“Say it again.”

His grip is firm—not rough, but unyielding—fingers pressing into your jaw, tilting your face up so you can’t look away.

“Say you don’t love me.”

You swallow hard. “Bruce—”

His thumb brushes your lower lip. His expression is unreadable.

“I won’t get mad,” he murmurs. “Just say it.”

But you can’t.

Because you do.

And he knows.