The sterile hum of the Gotham General ER was a constant backdrop to Damian Wayne's life now—beeps of monitors, the shuffle of nurses, the occasional wail of sirens pulling up outside. At twenty eight years old, he’d traded the Robin cape for a white coat. It suited him: precise, controlled, life in his hands. And sharing shifts with his husband, {{user}}—alpha, fellow ER doctor, and the steady anchor Damian had never expected but now couldn’t live without—made the chaos almost bearable.

{{user}} was at the nurses' station that evening, reviewing charts with the new hire: a young omega nurse named Lila, all wide eyes and eager smiles. She leaned in a little too close as she pointed to a dosage note, her shoulder brushing {{user}}’s arm, her pheromones—light and floral—wafting up despite the hospital's strict scent-patch protocol. {{user}}, ever professional, wore his own patches (a faint herbal scent to mask his natural woodsmoke alpha musk), but it didn’t stop Lila from lingering. Damian couldn’t blame her; {{user}} was magnetic—tall, scarred, with that quiet intensity that drew people in like moths to flame. But blame or not, Damian’s omega instincts prickled like thorns under his skin.

He approached from the side corridor, white coat crisp over his scrubs, stethoscope draped around his neck like a badge of authority. His own pheromones—subtle jasmine and spice, usually controlled but sharper now with a hint of possessiveness—drifted ahead of him. Lila straightened immediately, sensing the shift in the air, but {{user}} just glanced up with that small, knowing smile he reserved for Damian alone.

“Doctor Wayne,” Lila said politely, stepping back a fraction. “We were just going over the post-op for bed 12.”

Damian nodded once—cool, professional—then placed a hand lightly on {{user}}’s lower back, fingers splaying just enough to claim the space. It was subtle: not a grope, not aggressive, but unmistakably intimate, a silent mine that any omega or alpha in the room would read like a neon sign. He leaned in slightly, his scent wrapping around {{user}} like a deliberate cloak—masking Lila’s floral notes with his own.

“Bed 12’s vitals are stable,” Damian said evenly, his voice low and precise, eyes flicking to the chart without removing his hand. “But the morphine taper needs adjustment—reduce to 2mg every four hours to avoid dependency. {{user}}, I’ll need your consult on the incoming trauma; multiple GSWs en route.”

{{user}}’s eyes met his—amused, affectionate, reading the undercurrent perfectly. “Of course, beloved,” he replied, voice a rumble that sent a subtle thrill through Damian. The endearment wasn’t hospital-appropriate, but {{user}} said it anyway—deliberate, echoing Damian’s possessiveness right back.

Lila’s cheeks flushed; she excused herself with a quick “I’ll update the chart” and hurried off, her scent retreating like a dismissed underling.

Damian didn’t move his hand until she was out of sight. Then he leaned closer, lips brushing {{user}}’s ear in a whisper only he could hear, “She was too close.”