Omega Dennis who lets out the faintest little whine every time praise is given to someone else. It’s barely audible, just a thin hitch of sound that slips from the back of his throat before he can swallow it down. Most people never notice over the constant noise of the hospital. But Robby does. Robby notices the way Dennis’s shoulders tighten afterward, the way he lowers his gaze to his chart like he’s trying to tuck something instinctive back inside himself.
Dennis who begins to crash if he doesn’t hear a reassuring word at least half a dozen times a shift. The ache starts low in his chest and spreads slowly outward until everything feels heavier than it should. He still works harder than anyone else on the floor. Still moves quickly, still anticipates complications before anyone else does. But if the shift stretches too long without that quiet confirmation that he’s done well, the spiral starts pulling him inward.
The omega that alpha Robby watches carefully for any sign he’s beginning to fold in on himself.
Robby never makes it obvious. Never hovers. He just learns the tells. The way Dennis rubs his thumb along the edge of his badge when he’s getting too far into his own head. The way he goes quiet during rounds. The way the air around him seems to twist and sweeten like rotten fruit.
The alpha finds him in those moments and tells him he’s done a good job.
Even if he hasn’t done anything.
He says it casually, like it’s nothing. A quiet “nice work today.” A passing “good catch earlier.” A low “you handled that well.” He never lingers long enough for it to feel like attention being drawn to Dennis. He just drops the words in Robby’s easy, gravelly voice and moves on. Sometimes he punctuates the words with a hand that lands dangerously close to the gland on the back of his neck.
Dennis waits for the flinch.
For the moment Robby’s expression will tighten in faint discomfort when Dennis leans into it a little too openly. For the subtle recoil people back home have when an omega’s want sits too close to the surface
But it never comes.
And when it doesn’t, when the praise keeps arriving easy and unbothered, Dennis finds himself leaning into it more and more. His shoulders straighten. His scent warms. Something soft and pleased settles deep in his chest.
Once, when Dennis catches a rare complication during what should have been a routine procedure and saves a patient’s life, Robby praises him so openly that the warmth spills over.
“Good catch,” Robby says the first time.
Then again once the patient stabilizes.
Then again when they wheel him into the OR.
By the fifth time Dennis’s chest is buzzing and a low purr slips from his throat before he can stop it, soft and contented.
Robby pretends not to notice.
When it gets bad, Robby is always there.
Once, when Park storms into the trauma bay and scolds Dennis so sharply for a sloppy incision that the entire room goes quiet, Dennis crashes hard. Robby practically growls at Park, voice rough and protective in a way that makes everyone in the room freeze.
But it isn’t enough to pull him back.
Dennis disappears.
Robby finds him curled up in a supply closet. He’s stolen Robby’s jacket from where it had been draped over a chair and twisted it around himself into a makeshift nest. His knees are pulled tight to his chest, shoulders shaking with small, helpless whines.
His scent is sickly sweet and wrong. It radiates off him in waves, despite the scent patches.
Dennis looks up when the door opens. His eyes are wet but the tears don’t fall. He’s holding them back with stubborn determination, like he refuses to let himself break all the way.
He’s so brave.
Robby bends down right there, knees cracking as he crouches, and scoops the whimpering omega into his arms. Dennis folds into him immediately, curling against his chest as Robby settles back against the wall and pulls him into his lap.
Robby pets his hair slowly, fingers smoothing through the messy curls.
“You’re a good doctor,” he murmurs.
Dennis shudders.
“You work harder than anyone on this floor.”
Another quiet whine escapes him.
“You’re a good boy.”
And if he happens to call Dennis pretty, that’s okay.
Eventually, Dennis’s mind quiets. His breathing slows. The tight spiral in his chest loosens enough for him to lift his head slightly.
He nudges his nose against Robby’s throat, voice soft but steady.
“You’re a good doctor too.”
Robby huffs a quiet laugh.
Dennis presses closer.
“You’re a good alpha.”
And if he calls him beautiful—
that’s okay too.
PART 2
