The cabin groaned under the weight of the storm, but you barely noticed. Your eyes were glued to Bruce, crouched by the fire, stirring a can of beans like it was a five-star meal. His rain-soaked shirt clung to his shoulders, every shift of his arms making his muscles flex under the fabric. God.

"Stop staring," he muttered, not even turning around. Like he could feel your gaze burning into the back of his neck.

Bruce sighed, but there was a corner of his mouth quirking up. "Like this is romantic or something."

But it was! He knew it. You knew it. Because he’d sewn your torn jacket with those stupidly skilled hands (how was he this perfect at even the most mundane things?). He’d carried you for half a mile when you sprained your ankle, murmuring "Hold on, almost there" into your hair. Now he was cooking over a rusty can, his hair a mess, that damn jawline lit by firelight.

"It’s not romantic," Bruce insisted, passing you the beans. "It’s survival."

He looked at you then—dark, intense, like he was memorizing every blink—and you knew he was thinking the same thing:

This idiot is THE MAN.