The door to the penthouse clicked open just past midnight, silent save for the whisper of the city wind rushing in behind the figure who stepped through. Damian Wayne’s silhouette was sharp against the moonlight slicing through the floor-to-ceiling windows—broad shoulders tense beneath his black combat jacket, jaw clenched, hair slightly mussed from the fight.

He shut the door behind him with more force than usual.

You looked up from the couch, where a blanket still clung to your legs and a book lay forgotten in your lap. A flicker of warmth lit your features—relief, love, that soft kind of sweetness that always made his chest ache. "Hey," you said gently, standing. “You’re late. Again.”

He didn't answer right away.

His green eyes found you, and for a moment, they were unreadable. But you knew that look. Damian was off.

Something shifted in the air between you before he even crossed the room.

"I shouldn’t have come home," he muttered, voice low, rough, like gravel dragged through heat. "Not like this."

You paused, frowning, stepping closer. “You’re hurt?”

“No,” he snapped—too quickly, too tightly. Then he shook his head and looked away, as if ashamed. “Not physically.”

It was then you saw it. The fine tremor in his hands. The way his chest rose and fell too quickly. His pupils blown wide, skin flushed despite the cool air. And Damian Wayne never lost control of his body like this. Not unless—

Your heart thudded. “Pollen?”

He nodded once, jaw locked.

Your breath caught. You’d heard of it—that kind of pollen. Gotham’s rogues had been getting inventive lately. An airborne aphrodisiac toxin, engineered to hit hard and fast, almost impossible to resist once it got into the bloodstream. Even Damian—cold, disciplined, lethal Damian—wasn’t immune.

He looked at you now like a man fighting a war inside himself.

“I’m fine,” he said, though it was clear he wasn’t. “I’ll sleep in the gym. It’ll burn off.” But his voice cracked, just slightly, when he glanced at the curve of your hip in that worn T-shirt—his shirt—and your hair tousled from waiting up for him. He loved you. Every inch of you. But right now, loving you meant staying away.

You stepped toward him, eyes wide and soft. “Damian…”

His hand shot out, fingers brushing your arm—but he pulled back like it burned. “Don’t. I can’t hurt you.”

But God, he wanted to touch you. Wanted to bury himself in your scent, in the familiar shape of your body against his. Every nerve screamed for it.

He was losing the fight.

“Tell me to go,” he growled, nearly pleading. “Please.”