Chapter Text
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CHAPTER 1: BETA ON PAPER
The apartment is too quiet at 5:47 AM.
Izuku counts his breaths while the faucet runs cold red water. 1,2,3,4. The sink is clean, he collects the chunks of vanilla mint and resin scented skins and trashes them deep in the trash. The mirror is clean. Everything has to be clean. Scent lingers in fabric, in dust, in the cracks of tile. He learned that when he was 10.
He shuts the water off. The silence rushes back in.
Step 1: Blockers.
Industrial grade. The kind that stings on his open wounds . He applies it in thin lines behind his ears, at the base of his throat, along the inside of his wrists. It smells like nothing. That’s the point. He waits 30 seconds for it to dry. Skin goes tight. He doesn’t scratch. He never scratches. He wraps up his neck and wrists with simple bandaid and gauze
Step 2: Cover.
His scarf black,grey, worn soft from years of use. He wraps it twice. Checks the mirror. No skin shows. Good.
Wrists next. Long sleeves. He tugs the cuffs down past his pulse points. Rolls them once so they stay. The fabric feels like armor. It itches, but it’s safer than the alternative.
Beta. He’s a beta. Betas wear long sleeves in May. Betas don’t get questioned.
Step 3: Check.
Locks on the door: 3 times. Windows: locked. Bandaids in his bag: 2 spare vials. Wallet: ID says “Midoriya Izuku. Secondary Gender: Beta.” He filled that out himself 2 years ago when he moved states. No one from his old life knows he’s here. No one of his new life knows he’s an omega.
The lie is easier in a new city. Musutafu doesn’t know his dad. Doesn’t know the way alphas used to look at his mom. Doesn’t know the sound a fist makes when it hits a door instead of a face.
He grabs his keys. Takes one last look at the mirror. The scarf hides everything important. Only his eyes show. Tired. Old for 18.
“Just a beta,” he whispers to the empty apartment. “Betas go to work. Betas don’t panic. Betas are safe.”
He turns the key. Steps into the hallway. Locks the door behind him. 1. 2. 3.
The morning air hits him as he walks to the bus stop. He keeps his head down. Keeps his pace even. Keeps his hands in his pockets so no one sees his wrists.
It’s only a 15-minute walk. But in 15 minutes, a lot can happen. An alpha can laugh too loud. A door can slam. Someone can stand too close.
So he counts steps. And he doesn’t look up. Not until he’s at the café, tying on his apron, smiling the small, beta-appropriate smile he practiced.
“Morning, Izuku!” Uraraka waves from a table. She thinks he’s a beta. She asks him for “beta advice” about dating. He gives it. It’s easy to lie when the truth gets you hurt.
The bell over the door jingles at 7:03 AM.
Izuku doesn’t look up right away. He’s wiping down the counter. But the air changes. Ozone. Heat. Irritation. Like a storm rolled in with no clouds.
“Two coffees. Black. No sugar. And move it.”
He knows that voice before he sees the face. Deep. Sharp. Commanding. The same kind of voice his dad used right before—
Izuku’s hand slips. The rag falls. He doesn’t flinch. Not visibly. He bends to pick it up slowly, scarf still high. Counts to 4 in his head.
When he stands, Katsuki Bakugou is at the counter. Alpha. Loud. Athletic build from track, demanding presence. Just the way he takes up space like he owns it.
Katsuki’s eyes drag over him. Messy green hair. Downcast eyes. Scarf in May. Long sleeves. Shoulders pulled up like he’s bracing for a hit.
Katsuki frowns. “You’re the new guy.” Not a question.
Izuku forces a smile. Small. Safe. “I’m Izuku.”
Katsuki doesn’t answer immediately. He’s staring. Not at Izuku’s face. At the scarf. At the cuffs.
“You always dress like that?” Katsuki asks. “It’s like 70 degrees out.”
Izuku’s pulse jumps. He keeps his hands flat on the counter so they won’t shake. “Skin’s sensitive. Doctor said to avoid sun.” Beta excuse. Plausible. Boring.
Katsuki huffs. Takes the coffees. But he doesn’t leave. He leans on the counter, alpha-posture, testing. “You smell like nothing.”
Izuku’s blood goes cold.
“Betas don’t smell like anything,” he says. Voice flat. Practiced. “Just soap.”
Katsuki doesn’t blink. “Betas don’t act that scared either.”
The bell jingles again. Someone else walks in. Katsuki finally pushes off the counter, but not before his eyes flick down to Izuku’s neck one last time. Like he’s memorizing the way the scarf sits.
Izuku exhales once Katsuki’s out the door. Only then. His hands shake under the counter where no one can see.
Safe. For now.
But Katsuki Bakugou has sharp eyes. And alphas with sharp eyes are the most dangerous kind when you’re pretending to be something you’re not.
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7:42 PM. Stockroom, Bookhaven Books.
Fluorescent lights buzz. Cardboard smells like dust + old paper. Safe smells.
Izuku sorts returns. His scarf is off but his sweater is bulled up his neck. Long sleeves still down. The café shift ended an hour ago, but his shoulders haven’t dropped yet.
You smell like nothing.
