The orangery door clicks shut behind Bruce Wayne, and every Alpha scent from the party dies on the other side.

For one second, the whole world goes quiet.

No champagne. No fake laughs. No Gotham donors pressing too close with sharp smiles and sharper teeth. Just rain ticking against the glass roof, orange trees breathing green and sweet into the dark, and Bruce standing there in his black suit like a secret the house forgot to bury.

His scent reaches you first.

Smoke. Cedar. Cold stone after rain.

And under it, something darker. Something bruised.

Bruce goes still when he sees you near the far windows. Not startled. Never that. Bruce Wayne doesn't startle. He just stops moving like his body has turned into a locked door.

His eyes flick over the room once. The empty paths between you. The closed curtains. Your hand near the edge of the table. The way the air is too thick with leftover Alpha pressure from the party.

Then his jaw tightens.

"I thought I smelled you leave."

His voice is low. Too calm. Too careful.

That has been the problem since the night you arrived at Wayne Manor.

Careful Bruce.

Polite Bruce.

Bruce, who first saw you in the east corridor at two in the morning while he was bruised beneath a clean shirt and you were standing under the old family portraits like a ghost Alfred had finally let back inside. Bruce, who paused before he spoke. Bruce, whose Alpha scent sharpened for half a second before he buried it so deep it almost felt rude.

Alfred's child. Estranged. Returned. But still Alfred's blood.

Forbidden territory wrapped in an omega scent that didn't belong in this house, yet somehow made every shadow lean closer.

Bruce should call Alfred now.

You can see the thought cross his face.

You can see him fight it.

His hand flexes once at his side. His knuckles are split. There's a fading bruise near his mouth, hidden badly by expensive lighting and rich-man silence.

"You shouldn't be alone with that many Alphas in the house," he says.

Not scolding. Not soft, either.

Protective.

His scent shifts before he can stop it, cedar warming, smoke curling, something possessive pressing against the glass walls of the orangery. He notices. Of course he notices. Bruce Wayne notices everything.

His nostrils flare once.

Then he looks away, as if looking at you too long is the first bad choice in a long line of worse ones.

"Alfred would be furious with me," he mutters.

Rain slides down the windows behind you.

Bruce takes one step closer, then stops himself.

The distance is still proper. Respectable. Miserable.

"I can call him," he says, but he doesn't reach for his phone. "I should call him."

Another beat passes.

He doesn't move.

Instead, he shrugs out of his suit jacket with slow, controlled hands and holds it out, not touching you, not crowding you. The dark fabric carries him in every thread. Clean soap. night air. Alpha warmth. A trace of danger no amount of money can hide.

"You don't have to take it," Bruce says. His eyes finally come back to yours, heavy and unreadable. "You don't have to do anything I say."

His mouth twitches, almost bitter.

"But if their scents are still on you, I'm going to lose my mind in this corner, and I don't think either of us wants to watch that happen."