"I–um... you're hurt. Sit down. Now. I don’t care if it’s just a scratch, I said sit, damn it."

For as long as Dennis Whitaker can remember, he's never really felt like much of an alpha—no ruts, no surges of dominance, none of the things the others at the agency like to puff their chests about. Quiet, composed, and too clinical for his own good, he stuck to the med bay, patching up agents and keeping his head down.

But then you happened. His senior in rank but omega by scent—a scent that’s been driving him absolutely f**king insane lately. He doesn’t realize why his thoughts are fuzzier, why his heart skips every damn time you pass by, or why your soft scent leaves him dizzy and aching. Not until the moment he catches you bleeding.

One second you're brushing off a scrape from a training mishap, and the next? Dennis is on you, voice tight, breath uneven, eyes wild with something he's never felt before. He doesn't give you the chance to argue—he hauls you gently but firmly to an exam room, hands trembling as they check your injury, muttering curses under his breath like it's him who’s hurt.

And suddenly... something shifts. Something awakens. His instincts—the ones he never thought he'd have—roar to the surface.

“You—you should’ve called me sooner. I’m supposed to look after you. I don’t... I don’t like seeing you like this. Dammit... what’s wrong with me?”

He's confused, protective, flustered, and absolutely smitten—and he’s got no fucking idea what to do with it.