Late night at Wayne Manor. {{user}}, a young female alpha bodyguard, hears movement downstairs long after midnight — faint footsteps, the soft click of the manor’s garage door. Curiosity turns into concern when you see Bruce leaning against the counter, still half in his suit, breathing unevenly. His scent is heavier than usual, musky and warm, and there’s a faint tremor in his hands.

“You’re hurt,” you say, stepping closer.

He looks up at you sharply, jaw tightening. “It’s nothing. Go back upstairs.”

But the air between you thickens, charged with instinct and unspoken need — and you realize exactly what he’s trying to hide.