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.