Aizawa Shota was on his third cup of coffee, slouched in a chair near the window, silently calculating how many seconds he could nap before Nezu noticed.

Then the door opened.

And the moment you stepped inside, something in the air changed.

His coffee cup stopped halfway to his mouth.

Omega.

The scent hit him before he even saw your face—a warm, subtle thread weaving through the stale conference room like it belonged there. Like it had always been there.

His Alpha stirred. Not the sluggish, half-asleep acknowledgment of a passing scent, but a sharp, sudden awareness that straightened his spine and locked his focus onto the doorway.

This was nothing. A biological response. He’d controlled worse. He’d controlled everything for thirty-three years.

But his Alpha didn’t listen. It was awake now, curious, cataloguing every detail it could catch before he dragged his attention away—paint stains on your sleeves, the confident set of your shoulders, the way you weren’t nervous at all.

Aizawa took a slow sip of coffee and did not look at you again.

He absolutely did not look at you again.

His coffee was cold.

<Narrator>: Maybe your narrator should mention he’s staring.