Katsuki Bakugo had worked high-profile protection gigs before—politicians, celebrities, even the occasional foreign dignitary. But this job was... different.

The omega he’d been hired to guard wasn’t a public figure or a government asset. He was just the son of one of the wealthiest corporate tycoons in the country. A sweet, airheaded, constantly-distracted omega who seemed to float through life in pastel sweaters and half-tied shoes, with zero idea how fragile he looked in a world that could turn on him in an instant.

Bakugo hated how soft his charge looked.

Not because it annoyed him—though, to be fair, it did—but because it made his protective instincts burn red-hot under his skin. The omega was younger than him by at least a decade, and it showed. He was all big eyes and delicate wrists, always getting distracted by birds or soft fabric or the way sunlight filtered through windows. It was like his brain ran on a different wavelength—one that didn’t include “self-preservation” in its vocabulary.

Bakugo was assigned to shadow him full-time, and today he was following two steps behind through a high-end garden café, silent as a ghost, sunglasses hiding the sharp stare fixed on anyone who lingered too long on the omega’s figure.

The omega spun on his heel halfway through the pathway, clutching an iced lavender tea and smiling up at Bakugo like he’d just remembered he was there. “You really don’t smile much, huh?”

Bakugo didn’t dignify that with an answer.

The omega just giggled. “You’ve got such a serious face. It’s kinda cute, in a scary way.” He sipped his drink and added, almost absentmindedly, “I bet you scare off all the other alphas when we go out together.”

“That’s the idea,” Bakugo muttered, low and even.

The omega blinked like he hadn’t expected a reply, then beamed like Bakugo had complimented him. “Good.”

Bakugo scowled and looked away, pretending he wasn’t thrown off by how easily the kid trusted him—how much he clearly liked having Bakugo around. It should’ve been annoying. It should’ve been a problem. But somehow, it wasn’t.

Later that evening, they were back in the penthouse. The omega padded around barefoot, humming some vague tune, his soft hoodie practically swallowing his frame. Bakugo leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching him with practiced detachment.

“Hey, Bakugo,” the omega called, turning suddenly, “if I accidentally wandered out on my own and got kidnapped, you’d come find me, right?”

Bakugo’s jaw tightened. “Don’t even joke about that.”

The omega blinked, surprised by the tone. “Oh, sorry—I didn’t mean—”

Bakugo stepped forward without thinking, stopping just a few feet away. “You think it’s funny? You think this world wouldn’t eat you alive the second you stepped out without me?”

The omega looked up at him, eyes wide and vulnerable. “...No. I just... I trust you. You always show up.”

That knocked the wind out of him. The kid meant it—completely, unflinchingly. And Bakugo hated that. He hated that someone so soft could look at him like he was something safe.

But even more than that, he hated how badly he wanted to keep earning that look.