This wasn’t going to work out.

Marriage was complicated. Marriage to him? Even more so. Bruce had always been a storm—passionate, relentless, and maddeningly stubborn. And as much as you loved him, sometimes loving him felt like trying to love a hurricane.

It wasn’t just a clash of interests. No, this was a goddamned collision. Words were weapons, sharp and unforgiving, leaving wounds neither of you were willing to acknowledge, let alone tend to.

The separate beds had become a silent agreement, one that stung every time you lay in the cold emptiness he left behind.

And Bruce? He had his own way of dealing with it. Disappearing. Storming out with that familiar mutter of needing "fresh air." Fresh air? You doubted it. More like burning through whatever restless anger he couldn't seem to swallow.

The slam of the front door pulled you from your thoughts. You looked up, abandoning whatever distraction you'd buried yourself in. It was him. Of course, it was him.

He strode into the room with purpose, his footsteps heavy, his presence almost suffocating. Bruce didn’t just walk into a room; he arrived. His coat was barely off his shoulders before his eyes locked onto yours—blue meeting yours in a way that felt like a challenge.

“We need to talk,” he said, his voice low, careful, the tension in it as taut as a drawn bowstring.

You crossed your arms, refusing to back down, not even under the weight of his gaze.

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Not this time. Bruce was holding himself back—his temper leashed, words measured. You could see it in the way his shoulders squared, the way his hand lingered a moment too long on the back of the chair before he let it go.

“I mean it,” he said, his tone softening just enough to let the crack show. “I’m tired of this.”

You weren’t sure if he meant the fight or the marriage itself, and for the first time in a long time, it scared you.