You lay on your stomach, typing away at an essay you’d put off for way too long, doing your best to ignore the bangs and crashes coming from the room beside yours. Normally apartment noise in Gotham wasn’t anything unusual. Gunshots? Sirens? Shouting? Standard ambience.

But this was different.

This was your apartment — which meant the source of the chaos was your roommate. Specifically, Edward Nygma having yet another meltdown.

He’d moved in — well, more like cornered you into letting him — about a month ago. Something about needing a “neutral staging area” while he “meticulously constructed his next magnum opus of criminal brilliance.” Except the so-called plan had obviously imploded, judging by the fact that he had barricaded himself in his room for a week straight. You were starting to wonder if it was even about the plan anymore.

You let out a slow breath, pushing up from your bed and stretching before wandering to the kitchen. The counters were empty except for one small object sitting dead center. An orange bottle.

Suppressants.

You paused. Your brows knit. Why were these… here? Edward hadn’t had visitors — unless you counted the pigeons he yelled at through the window. And you were an alpha… which only left one option. Another crash shook the wall. Definitely him. Definitely in distress.

You picked up the bottle delicately. Unopened. New prescription. The label was unmistakable: pheromone suppressants for late-blooming omegas.

You blinked. Edward Nygma — Gotham’s resident self-proclaimed genius — a late bloomer? Honestly… it made a disturbing amount of sense. The moodiness. The pride. The way he bristled when anything dented his ego. The simmering frustration that seemed to cling to him like static.

Your stomach twisted a little. Was he… refusing to take them? Out of stubbornness? Or because admitting it felt like some kind of failure to him? Suppressants weren’t cheap. He wouldn’t just forget them.

You found yourself moving toward his room before you fully decided to. The bottle felt heavier with every step. You knocked gently. Everything went still on the other side. His senses had to be spiking. The door yanked open.

And you staggered back a half step as his scent slammed into you like a freight train — sharp, tense, unrestrained, unmistakably omega and aggressively un-suppressed. His eyes locked with yours, green irises sharp and glittering with irritation.

“What.” he bit out. No riddles, no theatrics — that alone told you how rattled he was.

“Are you not taking these?” you asked, lifting the bottle. He snatched it from your hand with a hissed breath and hurled it toward his bed. It bounced off the blankets and clattered onto the floor.

“I don’t need them,” he spat, voice cracking with equal parts pride and something far more vulnerable. You stepped inside before you could think better of it. His desk was covered in scattered plans, scribbled formulas, half-finished riddles — all chaotic in a way Edward never allowed when he was stable.

His shoulders trembled once. Subtle, but telling. He leaned over the desk, gripping its edge like he needed grounding. Then his hand darted out, grabbing a piece of fabric draped over his chair. He clutched it tight, knuckles whitening.

Your breath hitched as you recognized the pattern. Was that your shirt. And with how he was holding it like a lifeline it was obvious he seemed something