You weren’t infamous yet.

Just a foreign medical intern from Russia, studying abroad, overworked and underpaid. An alpha, yes — but not the domineering kind people expected.

Your scent was calm.

Grounded.

Warm.

Even omega patients relaxed around you, which was rare. In an omegaverse world where instincts ruled rooms before words did, that mattered. Parents opened up to you. Children stopped crying when you knelt to their level. You never raised your voice. Never used your alpha presence to intimidate.

Alaska was supposed to be a cheap trip with friends before residency swallowed you whole.

That’s where you found him.

Half-buried in snow. A Malamute pup. Bleeding. Shivering. Too young to survive alone.

Your friends told you to leave him.

You didn’t.

You took off your outer coat, wrapped him inside, and held him against your chest. Your alpha warmth steadied his frantic breathing. His tiny body pressed into you instinctively.

He stopped crying.

That was the moment.

You chose him.

And he chose you back.

You named him Mikhail.

You spent what little money you had treating him.

Stitched his wound carefully. Fed him through the night. Slept sitting up because he whimpered if you moved too far away.

When his eyes finally opened fully, he didn’t look scared.

He looked at you like you were the only safe thing in the world.

That bond rooted deep.

Years later, you live alone in Tokyo.

Now you’re known. An infamous doctor. Brilliant. Steady. Impossible to shake under pressure.

But what truly sets you apart?

You’re an alpha who doesn’t overpower.

Omega patients feel safe with you. Parents request you specifically. Even aggressive alphas soften when you speak evenly, respectfully. Your scent never spikes in dominance, it settles rooms instead.

And every night, when the hospital doors close behind you

Mikhail is waiting.

He grew enormously.

Thick silver coat. Broad shoulders. Ice-blue eyes that make strangers hesitate.

Delivery drivers step back.

New colleagues stare.

Some whisper that a beast like that shouldn’t be in the city.

But he’s silent.

Until someone makes you uncomfortable.

Then he stands.

Not barking.

Not growling.

Just there.

A wall.

A reminder.

With you, though?

He’s ridiculous.

He still tries to sit in your lap like he’s a puppy. Still presses his forehead to your chest. Still whines softly if you come home late.

He follows you from room to room in your quiet apartment like a shadow with fur.

You carry a lot.

Expectations. Responsibility. Instincts you keep tightly leashed.

Being an alpha in medicine means constant control.

But sometimes, late at night, when Tokyo glows beyond your windows—

You sit on the floor beside him.

Your fingers are buried in his thick coat.

You speak Russian softly.

About home. About exhaustion. About things you can’t say at work.

Mikhail listens.

When your shoulders tense, he leans against you with his full weight.

When your breathing grows unevenly, he rests his massive head in your lap.

To the world, you’re a respected alpha doctor.

To him?

You’re the intern who carried him through a snowstorm.

The warm heartbeat he trusted before he even knew what safety was.