched for far too long and it started to ache. Finally, Katsuki dragged his gaze up, locking onto Izuku like the world had gone still and only the two of them were left standing in the clearing.

“You—” Katsuki’s voice cracked, raw enough to make the air feel thinner. He stopped, jaw locking, then forced the words out again, lower, rougher. “You just dropped that on me like a goddamn grenade, nerd.”

“I didn’t… I just couldn’t keep it in any longer, Kacchan,” Izuku said quietly. His hands hung useless at his sides, then curled tight, fingernails carving half-moons into his palms like pain might keep him from shaking apart. “You had to know.”

Katsuki dragged in a breath that sounded as if it had scraped his lungs on the way out—long, ragged, like he’d been holding it since the world tilted.

“You’re telling me,” he said, slower now, like the words were foreign in his mouth, “that all this time you’ve been—what? In love with me? Imprinted on me? And now you’re… dropping because of me?” 

His voice pitched low on the last word, disbelief tangled with something darker, heavier, something he didn’t want to name.

“Yes.”

The single syllable shook, not from hesitation but from the force it took to push it out. Izuku’s throat bobbed with the effort, his whole body trembling, but his voice—quiet as it was—didn’t break.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved. The clearing felt smaller, like the trees themselves leaned in to listen. A breeze cut through, cool against the heat crawling up Izuku’s neck, but it did nothing to ease the way his chest burned.

Katsuki stared at him like the ground had just shifted under his boots—furious, not at Izuku, but at the sudden fault line opening between them. His hands flexed open, then closed again, the way he did when he wanted to hit something but didn’t trust his aim.

“Deku…Izuku…” His voice was low, a warning and a plea twisted together, almost swallowed by the sound of leaves hissing overhead. “You can’t just—” He broke off, dragging a hand over his mouth, eyes narrowing like he was trying to wrestle his own thoughts into order. “Shit.”

Izuku forced himself to look at him, really look, even though every instinct screamed to look away. Katsuki’s jaw was tight, his throat working like he’d swallowed glass, crimson eyes wide with something raw—not anger. Not exactly.

“So what now? You… You want me to just—what? Pick you?” Katsuki said in disbelief, “Like it’s that fucking simple?”

“It is that simple,” Izuku shot back, the bite in his voice edged with desperation now. “You don’t understand what this feels like. It’s like trying to breathe with someone’s hand around your throat. My omega is screaming for you, and you’re standing there acting like you don’t hear it.”

Katsuki’s hands twitched at his sides, sparks dancing at his fingertips before he forced them still. 

“I do hear it,” he growled, eyes flashing, the words worn out and torn from somewhere deep. “I hear it every time I smell you and I hate it! Because I… I already found my match, Izuku. I already found her.”

Izuku’s face crumpled just slightly, a sound slipping out like a broken breath. 

“What? Just because you ‘smelled’ her scent first?” Izuku’s words were quiet, but they carried an edge that cut deep. His voice tasted bitter even to himself, like metal on his tongue. “And now what? You’re just going to ignore everything else? Ignore me?”

Katsuki froze, the world seeming to hold its breath with him. For a second, it was as if someone had driven a fist into his gut—all the air ripped out of him, leaving only the ache. His fire hadn’t gone out; it was still there, burning, but wild, untethered, thrashing for somewhere to go.

The alpha moved before thought could catch up to him—a step forward, deliberate, heavy, the soles of his boots grinding against the packed earth with a low, gritty scrape. Crushed leaves released their scent underfoot; sharp, green, almost sweet in the cold air. It was swallowed by the weight of him, by the heat that seemed to roll off his body like a threat or a promise.

Izuku’s pulse jumped, every beat like a drum against fragile ribs. He didn’t move back. His whole body screamed at him to run, to fold, to fall, but instead he stood tall, shoulders squared, trembling only slightly, chin tipped up in a defiance born of heartbreak. He forced himself to meet Katsuki’s eyes.

Katsuki was close now, close enough that his shadow stretched over the omega; close enough that the air between them went taut, like a rope pulled too tight. Katsuki always carried himself like a storm, but here, now, with his shoulders squared and chest broad and burning, he felt huge, towering over Izuku as if he could blot out the sky itself.

“I can’t…” Izuku whispered, voice cracking around the words. “I can’t do this halfway, Kacchan. You have to decide. Me or her.”

Izuku’s heartbeat spiked, sharp and wild, each thump a painful drum against fragile ribs, a warning that did nothing to slow him. His lungs fought to pull in air that tasted like iron, like adrenaline, like the faint char at the edge of Katsuki’s scent burning straight through him.

The air between them tightened, thick with heat, ozone, and something older—something that had lived in the cracks of their friendship for years, waiting to be seen. Katsuki’s eyes darted over Izuku’s face, down to the line of his throat, back to his mouth, then up again like he was looking for permission, for denial, for anything.

Crimson gazed into green.

Heat met ache.

“There it is again. That scent. You smell—” Katsuki muttered, quiet, like the words had escaped before he could catch them. He leaned in, barely, eyes wide now, hungry and terrified all at once. “You smell different.”

Izuku swallowed, throat tight. Katsuki’s breath hitched. He closed the last inch like gravity had grabbed him by the chest—their foreheads nearly brushing now, heat radiating between them, their next breath tangled, shared, uneven.

For the first time since everything started, Katsuki’s expression cracked wide open.

“Why… Why is your scent different?” he whispered, voice hoarse, eyes burning with panic and something dangerously close to want. “You smell like… like–”

Izuku’s hands twitched like they wanted to reach up, to grab fistfuls of his shirt, to anchor him in place before the moment could slip away. 

“Kacchan,” he breathed, barely more than sound. “Alpha.”

Katsuki’s jaw clenched; he dragged in a ragged breath through his nose—and Izuku saw the flicker, the split-second of surrender, of desire, of every wall he’d ever built starting to crack. Katsuki’s hand moved, half a breath from finding Izuku’s waist.

And then—

“Katsuki? Midoriya?”

The voice hit like cold water.

They jerked apart, breath tearing between them in a sharp, painful rush. Katsuki spun toward the voice like an animal caught mid-charge, crimson eyes blown wide, feral panic flickering across a face that had no time to hide.

Ochako stood at the edge of the clearing, framed by gold-drenched leaves and filtered sunlight. The breeze teased strands of her hair, catching in a soft, warm halo around her smile — bright, easy, utterly oblivious to the ghosts she had just walked through.

“Oh,” she said, a light note of surprise in her voice as she blinked at them, unaware of the knife-edge she’d stepped onto. “I didn’t know Katsuki showed you this place too, Midoriya. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

The world went quiet. It was the kind of silence that pressed against the ribs, forcing the air to stay where it is. Not at all peaceful—but heavy in its weight. 

Izuku could hear the wind moving through the branches above, a soft hiss that somehow made the pounding in his ears louder. The initials carved into the tree behind Katsuki might as well have been on fire—hot, glaring reminders of a promise neither of them had dared to name until now.

Katsuki didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His hands were still curled into fists at his sides, knuckles pale, every muscle in his body pulled taut like a bowstring with nowhere to release. His eyes didn’t leave Izuku, even as Ochako’s voice lilted, warm and unknowing, through the quiet.

Izuku felt every second stretch, heavy and merciless. He forced a smile—small, brittle, like glass held together by sheer will and turned his head just enough to answer without really looking at her.

“Yeah,” he said softly, the word hollowed out on its way past his lips. “It really is.”

But the air had changed. What had been sacred now felt intruded upon, fragile threads pulled loose by the simple weight of her presence.

And Izuku, for the first time, hope didn’t just slip from his hands—it shattered.

Chapter Text

The wind drifted lazily through the trees, whispering against the leaves, brushing against Izuku’s viridian curls, soft and harmless. A cruel counterpoint to the storm pounding in his chest, loud enough to drown out everything else. The clearing, once a sanctuary, now felt suffocating, as though the sunlight itself had grown sharp, prying at his chest and ribs.

The young omega’s heart ached with every breath, heavy and uneven, like his ribs couldn’t hold the pieces in place anymore. Gnarled fingers curled tightly, nails digging crescents into the flesh of his palms until the sting grounded him, tethered him to the moment just enough to keep from collapsing into the ache. 

He wanted to scream. 

He wanted to vanish. 

Instead, he swallowed hard, and forced his voice past the wreck in his throat.

“This place,” he said, low and trembling, every word drawn out of him like pulling thread through thick fabric, “was ours.”

Ochako blinked at him, her features soft but marked with confusion, lips parting slightly as the weight of his words pressed into her.

“Ours?” she echoed, glancing between them, her brows knitting in bewilderment.

Izuku’s emerald eyes never left Katsuki, burning with a mix of desperation and hurt. He stepped a fraction closer, not enough to cross an unspoken line, but enough to make the space between them electric, taut.

“H-How,” he asked softly, like a plea, not a question, “How could you bring her here? This was supposed to be ours.”

Katsuki’s body stiffened, a subtle flinch, almost imperceptible, but enough that Izuku saw it—the rigid set of his shoulders, the quick intake of breath, the tiniest flicker of crimson eyes that betrayed the storm behind the carefully maintained mask.

The alpha’s jaw clenched, a hard line etched across his face, as if chewing through words might make them more bearable. His fists curled at his sides, fingers tightening like he could crush the air around him instead of the weight pressing into his chest. 

The faint scent of crushed leaves and earth rose with each shallow breath, mingling with the heat radiating off his body—fire tempered by frustration, confusion, and something he wasn’t ready to name.

Katsuki’s mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. He was frozen, caught between worlds. His gaze jerking between Ochako, his scent-match, bright and unknowing, to his best friend and his closest confidant. To the omega that’s been there for him in his best of times and in his worst, standing in front of him, heart bleeding quietly and painfully steady at his feet.

“I…” The alpha’s voice faltered, rough, caught between anger and something softer he didn’t recognize. He, too, stepped closer, the shadow of his towering frame swallowing the light at Izuku’s feet. It brought a sudden, dizzying warmth that pressed against the omega’s spine. “I didn’t— I hadn’t meant… I didn’t think—”

Izuku flinched. His once vivid, emerald eyes that gleamed with admiration and adoration for the alpha, dimmed. His chest ached with every unspoken word, every memory of nights spent in silent proximity, every stolen glance and half-smile they’d shared in secrecy. His gaze flicked down for a moment, catching the curve of Katsuki’s sleeve, the taut muscle beneath, the way he carried the weight of himself like a shield.

“You didn’t think?” Izuku whispered hollowly, barely audible, voice raw, trembling with the pressure of everything he’d held in. “What? Didn’t think I’d care?”

“I… I thought—” Katsuki started, voice tight.

“Is everything okay?” Ochako’s concerned voice cut in, ringing like a bell through the tension. She stepped closer, curiosity bright in her brown eyes, oblivious to the storm crackling between the two boys. “Midoriya, you don’t look—”

“Stop!” Izuku snapped, sharper than he intended, voice breaking under the weight of everything. “Why, Kacchan? Why would you bring her here when this place… this space… was ours? Only ours!”

“Wha—what do you mean?” Ochako froze mid-step, confusion flickering across her face. She looked towards the blond alpha, seeking his gaze, a reaction, “Katsuki, what is he talking about?”

Katsuki’s hands flexed at his sides, jaw tight, heat rippling through him, adrenaline tangling with frustration. 

“Izuku,” he barked in warning, stepping closer to the green-haired omega, towering over him. “Of course I’d… Sh–She’s my scent-match! That’s all! I didn’t… I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean what, Kacchan?!” Izuku’s voice broke, trembling and rising despite his efforts to keep it steady. “Why did you think it was okay to bring her here?!”

The air seemed to constrict around them, heavy with unshed words. Katsuki’s fists clenched tighter, sparks dancing faintly along his knuckles, a physical manifestation of the storm inside. 

“Izuku—”

Izuku’s knees weakened, the weight of longing, betrayal, and desire coiling painfully through him. His chest heaved, heart hammering like a drum against fragile bones. The scent of Katsuki—so fiercely him, so impossibly grounding—mingled with the ache rising from deep within his omega instincts.

/Alpha betrayed us./

He flinched violently, a sharp shudder rippling through his limbs as the omega drop spiraled beyond his control. Every nerve screamed for relief, every instinct pressed for grounding, for warmth, for the one constant he had always clung to.

“Why… Kacchan…” The words escaped as a ragged whisper, trembling, ragged. The world narrowed, collapsing around him, until the only thing that mattered was the crimson intensity of Katsuki’s gaze. Izuku couldn’t contain it. He could no longer hold it all back.

Ochako stepped closer, eyes wide, confusion threading through her voice. 

“Midoriya? Katsuki? What’s going on?” Her chipper, concerned tone faltered, cracking slightly as if she could sense the hurricane of cataclysm around them but didn’t yet understand it. Ochako’s brow furrowed, confusion warring with worry. 

“I don’t understand… I thought you guys were… I mean… I’m—” She stopped, realizing her words only tangled the situation further, eyes darting between them.

The moment stretched taut between them, the space around Izuku charged with heat, scent, and longing, while Ochako’s stunned presence at the edge of the clearing seemed distant, irrelevant, a shadow against the storm that had finally broken loose.

“I… I can’t…” The green-haired omega’s voice cracked, barely audible over the rushing in his ears. “I… Kacchan… it’s too much…”

/Alpha doesn’t want us./

Katsuki’s hands shot out instinctively, catching Izuku by the shoulders, gripping with enough force to keep him upright, but careful, trembling with the pull of his own emotions. 

“Deku—Izuku, hey!” His crimson eyes blazed, wide and desperate, yet still uncertain, as though he were only just realizing the depth of what Izuku was trying to tell him.

Izuku’s vision blurred at the edges, his knees weakening under the weight of everything crashing in at once—heartbreak, exhaustion, the cutting ache of instincts begging for relief. His scent faltered, spiking sharp and sweet in the air, no longer controlled. 

The drop was coming fast, too fast.

