Chapter 13: Dojo Confessions
The black sedan cut through the morning traffic with a silent, expensive hum. Inside, the world was quiet, insulated from the bleating horns and the overwhelming sense of rush that defined the city. The air held the subtle scent of lemon polish and Shouta’s alpha presence—a grounding combination for Izuku, who sat perfectly straight in the passenger seat, his hands folded in his lap over the soft fabric of his cream-colored sweater dress.
He watched the towering buildings slide past, his large black eyes wide. They were so tall they seemed to scrape the low, grey blanket of clouds. Everything was concrete, glass, and sharp angles, a far cry from the wood, paper, and gentle curves of home.
“Remember your manners,” Shouta said, his eyes on the road, his voice a calm, low center in the strange landscape. “Polite. Modest. Speak only when spoken to.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Izuku murmured, his fingers twisting together briefly before settling. He’d been repeating the rules in his head since yesterday, when Mama had gotten the urgent call about his own mother’s fall back in Kyoto, and Katsuki had already left for his weekend wilderness trip with Eijirou. The house would be empty. Omegas, especially unpresented ones, did not stay home alone. It was not a rule; it was a law of their universe, as fundamental as gravity. So, he was coming to Daddy’s world.
“And don’t wander. You’ll stay at my desk, or with me.”
“I will, Daddy.”
Shouta slid the car into a subterranean parking garage, a cool, shadowy realm of concrete pillars and reflected headlight beams. The transition from the grey morning light to the artificial fluorescence was abrupt. Izuku blinked, unbuckling his seatbelt as the car glided into a reserved spot marked ‘Aizawa’ in stern white letters.
Shouta turned off the engine. The silence was profound. He turned to look at his son, taking in the slight dilation of his pupils, the delicate swallow in his throat. He reached over and with a single, sure finger, tilted Izuku’s chin up just a fraction. “You’re my son. You represent this family. There is nothing here to be afraid of.”
Izuku nodded, drawing strength from the touch, from the absolute certainty in his father’s tone.
“Okay, baby,” Shouta said, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching his lips. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. “If they talk to you, just answer and look adorable as usual. They’re all American which makes them all automatically incompetent and lazy.”
A surprised giggle burst from Izuku’s lips, instantly cutting the tension. He clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes crinkling. “Daddy!”
“It’s a tactical observation, not an insult. Lowers expectations. Makes our efficiency more impressive.” Shouta’s smirk widened a hair as he got out of the car, the door closing with a solid thunk.
Izuku scrambled out, smoothing his dress down, his knee-high socks and polished Mary Janes feeling suddenly very young. He hurried to Shouta’s side, his steps quick and light to match his father’s long, deliberate strides across the glossy concrete floor.
The elevator lobby was a vast, cold space of brushed steel and dark marble. A wall of elevators, their doors mirror-finish chrome, reflected the scene back in distorted fragments. And there were people. So many people. Mostly alphas, their scents—sharp pine, rugged leather, aggressive musk—mingling into a cacophonous perfume that made Izuku’s nose itch. Betas moved with purpose, their smells muted, background noise. He saw no other omegas.
He instinctively moved closer to Shouta, his shoulder almost touching his father’s arm. Shouta placed a steadying hand on the center of his back, a warm, heavy anchor.
They waited. A bell chimed, melodious and deep. An elevator arrived, its doors sliding open with a whisper. A group of men in tailored suits exited, their loud conversation continuing unabated. “—so I told him, if the quarterly doesn’t show a twelve percent uplift, the merger is a non-starter—”
Shouta guided Izuku forward into the now-empty car. Just as the doors began to close, a hand shot out, forcing them back open.
“Hold the door! Hey, Shouta! Man, didn’t think you’d beat me in today.”
Two men stepped in, filling the space with their bulk and their scent. The first was tall, broad, with a thick head of blond hair and a smile that showed too many teeth. He clapped Shouta on the shoulder. The second was older, bald, with shrewd eyes that immediately landed on Izuku.
“Morning, Dave. Mark,” Shouta said, his voice shifting into something smoother, sociable. The hand on Izuku’s back remained. “This is my son, Izuku. Izuku, these are my colleagues, Mr. O’Connell and Mr. Greeley.”
Izuku bowed his head slightly, the motion innate. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said, his voice soft but clear.
“Well, hello there!” Dave O’Connell’s voice boomed in the enclosed space. He had the booming, effortless charm of a television salesman. “So this is the famous Izuku! Shouta talks about you all the time, kid. All the time. ‘My son Izuku is helping with the garden.’ ‘Izuku made the most incredible marinade last night.’” His laugh was a sharp bark. “I was starting to think he’d made you up!”
