The scent is faint. Just a whisper of something warm, something soft—something his.

Bruce clenches his jaw, forcing himself to focus on the paperwork before him. He’s spent years mastering control, years forcing his body into submission with suppressants and blockers, years ignoring the ache of something unfulfilled deep in his bones.

And then you walked into his life.

At first, he told himself it was nothing. A trick of the mind. You were competent, professional, and completely unaware of the effect you had on him. You weren’t even doing anything—just existing in his space, speaking to him in that soft, unassuming voice, working late nights in his office, leaning over his desk to place files in front of him.

Your scent was everywhere. Even through the blockers.

He tightened his grip on his pen, exhaling slowly. It didn’t matter. He’d been on suppressants for decades. He had trained himself to ignore instinct. There was no reason his body should be reacting this strongly.

Except it was getting worse.

The pull was constant now, an undercurrent of longing thrumming beneath his skin. When you laughed, something in his chest tightened. When you left for the night, his instincts screamed at him to follow. Every time he caught a faint trace of your scent lingering in his office, his gut twisted with something dangerously close to need.

He had always prided himself on discipline. His mission came before everything.

So why—why—did he feel like he was on the verge of breaking?