His body swayed, the world tilting, sound dimming like water filling his ears. He caught one last look at Katsuki—wide-eyed, pale beneath the flush of heat in his face—before his legs buckled.

And then the ground was rushing up to meet him.

Sunlight leaked in through the blinds in narrow, fractured lines—thin bars of pale gold that striped the sterile white walls. The faint, antiseptic scent of the infirmary lay under everything, sharp and clinical, but there was something warmer in the air too–salty and tangy. 

Izuku stirred sluggishly. He felt the heavy press of blankets tucked too tight, the stiffness of hospital sheets against his skin, the hollow ache in his limbs like he’d run for days and finally stopped. His throat was dry and his tongue felt thick in his mouth. There was a distant hum—the soft electronic beep of a monitor—and beneath that, a sound he knew like a heartbeat; the quiet, uneven rhythm of his mother crying.

He blinked his viridian eyes open slowly, vision swimming at first, the light too bright until it steadied into shapes, then details.

/Mom./

Inko sat at his bedside, her small hands wrapped around his much larger one like she could anchor him to the world with sheer will alone. Her shoulders trembled with a sob she hadn’t meant to let out. She looked tired—not just sleepless, but wrung out—like every hour had been a fight she hadn’t been ready to lose.

“Mom…” His voice rasped like gravel dragged over pavement; the sound low and cracked.

Her head immediately snapped up. Her wet, red-rimmed eyes went wide and alive in a way that hurt to see.

“Izuku?” she whispered, like she didn’t quite believe he was awake. “Baby—oh, thank goodness—”

The sob that broke free from her chest this time was raw, uncontained. She folded forward, pressing her forehead to the back of his hand, her tears warm where they soaked his skin. 

“Oh, Izuku,” she choked, lips wobbling and chest heaving with exertion, “what have you gotten yourself into?”

He tried to sit up, but the weight of exhaustion—of everything—pushed him back into the bed like gravity had grown cruel. 

“Mom… hey, it’s okay,” he murmured, voice thin but soft. “Don’t cry. Please. I’m okay.”

“My poor baby,” she whispered, brushing damp, curly wisps of hair from his forehead with shaking fingers. “You scared me half to death. They told me you collapsed! That it was an omega drop!”

The words were knives, stabbing into open, festering wounds that refused to heal. He looked away, shame heavy in his chest, settling behind his ribs like a stone. 

“I-It was,” he admitted, the words small, almost swallowed. Her fingers tightened around his. 

“Izuku, tell me what happened. How did—-”

The door opened with a soft click, halting the conversation from going any further. The academy’s medical officer stepped in, tall and composed, her green coat crisp against the soft white of the room. She held a pad in one hand. When she saw Izuku awake, her gaze softened.

“Oh! Midoriya,” she said with a polite smile, her tone warm but clinical, “Good to see you awake.”

He nodded faintly, clutching the green bedding into a fist. He swallowed against the dryness in his throat as she pulled a chair closer, lowering herself with the kind of calm practiced over years. 

“We’ve been monitoring you since the collapse. You suffered a severe omega drop, compounded by an unbalanced hormonal cycle due to an alpha command you weren’t prepared for.” Her gaze warmed. “That kind of stress can override your own stability, especially when emotions are already volatile.”

“What does that mean for him?” she asked, voice quiet but urgent. His mother’s hand trembled over his. The doctor laced her fingers, leaning forward. 

“It means he’s fragile right now. His body is in recovery but unstable—his scent-balance has been disrupted. Without intervention, it could happen again, possibly worse. The standard care is controlled alpha scenting. Steady exposure to someone who can help regulate his system and keep him grounded until it stabilizes.”

Izuku’s jaw tensed. “You mean… someone… some strange alpha has to scent me?”

The doctor nodded. “Preferably someone you trust. We have licensed alphas on call for cases like this—trained for this kind of care. It’s discreet, professional, and safe.”

“No,” he said, instantly, feebly but firmly. “I don’t want a stranger.”

The doctor blinked. “Midoriya, this isn’t about intimacy. It’s about stabilizing your health. Without—”

“I already know someone who can help,” he interrupted, voice lower now, steadier than he felt.

She studied him for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. “Very well. I’ll document your decision. But it needs to begin soon. Your body can’t afford to stay in this state for long.”

He nodded once, a single quiet exhale leaving his chest. Inko’s hand clutched his like it was the only solid thing in the room. 

“Doctor,” she said softly, her voice frayed at the edges, “I… I just don’t understand any of this. Izuku was fine and then suddenly—” Her breath caught, tears pooling before she even noticed. “He collapsed. When the academy called me, I didn’t even know what to think—”

Izuku swallowed hard, emerald eyes fixed on a crease in the blanket like looking at anything else might break him apart. 

“It—It wasn’t sudden,” he murmured. “I’d been… falling apart for a while. I just didn’t realize how bad it had gotten.”

Inko’s fingers tightened reflexively. “Falling apart? From what, sweetheart?”

“It’s complicated, Mom. It’s— it’s someone I shouldn’t have wanted in the first place…” His voice cracked, a raw tremor breaking through. “…someone who wouldn’t have looked at me twice anyway.”

The doctor stepped in gently, her tone soft but moored. 

“What your son is describing,” she said, looking at Inko, “isn’t simply stress or exhaustion. It seems his body was also in distress from a deep, instinctive rejection—the kind that comes when a bond forms on one side, but isn’t answered in kind. The alpha command he endured during training most likely pushed him over a threshold he was already nearing.”

Inko stared at Izuku, pale, searching his face like she could find the name written there if she just looked long enough. 

“So this pain— this drop—”

“His body’s reacting like it’s been left untethered after finding a match,” the doctor confirmed. “As I mentioned before, he needs an alpha presence, specifically scenting, to calm the reaction and stop it from escalating. I trust you to reach out to the person you have in mind soon, Midoriya. Instinct isn’t patient—and neither is the damage it can do.”

She adjusted her pad, the quiet click of her pen filling the silence for a heartbeat, then offered Inko a small nod. 

“We’ll monitor his vitals in the meantime. Again, the sooner this starts, the better.”

The doctor rose, collected her pad, and gave a small bow of her head to both him and Inko before slipping from the room, leaving the smell of antiseptic and paper in her wake. Inko reached over, brushing his bangs gently back from his forehead, her hand trembling slightly. 

“Izuku,” she whispered, her voice breaking like something fragile, “Sweetheart, don’t you worry. We'll face this together. You’re not alone. You hear me?”

Izuku nodded faintly, though the ache inside him didn’t ease. For a heartbeat, there was peace again.

Until the door eased open once more with a soft click.

Mitsuki Bakugo stepped in quietly, her heels sinking slightly against the polished infirmary floor, each step subdued, careful—so unlike the sharp, commanding rhythm Izuku remembered from childhood visits to the Bakugo household.

Her eyes—a fierce carmine, always capable of cutting through pretense—swept the room, pausing briefly on the monitors, the neat stack of folded blankets, the sterile shine of metal instruments. When they finally landed on Izuku, something shifted; the edge dulled, and the heat that always smoldered behind her gaze softened into something quieter, heavier.

Her arms were folded loosely across her chest, but the gesture didn’t carry its usual fire. No challenge. No threat. Just someone trying to hold herself together, trying not to shake in a place where every instinct screamed at her to act.

She stood there for a beat too long, the hum of the machines and the soft hiss of the air vents the only sounds between them. Izuku could feel her staring at him—assessing and searching like a hawk.

Mitsuki’s jaw moved once, like she was swallowing a dozen things she wanted to say. Then twice, like she was choosing carefully. Finally, she exhaled through her nose, shoulders loosening by a fraction, and when she spoke, her voice came low, even, threaded through with a steadiness that felt like it had been earned through the effort of keeping too many emotions at bay.

“…Oh, kid,” she murmured, her voice so unlike the infamous woman whose temper could light a room on fire—instead, she was just there, standing at the doorway of the quiet infirmary, trying to figure out how to reach someone she cared about without breaking him further.

She moved closer, slowly and cautiously, pulling a chair with her so she could sit beside his bed. One hand reached out, her soft, lithe fingers brushing over his knuckles like she had when he and Katsuki were kids, scraped up from training too hard.

“You look like hell,” she said weakly, a sad half-smile tugging at her lips, though her eyes were bright with unspoken emotion. “What did you and that stubborn idiot of mine get yourselves into this time, huh?”

The words weren’t sharp; they were an invitation—to speak, to trust, to not carry it alone anymore.

Izuku swallowed hard, his throat tight, a lump forming where words wanted to be. He briefly glanced at his mother before he replied. 

“U-Uhm…” he whispered, voice breaking despite himself.

She squeezed his hand gently, a small, firm press that said she was there, no matter how messy the truth was going to be.

“It’s okay, Izuku. Start at the beginning,” she said, tone soft but unyielding. “And don’t you dare leave anything out. I want to hear it all.”

Chapter Text

The infirmary was too still.

The faint hum of machines, the whisper of air through the vents, the constant, mellow beeping of a monitor somewhere nearby—they all felt too loud, like the world had shrunk to a bubble of sound that pressed painfully against Izuku’s ears. The sterile scent of antiseptic premiated in the air, stagnant and asphyxiating, but beneath it, faint and lingering, was warmth—the comforting presence of home, of people who cared.

Inko sat at Izuku’s right, her fingers threaded through his like she might anchor him to the world by touch alone. Her thumb moved in slow, trembling arcs across his knobbly knuckles; her emerald eyes, bloodshot and wet, focused entirely on him. On the other side, Mitsuki sat with her arms loosely crossed and shoulders tight. Both women watched him, waiting. 

Izuku’s throat tightened. He felt it all at once—the weight of everything he’d held inside, the words like lead in his chest, as if they’d been corroding him from the inside out. He swallowed, the motion rough, his lips quivering as if the syllables themselves carried heat that might burn.

“I—” His voice cracked, brittle as glass. He closed his eyes and tried again. “I need you both to understand. It wasn’t Kacchan’s fault. He… He doesn’t know. If anyone is to blame, it’d be me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold. It was deep, heavy, and patient. Mitsuki didn’t shift. Inko’s thumb kept moving across his hand, like a heartbeat he could hold.

“I imprinted on him,” Izuku said finally, the words like a confession torn out at knifepoint. His chest constricted painfully as they left him. “On Kacchan. It probably happened when we were kids. I just know that it was just… him. It’s always been him.”

He forced himself to look at them, though it felt like his skin was peeling back, unfurling and revealing all the fibrous squalor and decay he had kept hidden.

“Everything in me calls to him. My instincts, my body, my heart. I didn’t even realize until it was too late, until my body started to…” He stopped, swallowed hard; jade, crystalline eyes darting away as if the truth itself was too bright to face head-on. “…until it started to fall apart without him.”

Inko gasped softly, her free hand rising to cover her mouth, but Mitsuki didn’t move, didn’t even blink. She just stared— sharp-eyed, quiet, and utterly still.

“Kacchan thinks he found his scent-match,” Izuku continued, voice soft, fraying at the edges. “He scented this girl… Ochako. He believes it’s her. And I—” His breath hitched, his chest rising unevenly. “I had to watch him look at someone else like that. Had to see him choose someone who wasn’t me while everything inside me kept screaming that he was mine.”

He laughed, flimsy, bitterly—a sound like something had cracked and leaking. “I guess I wasn’t good enough for him to notice.”

For the first time, Mitsuki moved—not caustically, but slowly, as if something heavy had shifted inside her. She glanced at Inko, and in that glance, there was no panic, no anger—just recognition. A flash of quiet, sobering clarity. When she finally spoke, her voice was subdued, measured, like stepping carefully onto thin ice.

“…Izuku,” she said, ruby-colored eyes narrowing with thought rather than judgment, “what does Katsuki smell like to you?”

The question cut through the haze like a clean blade. Izuku blinked, startled, chest tight with confusion.

“I—I don’t know how to explain it,” he whispered, eyes unfocusing like the scent itself played out in memory behind them. “It’s warm. Like steam curling from a warm cup on a cold morning. And like… Burnt sugar, sharp at first—like it could burn, but underneath it all… it’s safe. It feels like… home.”

Mitsuki’s mouth pressed into a thin, unreadable line.

“And when you scent him?” she pressed, gently but firmly, “How do you feel?”

Izuku’s lips trembled; he swallowed, slow, as if the words themselves hurt to say. 

“Everything stops hurting,” he murmured. “Like the noise in my head just… quiets. Like I’m not falling anymore and everything just… clicks into place.”

For a long moment, the infirmary hummed mutedly around them. Mitsuki leaned back slightly, her eyes softening, but her sharpness folding into something more contemplative. 

“Do you know what your scent smells like, Izuku?”

He shook his head faintly, throat tight. “No. Not really. People say it’s soft and sweet… like golden syrup over moss… kind of like spring air after rain, with something warm, earthy, under it. To be honest, I’ve never really thought about it.”

Mitsuki drew in a slow breath through her nose, exhaled carefully, like a puzzle piece had just slipped into place. 

“This girl…Ochako, her scent,” she murmured, “it’s sweet too, isn’t it? Soft, like fresh fruit. Probably close enough on the surface to make someone’s instincts twitch in the same direction.”

Inko’s brows knitted slightly, the faintest flicker of realization tugging at her expression.

“But here’s the thing,” Mitsuki continued, leaning in slightly, “You and Katsuki grew up side by side. Hell, you practically lived in each other’s pockets. You think two kids breathing each other day after day for years don’t end up tangled up in each other’s scents? You became background noise to each other. Normal. Invisible in the way only something constant can be.”

Izuku blinked, breath catching.

Mitsuki nodded, her gaze steady. “If you’re the scent he’s always had—every day, every fight, every quiet moment, every goddamn heartbeat—then when someone comes along smelling a little like you, just weaker, just softer, it makes sense he’d think, ‘That’s it. That’s the pull I’ve been waiting for.’ Not realizing it wasn’t new at all.”