“He’s just being polite, Dave,” Shouta said, a dry, amused chuckle in his voice. It was a sound Izuku rarely heard—a performative, public sound. It was fascinating.
“Polite, my ass. He’s proud as hell. And I can see why!” Dave’s eyes, a bright, intrusive blue, scanned Izuku from head to toe. It wasn’t leering, but it was intensely familiar, lacking all the layers of subtlety and distance Izuku was accustomed to. “You’re the omega, right? The one who’s gonna be running his own household soon?”
Izuku felt a flush creep up his neck. He simply nodded, looking down at his shoes.
“Dave, come on,” the bald man, Mark Greeley, said. His voice was quieter, gravelly. “Don’t overwhelm the boy. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Izuku. Your father’s a sharp man. The sharpest.”
“Thank you, sir,” Izuku murmured.
The elevator began its ascent. The numbers flickered upward. Izuku’s ears popped slightly.
“So, what brings you to the lion’s den, kiddo?” Dave asked, leaning against the rail. “Field trip? Seeing where the magic happens?”
“Family obligations required him to accompany me today,” Shouta answered before Izuku could form the words. His tone was pleasant, but it held a finality that discouraged further prying.
“Ah, right, right. The whole… not-being-alone thing.” Dave waved a hand, as if swatting away an archaic concept. “Different strokes. My omega, Brenda, she’d go stir-crazy if I tried to keep her under house arrest. She’s running her own interior design biz out of the sunroom. A real firecracker.”
Izuku listened, trying to imagine it. An omega with her own business. Working from a sunroom. It sounded like a description of a different species.
“Brenda is a force of nature,” Shouta agreed amiably. “How’s her project with the Kensington account going?”
The conversation veered into work—acquisitions, projections, client personalities. Izuku tuned it out, captivated by the elevator itself. It was so fast. The world outside the glass back wall—a dizzying panorama of shrinking cars and bird’s-eye views of rooftop gardens—fell away, replaced by the sheer face of the building itself, striations of steel and window flashing past.
The doors opened with another chime, delivering them into another world.
The lobby of Shouta’s office floor was a breathtaking chamber of light and space. The ceiling soared three stories high, a geometrical puzzle of glass and white steel. A living wall of verdant ferns and trailing ivy covered one entire surface, its oxygenated scent a feeble challenger to the prevailing aroma of coffee, electronics, and alpha ambition. The floor was polished concrete, streaked with grey and white, dotted with minimalist furniture in muted tones. People moved with a quick, purposeful energy, their shoes clicking, their voices a low, urgent hum punctuated by the occasional ring of a phone or a burst of laughter from somewhere unseen.
“Home sweet home,” Dave said, clapping Shouta on the back again before striding off towards a bank of desks, calling out to someone named Chloe.
“My desk is this way,” Shouta said to Izuku, his hand returning to guide him.
They walked through the open space. Izuku felt every glance like a physical touch. Curious looks from betas, longer, more assessing looks from alphas. He kept his eyes forward, on the proud line of his father’s back, on the perfect cut of his dark suit jacket. He was an anomaly here, a soft, quiet creature in a habitat of hard edges and loud voices.
Shouta’s workspace was not a cubicle, but a large, clean desk nestled in a corner with a breathtaking view of the city skyline. It was meticulously organized: a sleek computer, a single legal pad, a stainless steel pen holder, a framed family photo—taken last summer in the garden, everyone in yukata, smiling—and nothing else.
“You can sit here,” Shouta said, pulling a second, ergonomic chair from a nearby empty desk for Izuku. It was placed right beside his own, not in front of it. A place of proximity, not supplication. “There is water in the dispenser over there. The restroom is down the hall to the left. If you need to go, I will take you.”
Izuku nodded, sitting carefully, placing his small backpack by his feet. He watched as Shouta shrugged off his overcoat, hung it precisely on a stand, and powered on his computer. The screen came to life with a soft glow, filled with complex-looking graphs and charts.
For a while, there was a bubble of calm. Shouta worked, his fingers flying across the keyboard, his attention complete. Izuku sat still, observing. He watched the way his father’s brow would furrow slightly in concentration, the way he would tap a pen once, decisively, against the pad before writing a note. He watched the clouds move over the distant buildings. He tried to find their house, but the city was a labyrinth, and he was lost in its center.
The bubble was punctured by a rolling chair from the desk opposite. A young alpha man, probably in his late twenties, with a shock of red hair and a friendly, open face, wheeled himself over. His scent was like cedar and clean cotton.
“Hey, Mr. A. Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, his voice apologetic. He held a thick binder. “Just the final revisions on the Henderson proposal. You said you wanted to eyeball them before the ten o’clock.”
“I did. Thank you, Leo.” Shouta took the binder, already flipping it open. His demeanor was different with this younger alpha—still