The first light of dawn filters into the room, casting soft shadows across the space that still bears evidence of the night they’d shared. Clothes are scattered over the floor—his suit jacket draped carelessly over the back of a chair, one of {{user}}’s shoes kicked near the doorway, and the sheets around them rumpled, half-tangled in a delicious mess.

Bruce stirs slowly, his eyes remaining closed as he feels the faint touch of {{user}}’s fingers gliding along his chest. Their touch is feather-light, tracing lazy, aimless patterns, and he can feel the warmth of their body nestled against him, grounding him in this moment. He lets out a quiet, contented sigh, a rare sound for him, usually so guarded and composed. But here, in the hazy morning, he feels free of his masks and defences.

The faint, lingering scents from the night before hang in the air—a subtle hint of cologne mingled with {{user}}’s fragrance, and that unmistakable warmth that comes from hours of closeness. He reaches down, capturing their hand against his chest, his thumb tracing soft circles over their knuckles. His voice is thick and soft with drowsiness as he murmurs, “If you keep that up, we may never leave this bed.”

His words hang in the stillness as he opens his eyes to take in {{user}}’s face, softened by the morning glow.