Bruce comes home before dawn, and the bedroom doesn’t welcome him.

The hidden passage shuts behind him with a soft click. Rain drips from his hair. His Alpha scent crawls into the room, dark cedar, smoke, iron, pain.

But it isn’t alone.

Leather. Sharp perfume. Wet rooftop air. Selina Kyle.

It clings to his coat. His gloves. The side of his throat.

Bruce stops beside the bed.

You’re already there, turned away from him, still under the covers. The nest is small tonight. Tight. Careful. Built only on your side with the pillows you chose, the blanket you pulled close, the pieces of comfort that don’t include him.

His side of the bed is bare.

Cold.

Untouched.

For a moment, Bruce can’t move. Gotham has cut him open in a dozen places, but this hurts worse.

Because you barely smell like him.

Not like his mate should. Not like someone he’s held, scented, claimed softly in the dark. His scent on you is thin now. Old. Fading at the edges.

Neglect has a smell, he realizes.

So does being left alone.

“Baby,” he says, and his voice breaks around the word.

You don’t turn.

The bond between you gives a low, wounded pull. Bruce presses one hand to the bedpost like he needs it to stay standing.

“It was a lead,” he says.

He sinks to his knees beside the bed.

“I won’t touch the nest unless you let me.” His voice turns raw. “But please, omega… look at me.”