Inko’s hand tightened over Izuku’s, a quiet gasp slipping from her lips as the understanding settled between them like gravity. Mitsuki’s hand came to rest over Izuku’s trembling fingers, not heavy, not coaxing—just steady, grounding him in the swirl of revelation. 

“Kid,” she said softly, “Ochako might smell like a shadow of you—but you? You’re the original. You always were.”

Izuku stared at her, heart in his throat, his chest a tight, aching cage around something that wanted to break free—not hope yet, but the dangerous, delicate possibility of it, trembling and new, rising like a tide he didn’t dare touch.

The days blurred together, each one folded into the next. Izuku drifted between being awake and asleep. His every breath carried that sharp, medicinal edge, a constant reminder of where he was, of how far he had fallen. Time was listless in the infirmary. When sleep came, shallow and restless, it pulled him under for what seemed to be an hour, then spitting him back out the next. 

In the spaces between, he tried to cling to existence. To the gentle weight of his mother’s hand smoothing over his knuckles, or Mitsuki with her voice, steady and unwavering, threading through the haze, grounding him like careful stitches meant to hold fraying edges in place.

It was the same routine everyday and by the fourth morning he’d stopped expecting anything to be different. 

But then, the muted click of heels against linoleum alerted him that Mitsuki had arrived again. He blinked sluggishly in her direction, his vision bleary as he tried to make sense of his surroundings once more. He observed how she paused just inside the doorway, leaning against the wall, her arms folded across her chest. 

She didn’t speak right away. Instead, she let the silence stretch, her expression contemplative, and her eyes lingering on Izuku as though she was searching for the right way to say what she wanted to say.

“Katsuki’s been asking about you,” she said after a beat, her tone careful, touched with something gentler than her usual sharpness. “He’s been wanting to visit. More than once, actually.”

Izuku’s chest tightened at the mention of the alpha’s name. His hand clenched around the blanket until the fabric pulled taut. He kept his emerald eyes fixed downward, following the uneven stitching near the hem as though it could hold him together when his voice could not.

“I’m not ready to see him,” He whispered. The words left him small and raw, scraped bare by the memories that still burned behind his ribs.

Her gaze softened, though she didn’t push further. She watched him closely. Then, with a sigh that carried no judgment, she nodded once. 

“Of course,” Mitsuki replied, “I swear, he won’t set a foot in here until you say you’re ready. He can wait, Izuku. He will have to.”

Her words settled over him like a blanket, warm but bittersweet, and when she finally turned to go, her absence seemed to hollow out the room. The door clicked shut with a hush, and suddenly the space felt too wide, too empty. Izuku sank back against his pillows, the sterile scent of antiseptic pressing into his senses cumbersomely now, causing his nose to scrunch in discomfort.

Minutes passed before the door creaked open again. Shoto stepped inside without a sound, the hush of his footsteps almost swallowed by the hum of the lights overhead. Izuku tried to sit straighter but his body still ached, heavy with fatigue. Shoto pulled the chair closer and settled beside him, his posture careful, respectful.

“Hey,” he said softly, inclining his head as rolled up his sleeves. “How are you feeling?” 

His gaze flicked briefly toward Izuku’s face, searching without pressing. Izuku shook his head, a scratchy laugh slipping from his lips as he attempted to get comfortable. 

“Peachy,” Izuku murmured, carefully unbuttoning the top of his hospital shirt. The fabric slipped over his shoulders, revealing the dusky, sun-kissed sweep of his collarbone, dotted with constellations of freckles, and the gentle curve of his neck. 

Shoto coughed inconspicuously, glancing away, a flush tinting his cheeks. He chanced a small peek at the omega, immediately enraptured by the sight. Izuku’s speckled skin caught the soft morning light filtering through the blinds, warm and almost luminous. His gaze took in every small shadow, tracing the delicate lines of his features—round cheekbones, the slight slope of his adorable button nose, the faint purse of his pink-colored lips. 

Even in the quiet of the infirmary, there was a fragile beauty to him, the kind that made the air seem heavier, charged.

Shoto leaned in, deliberate, unhurried, his presence folding around Izuku like a gentle current. The indistinct scent of woodsmoke clung to him, layered with crisp green notes, sharp as crushed pine needles. The alpha paused, letting the aroma swirl around Izuku, before sliding his wrist up to press his scent gland gently against the hollow of Izuku’s neck—just beneath the omega’s ear, where his scent was more potent.

​​As his touch made contact with the green-haired omega, he exhaled shakily. His lips parted, a slight shudder rippling through his very being as he felt the heat of Izuku’s skin beneath his fingers. The soft, fine wisps of Izuku’s damp curls brushed against him, and it tugged at a more protective, primal part inside him.

The touch was light, careful, but it sent a flutter through Izuku’s pulse, a soft, anchoring warmth threading through the ache still lingering from the drop. His shoulders sagged slightly, tension bleeding away, and his breaths began to find a steadier rhythm, carried along by the familiar, enveloping scent that Shoto offered without force. For a while, they sat in silence, letting the quiet exchange take root. The world shrank down to the warmth of proximity, the subtle anchoring of scent, the steady cadence of Shoto’s breathing.

Then, Shoto spoke. 

“What will you do when the doctor clears you?”

Izuku’s gaze slipped to the ceiling. He wanted to answer, but the words tangled in his chest. He thought of Katsuki’s command, the way his body had obeyed against his will. He thought of the carved initials on the tree, of Ochako’s bright smile in a space that had once belonged only to them. He thought of how much it hurt to still love him despite everything that has happened.

“I don’t know,” he finally admitted, voice frayed and tired. “I still… love him. That hasn’t gone away. I don’t think it ever will. I’m just… afraid that if I reach out for him, I’ll get cut open all over again.”

“Love doesn’t vanish just because it wounds you,” Shoto whispered, tilting his head, “You decide if you’ll keep letting it bleed you dry.”

Izuku swallowed hard, his fingers twisting in the blanket. “What if… What if I can’t stop it?”

“Then make him prove he’s worth the scars.”

The words landed, quiet but heavy, like stones set down between them. Izuku’s chest ached, not from the drop, not from weakness—but from the sharp, impossible truth of it.

Before he could reply, the door creaked again.

Izuku sucked in a trembling breath, jade-colored eyes widening in surprise. His hands curled into fists on the bedding, fingers digging into the soft weave of the fabric as if it could help defend him from what's to come. He swallowed visibly, his voice barely audible with a mix of shock and uncertainty.

“Ochako…”

Chapter Text

Ochako lingered at the threshold, framed by the soft glow of sunlight streaming in from the hallway behind her. The light caught the strands of her hair, turning them into a haloed crown of chestnut and gold. In her hands, she clutched a small bouquet of wildflowers, their stems bound with a simple strip of orange ribbon, petals trembling faintly as though they carried her nerves with them.

When her gaze finally landed on Izuku, her entire expression shifted. Her eyes brightened, wide with relief, and the tension in her shoulders eased as though she’d been holding her breath for days. The smile that bloomed across her face was gentle, unsteady at the edges, but radiant nonetheless.

“Midoriya,” she uttered, her voice soft, “You’re awake.”

Her smile, tentative yet sincere, wavered the instant her gaze landed on Shoto seated at Izuku’s bedside. Something unreadable flickered across her features—hesitation, maybe uncertainty—but she masked it quickly, taking a single step further into the room. The bouquet in her hands jolted as though caught in a draft, ribbon brushing against her knuckles with each nervous shift of her grip.

“I wasn’t sure they’d let me in,” she confessed, her words spilling out a touch too quickly, eager to fill the awkward silence. Her eyes darted between Izuku and the flowers, mindful and with intent. “But… I wanted to bring you these.” She lifted the bouquet slightly, petals catching the light like shards of color against the stark white of the infirmary. “They reminded us—reminded me—of you.”

Izuku’s heart gave a painful lurch, his gaze snagging on the small bouquet. The wildflowers were simple, imperfect, yet achingly familiar—soft bursts of color that tugged him back to gentler days when the world hadn’t yet split beneath his feet. His throat constricted, breath catching as the weight of memory pressed hard against his chest, raw and unrelenting. 

For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak—only stare as if the blossoms themselves might unravel him.

Before the green-haired omega could gather his words, Shoto’s hand drew back, the loss of contact almost startling in its quiet retreat. Yet the warmth of his wrist against Izuku’s neck still lingered.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Shoto said softly, rising from the chair, its legs scraping faintly against the floor as he stepped away. His presence receded like the tide easing back from the shore, leaving only its foamy trace behind. The air shifted with him, touched by the scent he carried—woodsmoke threaded with pine, clean and grounding, curling faintly into the sterile space as though reluctant to fade. 

“Take your time,” the alpha assured, “I’ll be just outside if you need me.”

Izuku’s helpless gaze followed him until the door clicked shut, the sound slicing the room further into an uncomfortable silence. The space he left behind felt starkly hollow, the steady hum of the monitors suddenly louder, the sharp antiseptic clinging heavier in his lungs. 

Even the bouquet in Ochako’s hands seemed to carry weight now, its presence pressing into the stillness like an unspoken question. His chest tightened, breath faltering, uncertainty thrumming through his veins until his pulse beat harshly in his ears.

Ochako moved deeper into the room, her steps careful, as if wary of disturbing the fragile air. She set the small bundle of wildflowers on the bedside table with a gentleness that made the blooms shiver against one another. Leaning closer, she let her hands rest on the edge of the table, fingertips brushing over the petals as though she, too, needed something tangible to hold onto. 

“I’m glad to see you’re doing well. Despite…” she trailed off, the words catching faintly in her throat, scarcely louder than a breath. Izuku dipped his chin in the faintest of nods, the motion stiff. His throat felt scraped dry, as though speech itself might shatter what little steadiness he held.

Her gaze lingered on him, moving carefully over the lines of his face, the shadows beneath his eyes, the way his shoulders hunched inward as if bracing against an unseen weight. Her eyes dropped briefly to his hands, knuckles pale where they clutched the blanket, the fabric pulled taut as though he could anchor himself against unraveling. When her eyes lifted again, her expression had softened.

“You’ve been through so much…” she murmured, voice trembling faintly. “I didn’t know what happened at first. I… I was worried sick.”

Izuku’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze slipping from her to the blanket pooled across his lap. His fingers smoothed over the fabric in small, restless movements, trying to ground himself in its weave. The residual warmth of Shoto’s steadying touch still clung faintly to his skin.

“I… it’s been hard,” he admitted quietly. His lips parted as if to say more, then pressed closed again before the silence stretched thin. At last, he drew in a careful breath, exhaling through the ache in his chest. “But… I’m getting through it.”

Ochako nodded slowly, her gaze sympathetic as her fingers reached out, wrapping gently around the stem of one of the wildflowers she’d brought. She turned it slightly between her fingertips, as though the small motion could steady her nerves. The bloom bent delicately toward her, its faint sweetness threading through the air.

The room was suspended in a brittle quiet with the exception of the continuous hum of the monitors; a mechanical heartbeat beneath the weight of everything left unspoken. She shifted at last, her shoulders rising and falling with a quiet inhale before she cleared her throat. Her eyes lifted to his, firm but searching.

“I’ve been thinking about you… and Katsuki…” Her voice wavered just slightly, but she pressed on. “…And I was hoping we could talk?”

“Kacchan? W-What do—What did you want to talk about?”

“I… I wanted to talk about the clearing,” she began, voice soft, careful, as though treading across glass. Her fingers fidgeted with the ribbon around the flowers, twisting it in small, nervous circles. “After… after what happened, I… I spoke to Katsuki.”

Izuku’s chest tightened. His throat felt raw, and he couldn’t stop the subtle tremor that ran down his arms. 

“…You did?”

She nodded, eyes dropping to the blooms for a heartbeat. 

“It wasn’t easy. You know? In the clearing… He… he almost went feral. The staff—everyone—they had to restrain him to get to you. He was… so protective, Izuku. So scared, and angry, and… desperate. I’ve never seen someone like that.”

Izuku’s stomach twisted, every memory from that day pressing against him. The searing heat of Katsuki’s frustration, the tight coil of control snapping under pressure, and the weight of his own surrender—it all rose again in a heavy pulse.

Ochako lifted her gaze, meeting his eyes with something faintly pained, but still soft. 

“You know, I… I was happy at first,” she admitted, a wisp of a smile flickering before it faded. “Being his… scent-match.” Her cheeks warmed faintly as she said it, though her voice trembled with honesty. “Katsuki… he’s strong and confident. His presence—it fills every room. He’s so handsome, too… He’s one of the most eligible alphas in the school, you know? And, well…” She gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. “I always kind of had this little crush on him.”

The laugh broke too quickly, brittle at the edges, a sound that cracked under the weight of regret. Her fingers tightened around the ribbon binding the bouquet. 

“But even with all that, something… never really felt right.”

Ochako exhaled slowly, as if letting go of a ghost she’d been carrying. Her chocolate-colored eyes glimmered, a touch of sorrow in their brightness. 

“He was never really mine to begin with, huh, Izuku?” Her words were soft, tinged with sadness, with the subtle understanding of a truth she’d only just allowed herself to speak aloud.

Izuku’s gaze dropped to his hands, fists lightly pressing against the blanket. Ochako’s lips pressed together, and she paused, letting the silence stretch and settle like dust in sunlight. 

“Have you… seen him since?” she asked carefully, almost hesitant, as if the answer might fracture what was left.

Izuku shook his head, voice barely audible. “…No.”

“…You haven’t?” Her eyes widened, surprise flashing like glass catching the light. She leaned forward, the bouquet shifting in her hands until the stems quivered against her palms. “But I thought he said—” Her words faltered, collapsing into a sharp exhale. “Ugh, that idiot… He’s—he’s been a mess, Izuku. Since that day in the clearing, he’s not himself. Restless. Miserable. So empty without you. He—” her voice trembled before steadying, “—he cares about you so… so much.”

Izuku’s chest constricted, his breath snagging like thread pulled too tight. Heat stung behind his eyes, and his hands curled tighter in the sheets until his knuckles ached.

