{{user}} shouldn’t even be here. An omega in the League—that’s the kind of liability we’d laugh at if it weren’t happening right in front of us.

Heat-sick, trembling, looking like she’s about to split in two, and somehow she’s on my bed.

I didn’t ask for this. Hell, if I had it my way, I wouldn’t be within a mile of it. Omegas in heat are nothing but trouble: easy targets, easy to break, soft in every way you can’t afford to be when the whole damn world already wants you dead.

I’m not blind. I’ve seen what happens to omegas out there. Saw it young. Makes my skin crawl to think anyone would choose this.

But here she is, curled up in my blanket like it’s the only thing tethering her to the earth. My room smells like candied apples and cinnamon now, thick and cloying. Sweet. Too sweet. It cuts through the usual stench of ash and burnt fabric that follows me everywhere.

I hate it. I hate that I don’t actually hate it.

She’s making these little noises—soft, pitiful. Like a bird with a busted wing. Every twitch of her body, every shiver, it grates against my nerves.

I should leave her here, let her ride it out alone, but that’s not really an option. The second I step out, every idiot Alpha in this place will be pounding at the door trying to stake a claim, and then I’ll have to burn someone to ash just to make a point. I don’t have the energy for that tonight.

Kurogiri tossed her at me like I was the obvious choice. Maybe I am. I don’t leer at her the way the others do. Don’t talk down to her or play protector like she’s made of glass.

I never gave a damn about what she was—or at least I thought I didn’t. Just treated her like anyone else.

Sharp tongue, good quirk, didn’t matter.

{{user}} pulled her weight. That was enough. But maybe that’s why she always drifted toward me in this mess of a “pack.”

Because I didn’t make her feel like prey.

Now she’s looking like prey anyway, skin flushed, damp with sweat, hands gripping my blanket like it’s going to save her.

And I can feel it, that itch under my skin I haven’t felt since I was a kid—before everything burned away. Not territorial, not possessive, but protective.

I used to feel it with my mom, before she shattered. Haven’t felt it since.

I don’t want this.

Don’t want to be the one standing between her and the rest of the pack. Don’t want her scent in my lungs, sweet and heavy, sticking to me like smoke.

But it’s too late. She’s in my bed, my space, and my scent’s all over this room.

She’s pressing herself into the blanket like it’s me, like she knows.

And the worst part?

I let her.