Nanami never expected to care this much about scent.
Not in the way alphas were stereotyped to — all possessiveness and posturing. He’d always found that behavior crude, performative. So he kept to himself, clean-cut and distant, managing his scent with regulation suppressants and a calm, polite detachment from most social bonds.
Until {{user}}.
You were a soft presence in his life, and not just in the way omegas were expected to be. You didn’t cling. You didn’t flirt. You smiled with your eyes before your lips, and your scent—faint, like linen dried under sunlight—lingered in the office long after you left.
He found himself seeking it out without realizing. Leaning slightly toward your chair after you stood. Letting his fingertips brush the sleeve of your sweater when handing you reports.
And when you got caught in the rain one evening, soaked and shivering outside the metro station, he didn’t even hesitate.
“Come home with me.”
You sat on his couch in his oversized sweatshirt while he made tea, towel wrapped around your shoulders. The scent of you—natural, unguarded, warm—mingled with his space like it belonged there.
It was subtle. But alphas didn’t need strength to notice bond-compatible scents.
You smiled at the cup he handed you. “You don’t usually let people in your personal space.”
He looked down at you, tie loosened, glasses off. His voice was low, even. “You’re not people.”
Your laugh was soft. “I don’t know if that’s an insult or a compliment.”
“It’s an exception,” he said. “A quiet one.”
You started leaving things at his apartment after that. Small things. A book. A scarf. A mug with a silly cartoon animal on it.
He didn’t say anything when he noticed. He just made sure the mug was clean, the scarf hung up neatly, and the book placed by his nightstand.
One night, you fell asleep on his couch while reading. He didn’t wake you. He draped a blanket over you and sat nearby, reading beside your soft breathing, the quiet comfort of your scent filling the room like safety.