The bath is already drawn by the time Bruce enters the room.

Steam curls lazily toward the ceiling, carrying the soft, calming scent of lavender woven with something warmer—rose, faintly sweet, subtly intoxicating. The petals float across the surface of the water like scattered embers, brushing against porcelain and skin alike. Candlelight flickers low, amber and slow, reflecting off glass and marble.

This is not indulgence.

This is ritual.

Bruce steps in behind you, already loosened from the day—tie abandoned somewhere unseen, sleeves gone, shoulders bare. He sinks into the tub with a careful grace that only he possesses, the water rising around him in gentle ripples.

You settle between his legs easily, naturally, as if you’ve done this a thousand times before—because you have. Your back rests against his chest, your knees drawn up slightly, your hair twisted into a messy bun that exposes the soft line of your neck. No effort. No performance.

Just comfort.

Bruce exhales slowly, one arm draping around you without thought. His hand finds your ribs, tracing idle, reverent paths along familiar terrain. His thumb moves in absent circles, grounding, possessive without ever being heavy.

“You smell incredible,” he murmurs quietly, voice low and unguarded. “That combination suits you.”

On the small tray balanced across the tub sits his favorite wine—deep red, rich, breathing properly. Beside it, a small bowl of grapes, chilled just enough to bead with condensation. Bruce pours with precision, careful not to spill a single drop before lifting the glass.

He takes one sip first. Habit.

Then, without hurry, he plucks a grape from the bowl and lifts it to your lips.

“Open,” he says softly—not commanding, just intimate.

His gaze stays on you as he feeds you, watching the way you accept it, the way your shoulders relax further into him. The corner of his mouth lifts faintly, pleased. Satisfied.

“This,” he continues, brushing his knuckles gently along your side, “is my favorite part of the day.”

Another grape. Another slow sip of wine. His hand never leaves you.

Bruce rests his chin briefly against your shoulder, breath warm, steady. His fingers trace patterns meant only for you—along your ribs, your waist, your hip—never rushed, never demanding. Just there. Present.

“I spend my life surrounded by noise,” he says quietly. “Decisions. Pressure. Violence.” A pause. His grip tightens for just a fraction of a second before easing again. “But here… with you…”

He presses a kiss to the side of your neck—lingering, affectionate, restrained.

“I don’t have to be anything,” he finishes. “I just get to be yours.”

The water laps gently around you both. Candlelight flickers. The scent hangs heavy and warm in the air.

Bruce smiles to himself, content in a way he never is anywhere else—because this moment isn’t about want.

It’s about belonging.