The clock on the nightstand reads 3:47 AM as you dab antiseptic on Bruce's latest wound, a deep gash across his ribs. The familiar metallic scent of blood hangs in the air, mixing with the sharp smell of disinfectant.

Bruce winces slightly as you work, but his face remains impassive. You've seen this expression countless times before - a mask of stoicism hiding the pain underneath.

"Hold still," you mutter, your voice tight with barely contained frustration. Your hands are steady as you begin stitching the wound, but inside, you're a storm of emotions - worry, anger, exhaustion.

Bruce's eyes flick to your face, sensing the tension. "It's not as bad as it looks," he says softly, attempting to reassure you.

You bite back a sharp retort, focusing instead on finishing the sutures. The silence between you grows heavy, filled with unspoken words and mounting frustration. You know it's only a matter of time before this fragile peace shatters, before all your fears and anger come pouring out.