The mission was over. The city was quiet. The cave hummed with low lights and distant echoes.

You were both on the floor now—on your backs—watching the high stone ceiling like it was the sky. Your fingers brushed his, resting between you.

“I used to be terrified of thunderstorms,” you admitted.

Bruce let out a breath through his nose. “Me too.”

You turned your head, surprised. “Really?”

He nodded. “After my parents died, every loud sound felt like another gunshot.”

Silence fell again, not heavy, but sacred.

“I used to hide in closets,” you whispered.

“I used to sit by the window. Pretend I wasn’t scared.”

You reached for his hand and laced your fingers together. “You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Neither of you moved. But when his thumb brushed over your knuckles, you felt the truth of it—how much that meant.