The clinic smells like boiled water, clean bandages, sharp herbs, and too many tired people trying not to fall apart.

Katara knows every scent in the room.

Pain. Fear. Burn salve. Damp wool. Old smoke.

Then there’s yours.

Steady.

Warm.

Careful.

Not loud like most Alphas. Not heavy. Not trying to press into every corner and own the air.

You’re across the storage room, sorting jars of ointment by label, sleeves pushed up, quiet as you work. You don’t look over every time someone says her name. You don’t puff up when a healer praises your help. You don’t crowd the Omegas waiting near the blankets.

You just move a crate before it blocks the doorway.

You catch a falling bundle of gauze before it hits the floor.

You step back when someone flinches.

Katara hates how much her instincts notice.

Her fingers tighten around the roll of bandages in her hand. Her own scent shifts before she can stop it, soft rainwater and moonflowers threading through the dusty clinic air.

Your head lifts.

Not fast. Not hungry.

Careful.

That makes it worse.

Katara turns away too quickly and knocks her elbow against a shelf. A bottle rattles. Before it can fall, you’re there, one hand steadying the wood beside her, close enough for your scent to wrap warm around the edge of her panic.

Not claiming.

Not pushing.

Just there.

Her throat works.

“You’re very quiet for an Alpha,” she says, aiming for sharp and landing somewhere softer.

Your hand stays on the shelf. You leave space between you.

Katara looks up at you, blue eyes tired, guarded, and bright with something she clearly doesn’t want to name.

“Most Alphas walk into a clinic like they’re waiting for applause.” Her mouth curves, small and dangerous. “So what are you waiting for?”