“Cares about me?” His voice cracked, the whisper splintered with something raw and jagged. “Then why did he command me?” His gaze dropped, lashes trembling as though they could shield him from the memory. “Why bring you there?” The last word caught; a fracture in his throat. “That was supposed to be—” His breath broke, unsteady and small. “Ours.”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice soft but pained. “He kept saying it was instinct, that he thought I was the one… but without you by his side, Izuku, he’s… lost. He—” Her voice broke. “He misses you.”

Izuku’s heart twisted violently. Disbelief warred with the dangerous flicker of longing that clawed its way up, aching to bloom. His lips parted as if to speak, but nothing found its way past the knot in his throat.

Ochako inhaled shakily, then forced herself to meet his eyes. 

“That’s why… we stopped courting. Katsuki and I—we ended it.”

The words hung between them, weighty and shocking, yet somehow inevitable. The wildflowers on the table trembled again, brushing the sterile light of the infirmary in faint motion. Izuku felt the room tilt around him, his pulse thundering in his ears. Somewhere between relief and confusion, sorrow and the tiniest spark of something else, the world seemed to wait, holding its breath with him.

“You have to talk to him, Izuku,” she said at last, her voice gentle but threaded with a steel that left no room for retreat. “You and Katsuki… this bond between you—it isn’t something you can push aside. Not forever.”

The words struck like a stone dropped into still water, rippling through Izuku until his lungs forgot how to work. His breath faltered, catching on the edge of a memory he didn’t want to revisit. The very thought of facing Katsuki scraped raw against his ribs, like reopening a wound still tender and bleeding beneath the surface.

His gaze slipped downward, unable to meet hers. The flowers sat on the nightstand like a fragile offering—stems bound with a soft orange ribbon that carried a trace of Katsuki in its memory. The colors blurred together as he swallowed hard, letting his hands rest on his lap, fingers curling slightly as he tried to steady himself against the storm of thoughts and emotions swirling just beneath the surface.

“I don’t know if I can,” he admitted, the words catching in his throat, raw and frayed at the edges. His voice came out more rasp than sound, the kind that scraped on its way up. “After everything—after what’s happened—I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

Ochako’s lips pressed together, her expression shadowed by a grief that seemed to mirror his own. For a heartbeat, she only watched him—her eyes soft, searching, carrying a quiet sorrow that made it harder for him to look back at her. Then, slowly, deliberately, she reached across the narrow space between them. 

Her hand found his, her fingers light at first, then firmer, grounding him. Her palm was warm against the cool tremor of his fingers, the faint quiver in her touch betraying her own uncertainty even as she tried to offer steadiness.

“You don’t have to have all the words right now,” she whispered, her voice gentle but resolute. “Just… don’t shut him out completely. He needs you, Izuku. More than he’ll ever admit.” 

Her thumb brushed once, feather-soft, against his knuckles before she hesitated, her next words seemed to carry the gravity of a thousand unshed tears. 

“And maybe…” her voice dipped lower, tender and fragile, “…maybe you need him too.”

When she finally drew her hand away and stood, she left behind not just flowers but the weight of expectation. She offered him a sad, bittersweet smile—one that seemed to acknowledge both surrender and hope—before slipping from the room. The door closed with a soft click that sounded far too final.

Moments later, the door eased open again, the soft hinge-cry breaking the silence. This time it was Shoto who stepped inside, the air shifting subtly with his presence. His gaze flicked once to the bouquet resting in its makeshift spot on the bedside table, then back to Izuku.

“How did it go?” Shoto’s voice was quiet, each word measured as if he were careful not to press too deeply against the storm still swirling within Izuku.

Izuku exhaled a shallow sigh, his head bowing slightly, dark viridian curls shifting forward to veil part of his face. His fingers curled into the blanket, bunching the fabric between restless, gnarled hands, as though grounding himself in the sterile cotton was the only way to keep from unraveling.

“She… wants me to talk to Kacchan.” The name caught in his throat. He hesitated, swallowing hard, and after a long, brittle pause, his voice broke smaller, almost lost beneath the hum of the machines. “But…I’m not ready.”

Shoto’s gaze lingered on him, unflinching but not unkind, as though he were parsing every unspoken thread tangled in Izuku’s turmoil. After a moment, he moved with deliberation, lowering himself into the chair at Izuku’s bedside. His face remained a mask, cool and even, but his voice carried a geniality that settled into the space between them.

“Readiness isn’t always something you feel,” he said, each word intentional, enough to cut through the antiseptic air. “Sometimes it’s something you have to do. A necessary choice to step forward… even when every fiber of your being wants to pull back. Even when it hurts.”

The words hung there, like smoke refusing to dissipate, brushing against the sore edges of Izuku’s heart. He swallowed and turned his gaze sharply away, locking on the small bouquet of wildflowers as though their fragile stems could anchor him. The orange ribbon at their base trembled faintly with the draft of the air vent, and he clung to that movement, to anything that wasn’t Shoto’s piercing truth.

Chapter Text

The days blurred together after that. 

Morning light filtered in through the infirmary curtains, pale and subdued, never quite enough to banish the heaviness that lingered in the air. Shoto’s presence became a constant. The press of his scent against Izuku’s ragged edges didn’t erase the pain, but it composed him—like hands on his shoulders keeping him upright when he thought he might collapse again. It was grounding, necessary, a tether in the middle of all the uncertainty.

Finally, after what felt like years, the doctor arrived with a final assessment. Her pen scratched briskly against the clipboard, her expression aloof and professional.

“You can return to classes,” she announced, her voice clipped. The words should have sounded like freedom, but instead they landed like a verdict, binding him to a future he wasn’t sure he could face. She didn’t pause as she wrote, her tone leaving no room for doubt. 

“No strenuous activity. No combat training. Your body isn’t ready for that. And you will continue with the scenting sessions.” Her gaze lifted, direct and unyielding. “You need stability. It’s not negotiable.”

Her words settled over him, unyielding and inescapable. Izuku managed only a nod, though the word stability echoed in him like a cruel joke. How was he supposed to reach for something that felt so far out of his grasp?

When he returned to the dorms, the familiar hallways seemed strange, too quiet, as though something vital had been stripped from them. It was another student who told him, almost in passing, the truth. 

“Bakugo? He’s not here anymore. They moved him to another dorm.”

The news hit like a blow, leaving Izuku both hollow and unmoored. Relief bloomed first—he wouldn’t have to see him, not yet, not while everything inside still felt raw and exposed. But threaded through that reprieve came a pang that left a cavern in his ribs. Katsuki’s absence carved at him, an ache that no amount of distance could dull.

Izuku lowered his gaze as he trudged down the hall toward what was now his dorm—no longer theirs. His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag until his knuckles ached. The corridor stretched too wide, too silent, every footstep echoing back at him like a reminder of what was missing.

When he reached his door, he paused. The knob was cool under his palm, but his body resisted the motion. For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring at the familiar threshold, feeling as though he were about to step into a place both known and foreign. When he finally turned the knob and pushed the door open, he exhaled abruptly.

Inside, the room felt smaller somehow, compressed by absence. Sunlight cut pale stripes across the floorboards. Dust motes floated lazily in the glow, each one spinning like it had all the time in the world. His gaze snagged on the desk where a fresh bouquet of wildflowers waited on the nightstand, bright and delicate against the stark simplicity of the space.

Moving slowly, almost reverently, he crossed the room and found a vase, the ceramic cool and fragile in his hands. He filled it with water, listening to the steady trickle, the sound oddly loud in the quiet. One by one, he set the stems inside, arranging them with painstaking care. He lingered over the petals, brushing them with his fingertips, watching as they caught and refracted the light. The blooms stood in quiet defiance of everything unraveling inside him.

For a moment, the room seemed almost ordinary—warm with a fragile semblance of calm. But then the door opened behind him, the faintest creak breaking the stillness.

“Izuku.”

The voice—low, rough, achingly familiar—froze him in place.

His breath stilled. He turned slowly, each motion taut with hesitation, heartbeat hammering like a drum in his ears. There, framed in the doorway, was Katsuki. Shadowed eyes, tense shoulders, a posture coiled like a storm on the brink of breaking—everything about him radiated restrained power, an unspoken intensity that made the air between them feel electric and impossible to navigate.

“Kacchan…”

“Izuku.”

The name escaped Katsuki’s lips in a whispered disbelief, soft and strained. He hadn’t expected him—hadn’t prepared for the sight of the green-haired omega standing there in the room they’d once shared, in the space that had once felt like theirs. 

Their den. Their home.

Izuku looked smaller somehow, shoulders curved inward as if the world pressed too heavily against him, yet every inch of him still radiated a fragile, captivating beauty. The soft curls of his green hair framed his pale, cherubic face, shadowed by sleepless nights. His jade eyes—bright, earnest, and impossibly expressive—still held that quiet fire Katsuki had always known.

The ache of regret hit Katsuki in the chest like a fist. Every misstep—the stupid alpha command, his thoughtless actions, every moment he’d let his pride and instincts hurt Izuku—flared painfully in his mind. He swallowed hard, the sudden sharpness in his throat nearly suffocating as the reality of seeing Izuku like this settled over him with unbearable intensity.

“I, uhm, forgot something when I was packing up,” He uttered, forcing his voice into something clipped and controlled. “Didn’t think you’d… be back so soon.”

Izuku only nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. He turned slightly away, letting his satchel slip from his shoulder with a muted thump as it landed on the bed. The soft rustle of fabric, the faint click of a buckle releasing, it all seemed amplified in the quiet space of the dorm. 

The omega sat on the edge of his bed, one leg folded beneath him, the other brushing the floor lightly. His green hair was slightly mussed, curling around his face in soft, uneven spirals that caught the pale light streaming through the window. He unpacked with deliberate care, each movement precise, as if lining up his belongings could somehow fortify him against the tension radiating from Katsuki’s presence.

Katsuki shifted, the scrape of his boots against the floor subtle but insistent. The alpha ran a hand over the back of his neck, fingers brushing the spiked sweep of his blond hair, the movement betraying an uncharacteristic unease. He exhaled; a short, rigid sound that cracked the stillness like thin glass.

“I wanted to come…” The words spilled out before he could stop them, rough and raw. His gaze flicked to Izuku for a brief, searching moment, then darted away, jaw tight. “To the hospital. To see you.” He hesitated, swallowing hard, a faint shadow of frustration creasing his brow. “But my mom—she chewed me out. Told me to give you space. And maybe… maybe she was right.”

Izuku paused, hands stilling over the folded shirt in his lap. He didn’t lift his gaze, letting his shoulders slump. A low hum escaped him—soft, uncertain, hanging between them like smoke in a still room. It was neither rejection nor acceptance, only a fragile hesitation, suspended, waiting.

The sound pressed into Katsuki’s chest with a force sharper than any yell could have, an almost physical shove that left him bristling. His hands clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening, and he exhaled in a slow, measured stream, forcing himself to speak again. Softer this time, stripped of his usual defiance.

“Izuku… I’m sorry.”

The words came ragged, hollowed of pride but weighted with all the guilt he had been swallowing. 

“For the way I treated you. For everything—the command, Ochako, the clearing… I…” His throat tightened, a catch rising like a fist in his chest. “…I fucked up. Bad. I can’t take it back. But… dammit—I am sorry.”

He let the words linger, watching for even the smallest flicker of reaction. His chest tightened in tandem with the beat of Izuku’s silence. Every pause and shiver of the omega’s movements feeding the raw ache of his own regret.

Izuku’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around the fabric in his lap, the shirt wrinkling beneath his grip. He didn’t look up right away, didn’t let Katsuki see the way his chest constricted at the apology; the way some reckless, desperate part of him wanted to believe it.

Instead, he delved back into the satchel, retrieving another piece of clothing. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but laced with steel. 

“You can’t just say you’re sorry and expect it to undo everything.”

His green eyes flicked up for a heartbeat, bright and shimmering with intensity, before he looked down again, returning to the small task in front of him. The air throbbed with the weight of his restraint. Izuku’s shoulders remained tense, muscles coiled, but his hands kept moving, pulling another shirt from the satchel, smoothing it over the bedspread, and setting it aside.

“I’m not saying this to punish you,” he murmured, voice quieter now, edged with exhaustion, almost as if speaking required effort. “But I… I can’t just act like it didn’t happen. Not when I still—” He stopped abruptly, biting down on his lip until the sting traveled through his jaw. His head dipped, curls falling forward to shadow his face, hiding the storm in his eyes.

“You say you’re sorry. Fine. But sorry doesn’t change that everything between us feels broken right now.”

The silence that followed hung like a fragile crystal, ready to shatter at the slightest misstep.

Katsuki’s jaw tightened until the muscles ached, fists curling at his sides, knuckles white against the skin. His usual blaze lingered in his gaze, but beneath it was something unpolished—a trembling vulnerability he couldn’t cloak.

“You think I wanted it to happen like that?” he hissed, voice rough. “Do you have any idea… how insane I went when—when you collapsed? When I saw you like that? Do you think I wanted—” 

He stopped abruptly, the words choking off, throat working as if he could swallow the guilt whole. His hands twitched, flexing as if they were itching to grab at something. 

“You think I enjoy seeing you hurt? You think I wanted you to suffer because of me?” His voice splintered into a whisper, each word dripping with self-reproach.

He took a cautious step closer, the air between them crackling. His eyes flickered with the heat of anger, but underneath it, a desperate, fragile ache glimmered—an unspoken plea threading through his fire.

“I’m not… I’m not good at this,” Katsuki admitted, “At… feelings. At saying the right thing. I screwed up. I… I didn’t know how to… I—”

His chest heaved, shoulders tight as if he were holding himself together with sheer will. 

“I care, okay? I care about you. Always. And it… it kills me that I made you feel like… like you weren’t enough. That it’s my fault you almost—” 

He choked on the sentence, swallowing hard, jaw clenching, gaze sliding sideways to avoid the piercing green of Izuku’s eyes.

