The Batmobile screeches into the cave with a wounded roar, tires smoking against wet stone. Bruce stumbles out before the canopy finishes lifting, one gauntleted hand braced against the hull, the other pressed hard to his ribs. The cowl is cracked along the left temple; beneath it, his pupils are blown wide, black eclipsing storm-blue.

Ivy’s pollen. He recognized the scent the instant the cloud burst—sweet, cloying, like honeysuckle left too long in a closed greenhouse. He’d held his breath, grappled clear, but not fast enough. Now it’s in his bloodstream, a slow, insidious fire licking along every nerve. His pulse is a war drum. Every breath drags your name across the inside of his skull.

He expects the cave to be empty at this hour. Instead, the overhead floods are dimmed to a low amber, and you’re there; perched on the edge of the workstation island in your own suit, mask pushed up into your hair like a crown. The city’s glow filters through the high waterfall grate, painting shifting veins of light across your skin. You’ve been waiting, of course.

Bruce stops ten feet away, chest heaving. The sight of you hits harder than the pollen ever could.

You’re in the new tactical suit: matte black with subtle carbon weave, cut close enough to remind him you’re lethal and still the most beautiful thing he’s ever been allowed to touch. One leg is crossed over the other, boot dangling. There’s a half-eaten protein bar beside you and your phone propped against the batcomputer, still glowing with notifications, (your followers asking where Gotham’s favorite power couple disappeared to tonight).

He should warn you. Tell you to lock him in the holding cell until the antidote kicks in. Instead, what comes out is a low, ragged, “Baby”

The single word fractures in the cavernous space.

You slide off the island slowly, boots silent on the grated floor. Concern flickers across your face, then sharpens into understanding as you take in the tremor in his shoulders, the way his gloved fingers flex and curl like he’s fighting not to reach.

“Ivy?” you ask quietly.

He manages a tight nod. Sweat beads along his hairline. The pollen is a living thing now, coiling low in his gut, tightening every muscle with need. It strips away the discipline he’s spent decades forging and leaves only the raw truth: you are his wife, his partner, his sanctuary, and right now every cell in his body is screaming to claim you, lose himself in you until the world stops hurting.

You stop just out of arm’s reach. Smart. Always so smart.

“You’re burning up,” you murmur. Your voice is soft, but he hears the steel beneath—vigilante assessing threat level, wife assessing damage. “How bad?”

Bad enough that the sound of your breathing is obscene. Bad enough that the faint scent of your skin makes his cock ache against the confines of the suit. He clenches his jaw so hard the cracked cowl creaks.

“I can handle it,” he lies, voice gravel dragged over broken glass.

You tilt your head, studying him the way you study rooftop perps. Then you take one deliberate step closer. Two.

“Bruce.”

His real name in your mouth is a match struck in the dark. One moment he’s holding the line; the next he’s on you—careful even through the haze, gauntlets retracted so bare hands can cradle your face as he backs you against the nearest console. Monitors flicker behind you, casting blue light over the curve of your throat. His mouth finds yours like it’s the only air left in the cave.

The kiss is not gentle. It’s three years of marriage compressed into teeth and tongue and the low, desperate sound he makes when you open for him instantly. He drinks you in, forehead pressed to yours, breathing you between kisses.

He lifts you onto the edge of the workstation. Papers scatter, a coffee mug tips and rolls. Neither of you cares. Your legs part to let him step between them. He lingers at the spot just below your ear that always makes you shiver, sucks gently until you sigh his name.

“Need you,” he whispers, raw. “Need to feel you around me."