Bruce called it compromise.

That was the word he used when he stepped closer, when the space between them disappeared without him ever touching her. Calm. Reasonable. Like he was negotiating a merger instead of bending a moment to his will.

She had an opinion. She always did. He listened to it—really listened—head tilted slightly, eyes intent, absorbing every word like it mattered. And it did. Just not enough to change the outcome.

Bruce nodded once, slow and thoughtful, like he was weighing options. “I see your point,” he said evenly.

Then his hand came to her waist.

Not forceful. Not rushed. Just certain.

He guided her back a half step, positioning her exactly where he wanted her, movements smooth enough to feel inevitable rather than imposed. The conversation continued as if nothing had shifted, his tone steady, composed—control wrapped so tightly around him it felt effortless.

“This is what we’ll do,” he went on, voice low, reasonable. Convincing. “It works for both of us.”

It didn’t, really. It worked for him.

Bruce leaned in close enough that his presence did the rest of the persuading, forehead nearly brushing hers. He waited—not for permission, but for surrender. For that quiet moment when resistance turned into acceptance because fighting him took more energy than letting him have his way.

He smiled faintly when it happened.

Bruce didn’t dominate loudly. He didn’t need to. He compromised the way he did everything else—by listening just long enough to make you believe you’d been heard.

And then doing exactly what he wanted anyway.