“You say you care,” Izuku said, voice quiet but unwavering, carrying the weight of every sleepless night and every heartbeat he had spent longing for the alpha. “But I’ve held everything inside for so long because I… I wanted you to be happy. Even if that meant you wanted to be with someone else. And now… now it feels like everything I felt… everything I am… didn’t matter to you at all. It’s hard to forget that.” 

“I’m not saying I don’t want to hear you out,” Izuku continued, voice low, almost ragged, “but I’m not ready to just forgive. I… I need to know that I matter too. That I’m not… invisible. Not in your life, not in your mind, and not in your heart. Not anymore.”

He let the words hang, his chest tight, pulse hammering in his ears. The distance between them felt small, yet insurmountable, charged with longing, frustration, and unspoken truths.

Katsuki’s chest rose and fell in rapid, jagged breaths. His eyes narrowed, flashing with the urge to argue, to protest, to wipe the words from the air. Yet Izuku didn’t flinch. His green eyes remained steady, unwavering, anchored in a determination that made the silence stretch taut.

“I should have known,” the alpha started, voice rough, almost a low growl, the words rasping through clenched teeth. “I should’ve known you were my scent-match. My damn soulmate. I…” 

He faltered, swallowing visibly. He stepped closer, the faint scrape of his boots against the floor loud in the tense quiet, eyes locked on Izuku with a desperation that made the air feel thick. 

“I stopped courting Ochako.”

The faint trace of Katsuki’s alpha scent mingled with the lingering wildflowers and the faint grounding scent of Shoto. Izuku’s green eyes remained fixed on him; wary, measured, cautious. 

He didn’t move. 

Didn’t reach out.

“I know,” Izuku said quietly, voice trembling but firm. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet Katsuki’s gaze. “But that doesn’t mean I can just… jump into your arms. Not after everything.”

“I understand,” he muttered, almost under his breath. “I… I can wait. I’ll do whatever it takes, Izuku. I’ll prove it. All of it. I’ll earn you back… if you’ll let me.”

“You’ll have to be patient,” Izuku intoned, voice steady but layered with intensity. His green eyes held Katsuki’s gaze, unwavering, luminous with restrained fire.

“I will be,” Katsuki replied, his voice rough, taut, betraying the effort it took to keep himself still. The heat of his alpha scent pressing subtly closer despite his attempt to maintain distance.

“You can’t push me if I don’t want it,” Izuku murmured, leaning just a fraction forward, testing the air between them, letting the words hang in a soft, deliberate challenge.

“I would never,” Katsuki declared quickly, voice brittle, his sharp eyes flicking to Izuku’s hands, noticing the subtle quiver in his fingers as if the omega were daring him to believe him.

“This is your last and only chance,” Izuku said, calm but firm, a gentle edge beneath the certainty in his tone. His posture softened, shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, but the weight of his intent filled the space.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Katsuki whispered, his voice carrying both longing and constraint. The words trembled between them like a spark threatening to ignite.

Izuku’s gaze lingered on him, heart quickening, the air thick with unspoken desires, warnings, and half-made promises. The alpha had stepped closer, so near that Izuku could feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint scent of smoke and copper wrapping around his senses. Their eyes met, and the intensity in Katsuki’s gaze made Izuku’s pulse stutter, his heart hammering like a drum in his chest.

His hand moved deliberately, cupping Izuku’s cheek with a soft, reverent touch, thumb brushing lightly along the curve of his jaw.

“Be ready, Izuku,” Katsuki murmured, his voice almost a whisper. “I’ll earn your trust again. Earn your love. And I won’t stop until I show you I mean it.”

Izuku’s breath hitched, his chest tightening, the nearness of Katsuki both unbearable and irresistible. The warmth of his fingers against his skin, the lingering scent, the fire behind those ruby-colored eyes—it was a pull he couldn’t resist. The omega remained still, letting himself be held by the moment without moving closer, respecting the distance that his heart both longed to cross and feared.

Katsuki’s hand lingered a beat longer before retreating. He gave a small nod, almost imperceptible, before stepping back fully. The air seemed to shift with his movement, the faint echo of his presence stalling as he moved toward the door. The door closed softly behind him, leaving Izuku alone with the scent of him still hanging in the air.

Chapter Text

The following days blurred together in a fragile attempt at normalcy.

Izuku forced himself into a routine—dragging himself to class and scribbling notes long past midnight under the soft glow of his desk lamp—but everything felt misaligned, as though the world had tilted just slightly off its axis.

The bed across from his no longer belonged to Katsuki. That absence alone pressed at him like a phantom limb. Now, the space was filled by Sero Hanta—another omega like him. He was different by omega standards; tall and lanky, with jet black hair tied back in an easy ponytail and a grin that seemed to come as naturally as breathing. 

His posture was loose, almost careless, arms typically draped over the back of his chair or folded behind his head as he talked. He carried himself like the world could never weigh him down, a stark contrast to the tense, storm-bound energy Izuku had grown so used to.

Due to his laid-back nature, Sero was easy to live with. He was quick to laugh at his own jokes, and he was surprisingly thoughtful, giving Izuku silence when he needed it. He brought a new rhythm into the dorm, filling the empty spaces with chatter that smoothed over the edges of long days. 

But still, it all felt too strange.

Izuku had spent nearly his entire life with Katsuki’s presence burning at his side. He’d grown used to the heavy press of the alpha’s energy. To the sharp, grounding scent that soaked into his sheets, clinging to his textbooks, and carried on in the air with every breath Izuku took. It drove him mad sometimes, but it was all he had of him. His alpha.

Now, that same space felt hollow. Quieter. 

Sero’s scent; a light and resinous, tinged with the faint sweetness of pine sap and a clean, earthy undertone, like sunlight caught in wood—seeped into the space his alpha once occupied. It wasn’t unpleasant. Not really. There was warmth in it. A steady comfort that made sense for someone like Sero. 

But it wasn’t Katsuki. 

And every night, when Izuku lay staring at the ceiling, the wrongness pressed harder against him. His hand would curl into the sheets, searching in memory for the phantom weight of a presence that was no longer there: the heat, the scent, the storm that had always anchored him even as it burned.

Katsuki had promised him space. 

And true to his word, the alpha hadn’t come barging in, hadn’t pressed, hadn’t demanded. Izuku knew he should be grateful. And yet, late at night, when the silence stretched too long, he found himself wishing for a knock at the door. 

A word. 

Anything.

He was curled up on his bed, one knee drawn to his chest, a book balanced in his hands though his eyes had skimmed the same paragraph three times without absorbing it, when the door clicked open. 

Sero stumbled in first, cheeks flushed from exertion, dark hair plastered damply to his forehead. His shirt clung to his torso in sweat-soaked patches, outlining lean muscle. The fabric tugged against his shoulders as he dragged a hand across the back of his neck. Heat rolled off him in waves, carrying the sharper edge of his pine-sweet scent now laced with salt and effort.

Right behind him came Shoto, posture composed but breath still uneven, strands of hair sticking to his temples where sweat traced thin lines down his pale skin. His shirt was streaked with dust and damp at the collar, his chest rising and falling with measured pulls of air. 

His mismatched eyes flicked briefly toward Izuku, but never lingered long. They kept straying back, again and again, to Sero. To the glimpse of back dimples when Sero’s shirt rode up as he bent to untangle his boots. To the gleam of sweat that slid from the hollow of his throat down across his collarbone.

Izuku’s brows arched faintly over the top of his book. Subtle, but not subtle enough. The green-haired omega smothered a small laugh into his hand, amused by the intensity with which Shoto gazed upon his roommate.

“Good session?” Izuku asked mildly, snapping the book shut and setting it onto his lap.

Sero flopped into the desk chair with a dramatic groan, legs sprawled wide, chest still heaving from exertion. He rolled his shoulders before pulling the wet shirt over his head, the movement stretching the lean lines of his body taut before he sagged into the seat. 

“Ugh, brutal. I swear Todoroki’s trying to kill me half the time.”

“If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead,” Shoto stated, still standing near the door, blinking at the lanky omega, deadpan.

Izuku laughed outright this time, the sound bubbling out and easing some of the tension in the air. Sero shot him a wounded look before sprawling deeper into the chair, his shirt hanging loosely in one hand where he’d discarded it on his knee.

“See what I deal with?” Sero groaned, flashing Izuku a grin before dragging the back of his hand across his brow. “My cold, heartless training partner.”

“You held up fine,” Shoto replied evenly, though his hungry gaze betrayed him—trailing once more over Sero’s throat, lingering at the dip where his collar was still damp, then tracing the trail of sweat glistening down his chest, over his glistening pectorals. His eyes remained fixed on the omega for a beat too long before he caught himself and looked away, jaw tightening.

Izuku bit the inside of his cheek to keep his smile from breaking free. There was something almost endearing about the way Shoto tried—and utterly failed—to school his expression.

Shoto shifted his weight. His shoulders straightened, his sweat-damp shirt clinging to the broad lines of his chest as he finally tore his eyes from Sero long enough to glance at Izuku.

“It’s time,” the alpha said simply.

Izuku blinked, confused for only a moment before his chest tightened. Scenting session. Right. His book slid forgotten to the mattress, fingers curling against the cover as he tried to gather himself.

Sero, who had been mid-stretch, froze. His expression flickered from confusion to understanding in an instant, and he sprang upright as if the chair had burned him.

“O-Oh, uh, yeah, right,” He scrubbed a hand through his damp hair, dark strands sticking up at odd angles, and flashed Izuku a quick, lopsided grin that wavered with apology. “I’ll just… give you guys the room.” 

Already halfway to the door, he scooped up his discarded shirt, shoulders still glistening under the light. 

“See ya, Midoriya,” He said with a faux cheeky tone, winking at the other omega. “Don’t let him ice you too much.”

And then he was gone, the door shutting softly behind him, leaving only Izuku and Shoto alone.

Shoto cleared his throat, the sound low and almost awkward in the stillness. He shifted his weight again, tugging at the sweat-drenched fabric of his shirt that clung stubbornly to his torso. A lock of red hair, damp and loose from training, had fallen across his brow, and he brushed it back with the edge of his wrist.

“Apologies, Izuku,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “Training with Sero went longer than I realized. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

Izuku huffed softly, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the headboard.

“You look like you wrestled a waterfall,” he remarked, emerald-colored eyes glinting as they roved over the sweat still trailing down Shoto’s temple. “Do you always train that… intensely?”

Shoto blinked at him, expression flat as ever, though a faint flush crept along the edges of his ears. His lips twitched almost imperceptibly. 

“I… pay attention,” he said carefully, tone even, but his gaze flicked briefly to the floor in embarrassment.

“Uh-huh. ‘Pay attention,’ sure,” Izuku’s grin widened, sensing the alpha’s bashfulness. “I’m sure you give Sero your utmost, careful attention. I mean, your eyes were practically glued to him. I don’t blame you, though. He’s very handsome.”

Shoto rolled his eyes, his smirk lingered a moment before his tone shifted, sharper now.

“Speaking of handsome… have you talked to Bakugo?” he asked, almost casually.

Izuku’s grin dimmed, replaced with a flicker of unease. He wriggled slightly on the bed, tucking one leg beneath him as his fingers absently twisted at the hem of his shirt. He was about to reply when a knock at the door cut through the fragile calm, startling both of them. 

“It’s probably Sero,” Izuku said absentmindedly, slouching against the headboard until his head thumped against the wood, “He’s always forgetting his keys.”

When Shoto opened the door, instead of Sero it was Katsuki, standing at the threshold, broad-shouldered and tense, holding a bouquet of flowers. He glanced down at the blooms as if unsure whether to hand them over or keep them close. His usual fire was tempered, his eyes betraying a flicker of hesitation.

“De–Izuku,” he said, voice low, clipped, almost rough around the edges. “Didn’t mean to… just show up and interrupt.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, shoulders squared like he was bracing for a fight rather than standing in a dorm room. The alpha’s gaze flicked to the green-haired omega. “I just… thought you might like these. Since the other ones are probably drying up.”

Izuku’s chest tightened, a rush of heat and ache burgeoning all at once. The flowers weren’t the words he wanted to hear—but somehow, they were. Each stem was an unspoken apology, every petal proof that Katsuki was still reaching, still trying. 

His green eyes darted over the blond, tracing every detail: the faint flush burning high on his cheeks, the taut line of his jaw as if every muscle in his face fought against softening, the almost imperceivable tremor in his hands betraying nerves he’d never admit aloud.

The room seemed to shrink around them, air thick with the heat of Katsuki’s scent—smoke and spice and something darker, edged with want. It wound around Izuku like a tether, tugging at something deep in his chest, making his pulse stumble.

Shoto lounged against the wall with his arms crossed loosely over his chest, letting his eyes wander between them. The faintest smirk tugged at his lips, dry amusement glinting in his mismatched gaze.

“Well,” he noted lightly, as though commenting on the weather, “looks like the timing’s… convenient.”

Katsuki shifted from one foot to the other, the bouquet held awkwardly at his side. His jaw worked as he tried to find the words, the alpha fire in his eyes simmering just beneath the surface, but his usual confidence faltered under the weight of the quiet dorm room.

“I… look,” Katsuki started, voice flustered and strained. “I know I—dammit, I know I shouldn’t even be standing here, I just…” He faltered, exhaling sharply. His free hand raked through his messy, blond hair, tugging at the spiky strands in frustration, before dropping back to his side.

He jabbed a finger at the bouquet like it had betrayed him somehow. “I thought maybe you’d accept this. I don’t know. As a start. Or something.” His throat worked as he swallowed hard, the apples of his cheeks blooming brighter as his gaze peeked briefly to Izuku and away again.

Izuku’s chest tightened, green eyes flickering between the bouquet and Katsuki’s tense posture. He opened his mouth, then hesitated, unsure of what to say. 

Shoto, who had been watching the delicate exchange with mild amusement, finally intervened. 

“Well… we were just about to start your scenting session, right Izuku,” he drawled nonchalantly. “But now that Bakugo’s here…” A pause, deliberate, sly. “…I think it only makes sense that he should be the one to—well, you know, do the scenting.”

