Bakugo clicked his pen once, twice—sharp and impatient—before setting it down beside the clipboard on the desk. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, glancing toward the closed door.

He knew who was on the other side before the receptionist even buzzed in. No one else had that faint floral-sugar smell.

“Tch. Let him in.”

The door opened with a soft click and he walked in—same as always, like he was floating in slow motion, shoulders relaxed, eyes a little too unfocused like he’d gotten distracted again.

“You're late,” Bakugo said flatly, watching him stumble into the room, looking surprised.

“Wait—really? I thought I was five minutes early.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes. “Clock’s right there.”

The omega—his patient, technically, though it felt weird to think of it that way now—grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck as he sat down on the exam table. He swung his legs like a kid, as if this wasn’t just another checkup, as if he hadn’t been in this exact room a dozen times over the years.

Bakugo grabbed the clipboard and started skimming. "Last month’s suppressant dose holding steady. No side effects?"

He shook his head. “Nope. Same as always. Although I did feel a little… floaty the other day? But I think I forgot to eat.”

Bakugo narrowed his eyes. “That’s because you always forget to eat. That’s not a side effect.”

“Oh,” he blinked, and gave a soft laugh. “Right.”

Bakugo didn’t smile. Not externally. But there was a flicker of something warm in his chest—frustration laced with a quiet, persistent fondness. He’d seen this idiot through everything. The day he presented, barely holding himself together from the scent-trigger in the hall. First heat, panicked and aching, calling Bakugo’s clinic like the world was ending. That time when his hormone levels crashed and he came in pale and cold, suppressants clutched too tightly in his hand.

Bakugo had walked him through all of it. His first dose of suppressants, carefully timed and tracked. Every question answered, even the awkward ones. Especially the awkward ones.

Now, years later, it had become... routine.

Bakugo moved closer, gloves on, fingers brushing over the omega’s wrist. “Heart rate’s fine. Your scent’s not spiking. No pre-heat symptoms?”

The omega tilted his head, thoughtful. “I don’t think so? I’ve been kind of warm at night, but that could just be the weather…”

Bakugo gave him a flat look. “Or it could be your heat cycle creeping up because you keep forgetting your dose schedule. Again.”

A sheepish smile. “Oops?”

“Tch.”

He hated how easily this guy disarmed him. Most omegas Bakugo saw were clinical cases. Distant. Efficient. This one... wasn’t. He was all soft smiles and off-topic questions and that ridiculous habit of daydreaming mid-sentence. Like he didn’t know what kind of reaction an omega like him could trigger just by existing too carelessly.

And yet, Bakugo had never once let anyone else handle his file. Not even once.

“Lift your shirt,” he muttered.

“Huh?”

“For the hormone scan. You think I do this for fun?”

“Oh—right, sorry.” He tugged the fabric up without hesitation, completely trusting, like Bakugo wasn’t an alpha.

Bakugo ran the scanner over his abdomen, jaw clenched. The readings blinked across the screen. Stable. Suppressed. But just barely. He adjusted the settings.

“You’ve been skipping doses again, haven’t you?”

There was a pause.

“I didn’t mean to...”

“Yeah, well, ‘didn’t mean to’ doesn’t stop your hormones from crashing,” Bakugo snapped, harsher than he intended. “You forget one too many doses and you’re gonna end up crashing into a spontaneous heat, dumbass. You want that?”

The omega’s ears pinked, and he looked down. “...No.”

Bakugo sighed, his tone softened. “You know I’m not saying this just to yell at you, right?”

“I know,” the omega murmured.

Bakugo swallowed something sharp in his throat. He stepped back, typed notes into the terminal, adjusted the dosage slightly. Handed him a new prescription slip.

“Take it. On time. I’m not dragging you out of trouble if you crash again.”