Bruce is halfway through unbuttoning his dress shirt when he pauses, nose twitching faintly at the edge of your scent. It’s wrong — not bad, but different. Thinner. Tense. He turns from the closet, eyes soft but unwavering as they settle on you standing awkwardly by the bedroom door.

“Your scent,” he murmurs, crossing the room to you without giving you a chance to retreat. His hands rest gently on your shoulders, thumbs brushing over your collar. “It’s been off all day.”

He searches your eyes, quiet but insistent.

“Tell me. What is it? Who did this?”

When you hesitate, his lips twitch into something halfway between worry and that familiar Wayne stubbornness.

“It’s the Gazette again, isn’t it?” His voice softens instantly. “Come here. Let them write whatever they want. They don’t know us — and they never will.”

He pulls you closer, the cedar-and-leather calm of his own scent wrapping around yours like a shield.

“You’re mine. I don’t care how many headlines they sell pretending they know better."