Katsuki froze, his eyebrows shot up, then drew together into a narrowed, suspicious glare aimed at Shoto. He glanced at the smug alpha, then at Izuku. There was something in his eyes—hesitation, maybe, or perhaps the strong desire to do right by the omega.

Izuku blinked, pulse quickening. The idea of Katsuki—closer than he’d been in weeks, the scent of his alpha blending faintly with the tranquil tang of the flowers—made his heart race. He shifted slightly on the bed, fingers brushing against the edge of the sheets, heart hammering. Katsuki’s lips pressed into a thin line, jaw tightening as he adjusted his grip on the bouquet. 

“If it’s alright with you, Izuku,” he muttered, voice low, rough. “I… I wouldn’t mind.”

The admission hung between them, stripped bare of bravado.

Shoto’s smirk widened, subtle and needling, though his tone carried just enough neutrality to mask the push behind it. He clapped his hands together once, a sharp, decisive sound.

“Alright, then. I’ll just… give you two some privacy.” Without another word, he pushed off the wall with grace, stepped toward the door, and gave Izuku a reassuring nod and a wink. Then he slipped out, the door closing softly behind him. The click of the latch seemed deafening in the sudden quiet.

The dorm room, already modest in size, felt suddenly smaller, the air denser, charged with something unsaid. Katsuki cleared his throat, and Izuku’s green eyes lifted to meet his, heart hammering at the intensity behind the alpha’s gaze. Katsuki exhaled sharply, the sound vibrating through the space between them. 

“So… how do I—” His words faltered, and he clenched the bouquet tighter, knuckles whitening. “How do you and Candy Cane normally do this?”

Izuku’s pulse skipped, heat rushing to his cheeks. His fingers twitched against the sheets, clenching at the hem as if holding on for stability. The bed beneath him suddenly felt too soft, too warm, like it might swallow him whole. He swallowed hard, throat dry, the words catching before spilling out in a whisper.

“You can, uhm…” He whispered, small but steady in its determination. He straightened his posture and patted the empty space beside him on the bed, viridian eyes darting away before flicking back towards the alpha nervously. “Sit here with me. I just need to—” 

He tugged lightly at his collar, exposing the faint line of his throat where his scent gland pulsed beneath tan, freckled skin. His breath caught as he continued, “…make sure my scent gland is exposed. And then you’ll just use your scent glands at your wrist to… rub against it.”

The explanation trailed off, the words hanging fragile in the thick air. Izuku’s heart was pounding so hard he wondered if Katsuki could hear it. Katsuki stared at him for a long moment, his crimson gaze darkening.

Katsuki stepped closer, just enough that the faint scent of him—smoky, sharp, intoxicating—rolled over Izuku like a wave. The alpha’s presence was undeniable, radiating warmth and something more primal, something that made the omega’s pulse stutter and stomach twist.

Katsuki’s hand hovered uncertainly near Izuku’s shoulder, fingers twitching, close enough that the warmth of his skin brushed faintly against the air between them. The bouquet sagged forgotten in his other hand, its paper crinkling softly as his grip loosened.

Finally, he moved. The bed dipped as he lowered himself beside Izuku, the mattress giving under his weight, pulling them just close enough that their knees brushed. Izuku’s breath hitched. His heart thudded against his ribs so hard it felt audible.

With a small, nervous tug, Izuku pulled his sleep shirt over his head, the soft fabric catching briefly against his curly hair before sliding free. His bare shoulders rose and fell in a shaky breath, skin flushed pink at the collarbones. 

Slowly, deliberately, he tilted his head to the side, baring the vulnerable curve of his neck. The pulse of his scent gland throbbed just beneath thin skin, an invitation and a surrender all at once.

Katsuki swallowed hard. His throat bobbed visibly, a flush spreading across his cheekbones, up to the tips of his ears. His crimson eyes locked onto that small, exposed patch of skin like it was the most dangerous thing he’d ever faced.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, almost like a warning to himself, voice low and rough-edged.

Slowly—agonizingly slowly—Katsuki lowered his hand. His fingers ghosted along Izuku’s neck, not quite touching, just skimming close enough to raise goosebumps across his skin. Izuku shivered at the electric trace of warmth left in the wake of that almost-touch, every nerve alight.

Then Katsuki’s scent rolled over him in full force—smoke, spice, a grounding fire that tangled with Izuku’s own until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. It sank into him, coiling low in his chest, thrumming in his veins.

Izuku’s breath stuttered, eyes fluttering shut for just a second as he let himself drown in it—the weight of Katsuki’s presence, the raw intimacy of it, the unspoken promise in every breath they shared.

“Damn it…” Katsuki’s voice cracked low, scraping through with frustration and longing. His jaw worked, his teeth gritting against the emotion threatening to spill over. “…you’re gonna drive me insane.”

“Kacchan…” Izuku whispered, hand instinctively inching toward the alpha, though not daring to close the space fully. His lips parted, the smallest sound escaping—a soft, breathless noise caught between yearning and restraint.

“I’ll… take it slow. Don’t worry. I’ll earn this. Earn you. But… damn it, I can’t hide how much I’ve missed you. How much I… want you right now.”

Katsuki’s chest rose and fell, close enough now that Izuku could feel the heat radiating from him. The alpha’s eyes softened ever so slightly, the sharp edge of his gaze tempered by something tender, vulnerable. 

Izuku’s fingers twitched again, finally daring to rest near Katsuki’s arm, feeling the stiff, corded muscle beneath the fabric. He inhaled sharply, breath catching as the contact shot a shiver down his spine. He was caught between the pull of the alpha’s scent and the walls he still carried around his heart.

The tension stretched, taut and electric. In the quiet of the room, they were suspended—two halves circling each other, the scent, warmth, and raw intensity binding them together, promising that when they finally let go, it would be explosive.

Katsuki’s hand finally settled against Izuku’s neck, just above the collarbone, the heat of his fingers pressing gently, intentionally. The bouquet drooped slightly in his other hand, forgotten for the moment, as his gaze locked on Izuku’s green eyes. There was no teasing now, no bravado—just him, the alpha who had haunted Izuku’s heart.

Izuku’s breath hitched, chest rose and fell unevenly, the proximity almost unbearable. Every nerve in his body screamed to close the gap, to surrender, to finally let himself fall. But weeks of habit—of caution, of protecting himself from hope that hurt too much—kept him rooted in hesitation. His hands hovered near Katsuki’s torso, trembling with the effort of restraint, caught in the space between yearning for contact and fearing the fall.

“Oh… wow,” Izuku whispered, voice catching, heart hammering. “I—I can feel you…”

The words sent a shiver down Katsuki’s spine, and his resolve faltered for a heartbeat. Katsuki’s hand lifted until his palm cupped Izuku’s cheek. The calloused pads of his fingers were rough against the smoothness of the omega’s skin. His thumb brushed lightly across Izuku’s jawline, each stroke a feather-soft caress, reverent, and achingly tender all at once. 

Izuku’s lashes fluttered at the touch. The air between them seemed to hum, thick with heat, lingering scents, and the quiet thrum of hearts trying to reconcile fear, longing, and desire. Izuku’s pulse raced, body coiled like a spring, caught between wanting to collapse into the alpha’s arms and holding onto the careful distance that still felt necessary.

And in that suspended moment, with fingers brushing, breaths mingling, and scent mingling in the small room, they were closer than ever—not touching fully, not yet, but suspended on the edge of something inevitable.

Katsuki’s hand slipped from Izuku’s cheek, fingers trailing with reluctant care until they found the back of his head. His palm spread against the curve of Izuku’s skull, steady and protective, his thumb brushing over the soft curls at the nape of his neck. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he leaned forward. His breath stirred the skin just beneath Izuku’s ear before his forehead finally settled against the slope of Izuku’s shoulder. 

The contact was light, barely there, but it was enough—their breaths mingling, heartbeats syncing, and the alpha’s warmth pressing against him.

Izuku let his hands slide up Katsuki’s chest, tentatively tracing the line of firm, compact muscle beneath the fabric, tentative at first, as though memorizing the terrain, testing how much he was allowed. Katsuki’s free hand rested lightly on Izuku’s side, holding him close without smothering, careful not to overstep, but firm enough to anchor him. His thumb swept a small, unconscious circle against Izuku’s ribcage, barely noticeable, yet impossibly intimate.

Time stretched thin, elastic, measured not in seconds but in the slow cadence of breath and the delicate brush of skin against skin. Every faint graze of Katsuki’s thumb through Izuku’s curls, every press of Izuku’s palms against the heat of Katsuki’s chest, every shared inhale of their mingling scents—smoke, salt, and something softer—stitched them closer together. It wasn’t hurried; it couldn’t be. It was a rhythm of trust, of longing, of the fragile courage it took to stand so near without falling completely.

Izuku’s lashes fluttered, his lips parting as if to whisper something—though no words came. His chest rose and fell in uneven waves, caught between restraint and the undeniable pull of the alpha before him. Katsuki’s hand at his side tightened just slightly, the smallest flex of muscle betraying how badly he wanted to close the distance.

And then, finally, with a shaky exhale, Katsuki leaned back just enough to see him clearly. His crimson eyes searched Izuku’s face, fierce yet uncertain, scanning for permission—for reassurance, for anything that said yes. His chest heaved once, twice, the moment heavy with possibility.

Izuku’s lips parted again, breathless, a wordless answer that hung between them like the final step of a dance.

Katsuki was about to close the last, trembling gap when—

The door flung open.

The crash of it against the wall shattered the cocoon of silence around them. Izuku jolted, a startled gasp slipping out as he nearly tumbled back against the headboard. Katsuki’s jaw snapped tight, every muscle in his body going taut, his hand instinctively bracing at Izuku’s side like a shield.

“Yo, Midoriya, you wouldn’t believe the monster I just saw in the showers—” Sero’s voice was loud and cheeky. A towel was looped lazily around his neck, his T-shirt hanging loose against his frame. He stepped in with easy swagger, a wide grin etched across his face—until his eyes landed on the scene before him.

Katsuki and Izuku froze, still too close, breaths tangled, faces flushed scarlet.

Sero blinked. 

Oh.

/Oh./

The grin faltered, caught halfway between amusement and wait, what the hell did I just walk into? His gaze flicked from Izuku’s wide, green eyes to the hand still hovering near his side, then to Katsuki, whose face looked like it might spontaneously combust.

“Shit,” Katsuki barked, jerking upright so fast he nearly tripped over his own boots. His hands fumbled as he pulled back completely, shoving one through his messy blond hair while the other gripped the bouquet like it was suddenly burning his skin. “I—fuck—”

He didn’t finish. He practically stumbled toward the desk, dropping the flowers there with a clumsy thud, the delicate petals shifting against the wood. His ears burned crimson as he marched to the door, shoulders stiff, but his steps faltered at the threshold.

He turned, not looking at Sero this time—only at Izuku. His expression softened just slightly, sharp edges dulled by something unguarded.

“Night, Deku,” he muttered, voice low but deliberate, “I’ll, uhm, see you around.”

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Sero leaned against the doorframe, towel sliding down his shoulder as he exhaled in a puff of disbelief. His grin returned, lazy and lopsided, but his eyes glittered with mischief. 

“Soo… did I just interrupt a moment, or…?”

Izuku groaned, collapsing backward onto the bed and throwing an arm over his face, muffling the sound that came out somewhere between a whine and a scream. 

“Seroooo.”

Sero laughed, pushing off the frame to step further inside, still dripping faint traces of steam. 

“Relax, man. I’m not judging. Honestly, I’m just impressed. Never thought I’d catch you letting Bakugo within scenting range without blowing up the entire dorm.”

Izuku peeked from beneath his arm, cheeks still pink. His lips curved into a wry smile despite his embarrassment. 

“Says the guy who spends half his free time training with Todoroki. Should I be asking what you two get up to when no one’s around?”

That shut Sero up for half a beat before he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. 

“Touché.”

The tension broke, the room warm again—not with unspoken longing this time, but with the easy comfort of friendship layered over the sparks still humming in Izuku’s chest.

Chapter Text

The courtyard was quiet, save for the distant shouts and bursts of power from the training field. Every now and then, the ground trembled faintly under a particularly heavy impact, the echoes of combat muffled by the open air. A cool breeze swept across the grounds, teasing the edges of Izuku’s book and lifting strands of his unruly green hair into his eyes.

He’d chosen the shade of an old oak, its broad branches casting dappled patterns across the ground. The bark pressed firm and rough against his back where he leaned, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, the sunlight warming the toes of his sneakers where they peeked past the shade. Beside him lay a half-finished snack container, the neat packaging crinkled where he’d pried it open in haste.

Izuku’s fingers lingered against the crinkled plastic edge, the faint oil sheen clinging to his fingertips, the seasoning still warm on his tongue—savory, a little spicy, unmistakably Katsuki. He licked his lips without thinking. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, soft and unguarded, slipping past his usual anxieties before he could stop it.

He still couldn’t quite wrap his head around it—Katsuki courting him. 

His mind kept flashing back to the way it had been with Ochako: bold gestures, loud declarations, Katsuki striding forward like she had owed him her attention. All sharp edges and brash confidence, like he could bend the universe to his will if he just shouted loud enough.

But with him, it was different. 

Softer. Gentler. Hesitant, yet deliberate. 

It was a container of food slipped onto his desk before class, steam still rising when Izuku peeled it open. Or Katsuki’s broad shoulders persisting in the corner of his vision; the alpha hovering just long enough to make sure Izuku took a bite before storming off. It was the care folded into silence, check-ins disguised as offhand comments. 

The steady brush of presence, careful not to push too far. Or the clumsy manner in which Katsuki was relearning his own courting practices; the alpha trying to translate that inferno of pride and possessiveness into gestures Izuku could accept without being burned.

And maybe it shouldn’t give him butterflies. 

