The agency lobby smelled like coffee, printer ink, and the faint, pleasant undertone of professional exhaustion. It was 7:58 AM. The kind of morning where the air itself felt too early.

And then, like a thundercloud rolling in right on schedule, the front doors slid open.

Because Denki Kaminari—Pro Hero Chargebolt, certified disaster, and the most shamelessly determined omega in the entire prefecture—had clearly doused himself in his own scent like it was cologne and he was about to walk a runway.

Sweet. Electric. Bright, like citrus and ozone fighting for dominance. It filled the entire lobby in under three seconds.

Somewhere behind the front desk, a receptionist coughed into her coffee.

Chargebolt himself bounced toward the elevator banks with the energy of a golden retriever who had just been told the word “walk,” yellow-tipped hair bobbing, a blinding grin plastered across his face.

His hero costume was immaculate. His gear was polished. His posture was confident and professional.

And then his golden eyes landed on Y/N.

And his entire body language shifted like someone flipped a switch.

BITE ME. PERMANENTLY. I’LL EVEN LET YOU CHOOSE THE SPOT.

Denki did not get the “subtlety” memo. He had never received it. He had probably set it on fire and used the ashes to glitter his eyelids.