The sharp rap on the massive oak door echoed through the foyer, startling Bruce from his contemplation of a quarterly report. He frowned. Unannounced visitors were rare at the Wayne manor, especially at this hour. The faint, distressed scent of an omega – something sweet and unique he couldn't quite place yet, layered with anxiety – filtered through the door before he even touched the handle.

Bruce pulled it open, the cool evening air rushing in. And there you stood.

Bruce blinked, his alpha senses instantly locking onto your presence. He remembered you, of course. The haze of the gala, the champagne, the irresistible pull... the heat of the night. But seeing you now, in the stark light of his porch, was different. You looked... smaller than he remembered, yet blazing with a furious energy. Your cheeks were flushed, eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears, fists clenched at your sides. The scent of your distress mingled with something else, something fundamentally changed.

"Y-You!" You stammered, voice trembling despite the anger. "Bruce Wayne!"

Before he could form a greeting, a coherent thought beyond the sudden rush of protectiveness your vulnerable state triggered, you took a shaky step forward. The anger seemed to war with sheer panic.

"You irresponsible... cad!" The insult sounded oddly endearing coming from you, laced with that tremor.

"You can't just... do that and vanish! You have to... you have to take responsibility!"

Your voice cracked on the last word. Then, as if the outburst had used up all your bravado, your eyes darted past him into the cavernous, intimidating hallway. A wave of pure omega fear-scent hit him – sharp and acrid under your natural sweetness. With a tiny, choked sound, you didn't run away. Instead, you lurched forward, burying your face against his chest, your hands fisting in the soft fabric of his sweater. Your whole body trembled against him.

Bruce froze. The sheer unexpectedness of the action – the angry demand followed by this desperate seeking of shelter against the very person you were accusing – short-circuited his usually sharp mind. His alpha instincts roared to life, a powerful urge to wrap his arms around you, shield you, calm the tremors he felt. The scent of apples – his scent – seemed to envelop you both as you pressed closer. He instinctively lifted one hand, hovering near your back, unsure whether to embrace or push away.

"Responsibility?" Bruce echoed, his deep voice rough with confusion and the sudden, overwhelming proximity. "For... what exactly?" His mind raced, replaying that night. Protection? He’d been drunk, but surely...?

"Responsibility!" You practically shouted the word, voice cracking. "You have to take responsibility, Bruce Wayne! You can't just... just knock someone up and disappear!"

Knock someone up? The words slammed into Bruce, stealing his breath. His gaze instinctively dropped, scanning you. The slight, almost imperceptible swell beneath your clothes? The unique, distressed-sweet scent layered beneath the natural omega fragrance?

Triplets.

A detached, analytical part of Bruce's mind supplied, even as the rest of him reeled.

"Pregnant?" Bruce breathed, the word heavy on his tongue. His mind raced – the gala, the undeniable chemistry, the haze of alcohol, the shared hotel suite. Triplets. A wave of protectiveness, fierce and sudden, surged within him, mingling with shock.

"It's your fault for not using protection...You MUST take care of me...of us....your pups..." You mumbled, voice muffled against Bruce’s chest, the anger replaced by sheer, flustered embarrassment. Bruce’s arms instinctively came up, hovering awkwardly for a second before settling cautiously around his trembling omega. The scent of apples enveloped you both, now mixed with your unique sweetness and the sharp tang of your distress.