Maybe it should make him cautious. Wary. But instead it sent a storm of them ricocheting through his chest, wings beating wildly against his ribs until he had to duck his head, curls falling forward to hide the pink creeping across his cheeks.

“Oi.”

The voice snapped him from his thoughts. Izuku’s head jerked up, curls bouncing, and his eyes widened just in time to catch Katsuki jogging across the courtyard grass. A towel hung loose around the alpha’s neck, the edges moist with sweat. His shirt clung in patches across his chest and back, plastered to the sculpted lines of muscle that strained with each stride. 

Even mid-training, every movement of him felt charged, alive—like fire captured in human form. His hair was damp, blond spikes heavier than usual, a few stubborn strands plastered against his forehead, giving him a slightly unpolished edge that Izuku couldn’t help but notice.

Izuku’s breath hitched before he forced himself to move, hurriedly setting his book aside. He sat up straighter, tucking his legs beneath him, trying not to look too flustered. 

“Oh, Kacchan! H-Hi!”

Katsuki slowed only at the last second, heat rolling off him in waves, and dropped into a crouch without hesitation. The grass bent beneath his weight, his forearms braced casually across his thighs, bringing him close enough that Izuku could see the faint flush still lingering on his cheeks from exertion. Katsuki’s crimson eyes flicked briefly over Izuku’s face before narrowing at the snack container sitting beside him.

“You actually ate it,” he muttered, voice rough from training.

Izuku felt warmth rush up his neck, his cheeks prickling. His fingers brushed the edge of the container almost shyly. 

“Of course I did,” he said quickly, almost defensively, then softened. “It was delicious. Thank you.”

For a moment he hesitated, green eyes flicking up to Katsuki’s and then away again, his pulse stuttering. His fingers lingered on the lid, tracing the groove in the plastic like it was something fragile. 

“I… really love your cooking, you know.”

The words slipped out quietly, heavier than he’d intended. His voice was soft, honest, the admission carrying weight. He felt the butterflies stir again, fierce and unrelenting, as if just saying it out loud had pulled him closer to something he wasn’t entirely sure how to handle.

Katsuki’s jaw flexed, his mouth twitching like he was fighting down a reaction. A faint flush crept higher along his cheekbones, deepening the pink already carved there by exertion. He tore his gaze away for half a second, scowling at nothing in particular, before cutting his eyes back to Izuku.

“Tch. You’re such a damn nerd. It’s just food.”

But Izuku caught it—the twitch at the corner of Katsuki’s mouth, the flicker of pride that couldn’t quite hide behind the gruff words. It was subtle, but to Izuku, it lit up every corner of his chest. His heart ached with it, warm and dizzying in the best way.

“Still,” Izuku said quietly, voice softer now, his smile curling, “it means a lot.”

For a moment, the sharpness in Katsuki’s crimson gaze softened, the fire in them banked into something steadier, warmer. His towel slipped off one shoulder as he shifted, the damp fabric dragging across the curve of his neck before falling into the grass. With a low grunt, Katsuki sat down beside him, stretching one leg out and drawing the other close, his posture deceptively casual despite the restless energy humming under his skin.

“You doing okay?” he asked suddenly. His voice dropped lower, threaded with something genuine and careful.

“Better than I thought I’d be, honestly,” Izuku nodded, lashes lowering, “Thanks to you.”

Katsuki let out a short exhale through his nose. His gaze flicked away, but his hand shifted against the grass—fingers brushing just close enough that Izuku felt the deliberate nearness. The space between them thrummed with unsaid things.

They stayed like that for a few breaths, the courtyard’s distant noise fading into the background. Izuku could feel the rhythm of his own heartbeat sync to the steady presence beside him, grounding and dizzying all at once. Katsuki’s heat radiated through the scant space, and Izuku fought the urge to lean into it, to let the line blur further.

Then Katsuki shifted, his shoulders squaring as though bracing himself for something heavier than sparring blows. He cleared his throat, scowl pulling faintly at his lips though his eyes didn’t match it.

“So…” His voice carried the blunt edge of someone forcing the words out before they could lose their nerve. “The annual festival’s coming up. With the dance and all that shit.”

Izuku blinked, caught off guard. His book sat forgotten in the grass as he looked at Katsuki, surprise widening his green eyes. 

“Oh. Yeah… it’s soon, isn’t it?”

Katsuki’s hand flexed against the grass, fingers digging into the blades as if anchoring himself. His jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek twitching before he finally turned fully toward Izuku. Crimson eyes locked onto green, sharp and unflinching, blazing with determination even as the faintest pink crept up the tips of his ears.

“You wanna go? With me?” His voice was gruff, but underneath it was something more vulnerable, like the strike of a match waiting to catch.

Izuku’s breath caught, chest tightening as if the world had narrowed to that single question. His heart stuttered, then surged, butterflies erupting so violently in his stomach he almost swayed where he sat. The breeze tugged at his curls, carrying the faint smoky tang of Katsuki’s sweat and heat—familiar, grounding, dizzying.

His fingers curled into the fabric of his pants, knuckles pale, while his lips parted in surprise. The warmth radiating from the alpha beside him seemed to swell, wrapping around him like a flame that asked to be trusted, not feared.

“I—uh—” Izuku stammered, his voice catching in his throat. His cheeks flushed hot, the pink spreading to the tips of his ears as his hands scrambled for something to do, fingers fidgeting against the spine of his book, then against the fabric of his pants.

Katsuki didn’t move, didn’t look away. 

His gaze was steady, waiting, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the weight behind his blunt question.

Izuku’s green eyes darted from Katsuki’s face to the grass between them, then back again, as though torn between shyness and the pull of something he couldn’t resist. 

“Y-you mean… like… together?” The words came out soft, hesitant, threaded with disbelief.

Katsuki’s lips pressed into a lopsided grin, but his ears burned brighter. 

“Yeah, damn nerd. Together. What the hell else would I mean?” His voice was sharp, but the faint waver beneath it gave him away.

Izuku’s pulse hammered in his ears. His smile broke through, small and shaky at first, before it widened despite the heat crawling up his face. He pressed his palm against his chest as though that could calm the frantic thrum of his heart.

“I… I’d like that,” he whispered, almost breathless.

The words hung between them, soft and fragile, but they made Katsuki’s shoulders ease—just a fraction—as the fire in his crimson eyes softened into something warmer.

The only sound between them was the faint rustle of leaves above and the distant thrum of explosions from the training field. Katsuki’s hand stayed where it was in the grass, the backs of his knuckles brushing against Izuku’s with the barest whisper of contact like a tether he didn’t want to break.

Izuku’s gaze dropped, his breath snagging in his chest at the warmth bleeding into his skin. The grass prickled between his fingers, but it was the accidental press of Katsuki’s hand—so close, so deliberate in its restraint—that made his pulse stutter. His lashes lifted slowly, and green eyes climbed back up, catching the faint pink staining Katsuki’s ears and the stubborn set of his jaw.

“You… you didn’t have to ask me like that, you know,” he said, voice soft, a confession disguised as a tease. He shifted slightly, curls tumbling across his forehead, and his cheeks flared pink. “I mean… you could’ve just told me you were taking me.”

The corners of Katsuki’s mouth twitched, caught between a scowl and something softer. His crimson eyes narrowed, but the fire in them was different—quieter, smoldering rather than burning. A bead of sweat trailed from his temple, carving a line down his flushed cheek before catching at the edge of his jaw. He shifted his weight, the muscles in his forearm flexing where it braced against his bent knee, but he didn’t pull away.

His voice, when it came, was less certain, threaded with something that made Izuku’s chest tighten. 

“Yeah. I could’ve.” Katsuki’s jaw worked, and he exhaled sharply through his nose, glancing away at the dirt scuffed by their classmates’ boots before dragging his eyes back to Izuku. “But I didn’t want to.”

Katsuki’s hand twitched, fingers curling slightly in the grass as though to stop himself from reaching further. 

“I wanted you to say yes because you wanted to. Not ‘cause I forced you to go with me.”

Izuku’s throat tightened, the butterflies in his chest folding into something warmer, heavier. He swallowed hard, blinking against the sudden sting at the corners of his eyes. 

“Oh, Kacchan…”

All Izuku could think was how much it meant—that this was Katsuki choosing to hold himself back, to ask, to offer instead of demand.

His hand shifted before he realized what he was doing, brushing more firmly against Katsuki’s. The touch was fleeting, hesitant, but intentional.

Katsuki huffed, looking away toward the training field. His ears were still burning red, but his voice carried on, quieter now. 

“I know I screw up a lot. And I know I’ve been a shitty bastard in the past. But… this? With you? I don’t wanna half-ass it.”

“You don’t have to be perfect,” he said softly. “You just… being here—it’s enough.”

Katsuki froze, as if the words had knocked the air out of him. Slowly, his head turned, and when his crimson gaze locked on Izuku, the intensity of it made Izuku’s stomach tighten, his breath catch. But it wasn’t anger blazing there, not the sharp fury he’d grown used to bracing for. No—this fire was different. Fiercer, yes, but tempered by something protective, almost reverent, like Katsuki was etching every line of Izuku’s face into memory.

“You really mean that?” Katsuki asked, his voice low, gravel-edged but stripped bare of bluster. There was a rawness in the sound, a weight that made Izuku’s chest ache.

“I do,” Izuku whispered. His curls slipped forward, tickling his forehead, and he shoved them back with a nervous little push of his fingers. His cheeks glowed pink, but he held Katsuki’s stare, refusing to waver.

For a long moment, they just sat there, the distance between them measured only in shared breath and heat. Katsuki’s mouth twitched again, that small, unsteady grin tugging at his lips.

“Good,” he murmured, the word softer than Izuku had ever heard it from him. His hand flexed in the grass, knuckles brushing Izuku’s again, not pulling away this time. Then, after a beat, he huffed, a spark of his usual stubbornness breaking through. “Just you watch, Deku. I’m gonna go all out and show you the best time of your life!”

The laugh burst from Izuku before he could stop it, bright and startled, bubbling up past the tightness that had been knotted in his chest. His shoulders shook, the sound carrying more relief than he realized until it slipped free. “Like you haven’t already.”

Katsuki’s smirk deepened, crooked and proud, though his ears were still flushed pink. He shook his head slowly, golden spikes shifting, damp strands clinging stubbornly to his forehead. 

“Nerd,” he muttered. But the word wasn’t sharp this time—it was softened, wrapped in something fond, almost tender.

The butterflies inside Izuku’s chest swarmed, dizzy and relentless, and for the first time, he didn’t try to hold them back.

Chapter Text

Days bled into one another, training and classes weaving by until the festival loomed close enough to taste in the air. Izuku carried the memory of Katsuki’s reaction like a talisman—his “Good. I’m gonna go all out and show you the best time of your life!” and the way his ears had burned scarlet even as he tried to mask it with a scowl. 

It had lodged in Izuku’s chest, warm and steady, something to replay in quiet moments until his smile threatened to break free.

Now, the day had arrived, and his dorm room was a mess of half-folded clothes and scattered accessories. Izuku stood by the mirror, tugging nervously at the cuffs of his dress shirt, cheeks already pink from the attention.

His mother fussing might have been an understatement. His mother circled him like a whirlwind, smoothing his collar, brushing invisible lint from his sleeves, tilting her head this way and that as though every angle revealed something that needed fixing.

“Mom, it’s fine!” Izuku groaned, though his tone carried more warmth than frustration.

“It is not fine, Izuku! You can’t go to your first official dance looking half-put-together. Honestly…” She clicked her tongue and leaned in again, straightening his tie with quick, efficient hands. “You want Katsuki to see you and think, ‘my omega looks perfect tonight,’ don’t you?”

Izuku’s ears went scarlet. “Moooom—!”

From his bed, Sero lounged comfortably, propped up on his elbows, watching the entire spectacle with a grin that only widened each time Izuku squirmed. “You know, Midoriya,” he drawled, “for a guy who can fight without blinking, you’re real bad at surviving your mom’s touch-ups.”

Izuku shot him a glare through the mirror. “You’re not helping.”

“Not trying to,” Sero replied easily, twirling one of his tape dispensers idly before smirking. “But hey, I’ve gotta say, this whole thing is cute. Nervous omega, doting mom, alpha waiting downstairs. You’re such a princess.”

Izuku groaned louder, burying his face in his hands for a second before dropping them with a huff. 

Before Sero could continue his teasing, a sharp knock echoed from the door. The room froze for a beat—the three of them caught in the sound. Izuku’s pulse leapt into his throat.

Inko clapped her hands together, beaming. “Oh! That must be Katsuki.”

Sero whistled low, a smirk creeping back as Izuku sputtered and tried to compose himself. 

“Showtime, Romeo.”

With hesitant steps, Izuku moved toward the door, every part of him alive with nerves and anticipation. His hand hovered over the handle for just a second too long before he pulled it open—

And there he was.

Katsuki.

His Alpha.

He stood in the doorway like he owned the space, broad shoulders squared, but the usual fire in his stance was tempered by something more refined. Instead of his uniform jacket, Katsuki wore a fitted, charcoal vest over a deep crimson shirt that clung to his frame. Over it all draped a short, tailored cape, fastened at one shoulder with a gleaming clasp shaped like an explosion, the fabric rippling faintly as he moved. The dark material framed him in dramatic lines, making the pale spikes of his hair seem even brighter, his presence impossible to ignore.

Izuku’s breath caught. Katsuki didn’t just look dressed up—he looked like he’d stepped straight out of some daring, heroic painting, all raw power refined into elegance.

The alpha’s crimson eyes flicked over him once, dragging from Izuku’s carefully combed curls down the crisp lines of his shirt to the nervous way his fingers twitched at his sides. Katsuki’s gaze lingered—just long enough that Izuku felt it like a physical touch, searing a path across his skin until heat crept up the column of his throat. His shoulders stiffened under the weight of it, cheeks flaming pink.

Katsuki clicked his tongue, his gaze snapping away too quickly. A faint flush betrayed him at the tips of his ears, half-hidden beneath the messy spikes of his blond hair. 