You smell like nothing.
You smell like nothing.
Katsuki’s voice won’t leave. It loops in his head with the same weight his dad’s voice used to have. Commanding. Certain. Like an alpha who knows he’s right.
Izuku presses his thumb against the inside of his wrist, over the wrapping. The skin is tight. He doesn’t scratch. He counts instead. 1 to 10. 10 to 1.
Beta. He’s a beta. Betas work two jobs and don’t get harassed.
The back door creaks. Izuku’s head snaps up. Heart slams. It’s just the manager, Tanaka-san. Beta. 50s. Soft footsteps.
“Long day, Midoriya?” Tanaka smiles, drops a box on the cart. “You okay? You look pale.”
Izuku forces the small smile. “Just tired. I’ll finish this aisle.”
“Don’t stay too late. Musutafu’s safe, but no point pushing it.” Tanaka leaves, door clicking shut.
Musutafu’s safe. That’s what he tells himself when he moved here. New state. New files. New name on the lease. No one knows Hisashi Midoriya’s kid is here. No one knows he’s an omega.
But safe doesn’t mean quiet. And alphas are never quiet.
The thought of Katsuki lingers like heat. Prime alpha energy without him even being in the room. Izuku never met his dad’s designation, but he knows the stories. Prime alphas don’t just ask. They take space. They take answers. They take the air out of a room just by standing in it.
Katsuki had that. Even ordering coffee. Even leaning on a counter.
Izuku’s hands shake as he tapes a box shut. He grips the tape gun tighter. The subconscious fear isn’t logical. Katsuki didn’t touch him. Didn’t yell. Didn’t corner him.
But his body remembers anyway. 12 years of learning, the deep voice, the alpha posture that always leads to danger. Doesn’t matter if this alpha is 18 and didn’t do anything to him. The instinct is older than logic.
The door chimes out front.
Izuku freezes. Late customers are rare. At 8 PM it’s usually students or old men.
Footsteps. Heavy. Familiar rhythm. Not Tanaka’s soft shuffle. This is deliberate. Like someone who expects the floor to move for him.
Izuku’s vision tunnels for half a second. He ducks behind the shelf, before his brain catches up. Hides. Just like he did at 9 when he heard his dad’s keys.
“Anyone back here?” The voice calls. Not loud. Not yelling. Worse. Calm. Controlled. Alpha-calm.
Katsuki.
Izuku stops breathing. How did he— The café was 3 blocks away. Izuku never told him where he worked. Never told anyone.
Katsuki rounds the corner of the aisle. No coffee cup this time. Just him. Hands in his pockets. Track jacket zipped up, but the collar is low. No scarf. No need to hide. He’s an alpha. The world already knows.
His eyes scan the stockroom. Sharp. Searching. They land on Izuku’s shoes sticking out past the shelf.
Katsuki doesn’t look surprised. He looks… confirmed.
“There you are, Deku.” He stops 5 feet away. Deliberate distance. Not touching distance. “You work here… You left you notebook at the cafe”
He holds it out. Izuku’s messy analysis notebook. The one from the café counter. Izuku forgot it in the rush to get to his second shift.
Izuku steps out slowly. Keeps the shelf between them. Keeps his collar high. Keeps his eyes down. “Thank you.” Voice quiet. Beta-quiet.
Katsuki studies him. The scarf is gone but the collar is still up. Long sleeves still down, even though the stockroom is warm. Shoulders still up. Still bracing.
“You work two jobs?” Katsuki asks. Not mocking. Just… calculating.
“Have to,” Izuku says. Truth is safer than lies sometimes.
Katsuki nods once. Then his eyes drop. Not to Izuku’s face. To the small gap between collar and skin. To the wrist where the sleeve rode up half an inch when Izuku reached for the tape.
Izuku yanks the sleeve down. Too fast. Too obvious.
Katsuki’s jaw ticks. He knows- something. Izuku doesn’t know what he knows yet , but Izuku knows he doesn’t want Katsuki to know anything.
Izuku’s mouth goes dry. Prime alpha instinct says: answer. Lie. Run. All three at once.
“I’m just a beta,” he says. Whisper-soft. Like if he says it enough, it becomes true. Like if he says it to a prime alpha, the alpha will believe it and look away.
Katsuki doesn’t look away. He steps half a step closer. Not threatening. Testing. “Betas don’t flinch when I say their name.”
The stockroom is too small. The lights are too bright. The air feels thin.
Izuku counts his breaths. 1. 2. 3. 4. He doesn’t run. Running would prove Katsuki right. So he stands there, 5 feet of fake distance between him and an alpha who sees too much.
Katsuki holds his gaze 3 seconds too long. Then he sets the notebook on the cart. Turns to leave.
At the door he stops. Doesn’t turn around. “Secrets hold power over you, live your truth.”
Then he’s gone. Door clicks shut.
Izuku slides down the shelf until he’s sitting on the floor. Knees to chest. Hands over his ears like that will block the memory of the voice.
He’s a beta. He’s safe. He moved states.
But prime alphas don’t need confessions to corner you. They just need to notice you’re lying.
And Katsuki noticed.