“Y-You clean up good, nerd.”

Behind Izuku, Sero snorted into his sleeve, shoulders shaking with barely-contained laughter, while Inko pressed both hands to her mouth, a sound escaping that was somewhere between a delighted squeal and a sniffle.

Izuku, meanwhile, was doing his best not to combust on the spot. His pulse thudded so loud in his ears it drowned out everything else. He ducked his head instinctively, curls slipping into his eyes, but not before he caught the faintest flicker of Katsuki’s gaze darting back—quick, unguarded, and blazing with something that made his knees feel like water.

“You—you look…” Izuku’s voice wobbled, caught somewhere between awe and panic. His throat worked as he swallowed, forcing the words out past the heat rising up his neck. “You look really handsome, Kacchan.”

From the bed, Sero leaned back on his elbows with a sly grin, clearly savoring every second. 

“Man, the tension in here is wild,” he drawled, rocking one foot lazily. “Should I give you two a minute? Or, like, a whole hour?”

Katsuki’s head snapped toward him, crimson eyes blazing, and his cape swirled with the sharp turn of his shoulders. 

“Shut the hell up, Tape Face, before I blast you into the damn wall!”

But the snarl lost some of its edge when Izuku’s quiet laugh slipped out, soft and startled, spilling into the room like sunlight. Katsuki froze at the sound, ears still red, his gaze flicking back just long enough to catch it before he jerked his head aside again, muttering under his breath.

Inko clapped her hands again, beaming brighter than the overhead lights. 

“Oh, you boys look wonderful! Now, Katsuki, make sure you take care of him tonight, alright?”

Katsuki’s gaze snapped to hers, and for a moment, Izuku swore he saw the alpha straighten taller, his cape settling against his back like it belonged there, more vow than fashion. His shoulders squared, his stance solidifying as if someone had just handed him a responsibility he already knew was his.

“Of course, Auntie,” Katsuki replied, voice quiet but sure. “He’s in good hands. Promise.”

Izuku’s heart fluttered so hard he thought it might lift right out of his chest. His cheeks burned, but he couldn’t look away. The words lodged deep inside him, something he wanted to clutch tight and never let go.

Chapter Text

Izuku barely had time to blink before another knock came at the door. This time, when it opened, Shoto stood framed in the hall, every inch as composed as ever. A tailored dark coat draped cleanly over his shoulders, cinched with a silver clasp at the collarbone that caught the light. In one hand, he held a mask of polished black edged in frost-like detailing, its cool elegance matching the pale sharpness of his features.

His mismatched eyes swept past Izuku and Katsuki, landing squarely on Sero.

“I’m here for you,” Shoto said simply, but the weight in his voice made Sero sit up straighter, grin widening into something almost boyish. Heat flickered in his dark eyes, betraying the spark beneath his lazy tone.

“Guess that’s my cue,” Sero drawled, stretching his arms overhead with exaggerated nonchalance before hopping down from the mattress. His long frame unfolded easily, “Don’t wait up tonight, Midoriya.”

Izuku opened his mouth to retort but found his words dissolving into a nervous laugh when Katsuki’s hand slipped into his, firm and grounding. The shift was so natural—so sure—that it left Izuku breathless, as if the world had quietly rearranged itself around that single touch. 

Katsuki’s palm was warm, calloused from years of training, and the strength in his grip steadied every jittering thought in Izuku’s chest.

“Shall we?” The alpha murmured.

With a shaky laugh, Izuku nodded, curls bouncing as he tilted closer into Katsuki’s orbit. He let himself be guided out of the room, his pulse skittering against the weight of Katsuki’s hand.

Inko waved brightly from the doorway, hands clasped together as if she could bottle the moment. “Have fun, both of you!”

Behind her, Sero lingered in the doorway just long enough to throw a playful salute in Izuku’s direction, his grin flashing wide and unrepentant. With a final, knowing look, Sero retreated, falling into step with Shoto, his laughter trailing faintly in his wake as the two pairs peeled off into the night.

The cobblestone path seemed longer than usual, lit by lanterns already trimmed for the evening. Students passed by dressed in elaborate outfits—velvet-lined coats, flowing gowns, shimmering embroidery. They all wore masks: some plain and elegant, others dazzling with gold leaf, feathers, or painted detail. The air thrummed with excitement.

Izuku adjusted his own mask with his free hand as they walked—a simple piece of dark green lacquer, edged in gold filigree that curled like vines around the temples. Katsuki’s mask contrasted sharply: a sharp, angular design of burnished black and crimson, covering the upper half of his face and giving his eyes the look of smoldering embers behind a warrior’s helm. 

Together, they looked like something out of a fairytale.

When they stepped out into the festival grounds, the world burst alive with color and light. Lanterns hung from trees like captured stars, casting golden glow across cobblestone paths. Stalls stretched along the sides, serving roasted meats, sugared fruits, and steaming cups of spiced cider. Music drifted from the pavilion ahead—fiddles and lutes weaving into a lively tune that coaxed students into laughter and dancing.

Katsuki’s grip on Izuku’s hand tightened just slightly as his gaze swept the crowd, instinctively protective, though his posture remained casual. The crimson eyes behind his mask flicked back to Izuku, narrowing with the faintest softness.

“Come on,” he muttered, tugging him gently forward. “Don’t want to keep the whole damn dance waiting for us.”

Izuku’s heart fluttered so hard it almost knocked the breath out of him. He let Katsuki lead, the warmth of his palm and the gleam of his mask making him feel as though he had stepped straight into a dream—an old tale where the hero and his chosen partner slipped into a night of fire, music, and secrets.

The pavilion rose at the heart of the festival, its arches draped with silken banners in the academy’s colors, lanterns strung like constellations overhead. Music swelled from within—lively strings giving way to something slower, richer, as the evening deepened.

Izuku hesitated at the edge of the lantern-lit square, his fingers brushing the edge of his mask as if it might steady his racing pulse. Students swirled around them, gowns and coats sweeping across the polished stone floor, masks catching the light like fragments of stars. Laughter mingled with the music, a hum of excitement buzzing in the air.

Katsuki stopped just ahead of him, turning with a small tug on Izuku’s hand. His mask gleamed black and crimson, sharp lines catching the lantern glow, but his eyes—visible through the cut-outs—were all fire and focus, softened only for him.

“Well?” Katsuki said, voice low, steady despite the faint color still lingering at his ears. “You gonna stand here all night, or are you gonna dance with me, Nerd?”

Izuku swallowed hard, butterflies battering wildly against his ribs. His mask suddenly felt like both a shield and a weight—protection against the crowd’s eyes, but useless against the heat in Katsuki’s gaze.

“I—yeah. Yes. I will.” His words stumbled, but his feet moved anyway, following Katsuki into the circle of dancers.

The music slowed, shifting into something intimate, the kind of rhythm that drew people closer, bodies swaying in gentle arcs beneath the glow of lantern light. Katsuki’s hand found Izuku’s waist, the touch firm but careful, fingers spreading just enough to anchor him without caging. 

With his other hand, he caught Izuku’s trembling fingers, calloused thumb brushing over the back of his hand before guiding it upward, settling it against his shoulder just under the dramatic sweep of his cape.

Izuku’s breath caught. The fabric beneath his palm was smooth, heavy, the warmth of Katsuki’s body bleeding through it. His mask, dark and sharp-lined, caught the lantern glow when he shifted, crimson eyes glinting through like smoldering embers.

The scent of smoke and spice wrapped around Izuku, curling beneath the edge of his mask until it filled his lungs. It was dizzying and soothing all at once, a tether pulling him into the alpha’s orbit. His knees threatened to weaken, but Katsuki’s presence—his touch, his heat—kept him steady.

“You’re shaking,” Katsuki murmured, leaning down just enough that his lips brushed against the shell of Izuku’s ear. 

“M-Maybe. Just a little,” the green-haired omega laughed softly, breathless. 

“It’s okay. Relax, Izuku,” Katsuki said, the word rough but quiet, his hand at Izuku’s waist tightening ever so slightly. Protective. Sure. “You’re fine. You’re with me.”

The words, simple as they were, landed like a vow. Izuku’s chest tightened, his eyes fluttering shut for half a second as he leaned closer, mask brushing faintly against Katsuki’s cheek. Their steps fell into rhythm, awkward at first, but soon weaving into something more natural—an unspoken trust guiding them in time with the music.

Around them, the lanterns glowed brighter, the world blurring into motion and light. But between them, it narrowed to the steady press of Katsuki’s palm, the warmth of his hand in his, the closeness of breath shared in the charged space between their masks.

Izuku dared a glance upward, green eyes catching crimson through the dark cut of Katsuki’s mask. His lips parted, words caught on the edge of forming—something tender, something raw.

And at that moment, the crowded dancefloor ceased to matter. 

The music, the whirl of gowns sweeping the stone floor, the glimmer of jeweled masks and laughter threading through the air—it all blurred into nothing. It felt as though the world had narrowed to just the two of them beneath the lanterns, tethered together in a rhythm that had taken years, trials, and scars to finally fall into place.

The music swelled, strings trembling into a rise before softening again, coaxing the dancers to move nearer, closer. Izuku barely noticed the others drifting around them—shimmering masks, gowns brushing the stone floor—because Katsuki’s hand at his waist guided him in, firm but careful, as though he were something precious and breakable.

Izuku’s pulse stuttered. His mask shifted when he tilted his head, brushing the edge of Katsuki’s cheekbone, sending sparks up his spine. Katsuki’s breath fanned against his skin, warm and uneven, betraying the alpha’s struggle to keep composed. Izuku could feel it catch, could hear the faintest hitch just before it steadied again, and the intimacy of it made his stomach twist in knots of anticipation.

Izuku’s fingers tightened slightly against the cape at Katsuki’s shoulder, his touch hesitant but clinging, like a secret he wasn’t ready to let slip.

“You’re staring,” Katsuki muttered, voice low, meant only for him. The words came gruff, but his thumb brushed a slow, grounding circle at Izuku’s side.

Izuku flushed hot beneath his mask, lips parting with a quiet, nervous laugh. “S-Sorry. I can’t help it.”

Katsuki huffed, the sound rumbling against him. He leaned closer, his mouth so near Izuku’s ear that his words stirred the curls brushing his temple. “Don’t be. I like it.”

The admission struck like a spark to tinder, and Izuku’s knees nearly went weak. His hand tightened against Katsuki’s shoulder, steadying himself as they turned with the swell of the music.

The courtyard lanterns gleamed above them, but all Izuku could see was red through black cutouts, steady and unyielding.

“You look… perfect tonight,” Katsuki added, quieter now, the words rough-edged, like dragging fire across stone. “I can’t believe you’re mine.”

Izuku’s breath caught. His chest squeezed so tight it almost hurt, but the kind of ache he wanted to keep. Butterflies surged, wings thrumming hard against his ribs as if they might carry him straight off the ground.

“Kacchan…” His voice trembled, caught between disbelief and joy. He leaned in, masks brushing fully this time, the faint scrape of carved edges meeting before slipping apart again.

Katsuki’s fingers flexed against his waist, pulling him imperceptibly closer. “I mean it, Izuku. I’m not letting go of you. Not tonight. Not ever.”

The music spun around them, dancers weaving and turning in their own orbits, but Izuku could hardly feel the floor beneath his feet anymore. The whole world had narrowed to Katsuki’s voice, Katsuki’s heat, Katsuki’s vow pressed into the air between their masks like something sacred.

Izuku’s heart thundered, his fingers clutching at Katsuki’s shoulder like it was the only steady thing in the world. They moved together, steps guided more by instinct than practice, masks grazing every time they leaned too close.

Then Katsuki drew in a sharp breath, like he’d reached some edge inside himself. He pressed his forehead briefly against the side of Izuku’s mask, voice low and rough, meant for no one else.

“Izuku… I know I’ve been a shit to you.” His hand tightened at Izuku’s waist, grounding him, steady. “I’ve said things, done things I can’t take back. I hate myself for it. Every time I saw the look on your face. I should’ve—” He cut himself off with a growl, jaw working as though the words were hard to drag free.

Izuku froze, eyes wide behind his mask. “Kacchan…”

“I should’ve realized it sooner.” Katsuki’s voice cracked, softer now, stripped of its usual bite. “That you’re the one. That I don’t give a damn about anyone else. That all I’ve ever wanted—since we were kids—was to stand next to you. To keep you safe. To be… worthy of you.”

The lantern light caught the edge of his mask, gilding the fierce, trembling honesty in his eyes. Izuku’s throat closed around a sound that never made it out.

Katsuki’s thumb brushed against his side again, gentler this time, like he was afraid of breaking him. “I’m not gonna screw this up. Not with you. I swear it, Deku. I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it if I have to.”

Izuku’s chest ached, his vision swimming—not from tears, but from the overwhelming rush of warmth and relief flooding through him. He clung tighter, stepping closer until there was hardly any space left between them.

“Kacchan…” His whisper was raw, shaky, full of all the years he’d held back. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to me.”

Katsuki’s breath hitched, red eyes burning through the slits of his mask. For a heartbeat, the music, the dancers, the whole world seemed to dissolve into silence.

And then, inevitably, they leaned in. Masks brushed, catching for a moment before slipping aside. Their lips met—soft, trembling, and impossibly sure.

The kiss wasn’t perfect; it was desperate and human and real. Katsuki’s hand came up to cradle the back of Izuku’s neck, fingers tangling in his hair, grounding him as if afraid he might vanish. Izuku pressed closer, his heart racing, tears spilling freely now as everything they’d never said poured into that single, breathtaking touch.

The lantern light swayed above them, throwing gold across their faces. Somewhere, distant applause rose and faded, but neither of them heard it. All that existed was the warmth between them—the steady beat of two hearts that had spent a lifetime colliding, finally finding their rhythm in the quiet after the storm.

When they finally broke apart, just barely, Katsuki’s forehead rested against Izuku’s. His voice was a hoarse whisper, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Guess I finally did somethin’ right.”