The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound cutting through the silence.

It was almost 2 a.m. when Bruce finally walked through the door — blood on his sleeve, bruises blooming across his jaw. You were at the counter, your hands clenched around a half-made cup of tea you no longer wanted.

You didn’t even look up. “You didn’t call.”

He froze in the doorway.

“I couldn’t,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t,” you snapped. “There’s a difference.”

Bruce stepped into the kitchen slowly, peeling off his gloves, eyes heavy with exhaustion. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

You slammed the mug down. “You disappeared for eight hours, Bruce. There’s not a version of that where I’m not worried.”

He sighed, leaning against the island, trying to find the words — trying to stay calm. “It got complicated. I handled it.”

“That’s the problem,” you said, turning to face him, fury and fear both fighting for control. “You keep handling everything. Alone. Like your life is expendable.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Yes, it is! You act like if you don’t make it back, that’s just part of the job. Do you even think about what that would do to me?”

His expression cracked, just a little. “Of course I do.”

“Then why do you keep shutting me out?” you said, voice breaking. “Why do you keep going into hell and leaving me in the dark?”

He looked at you now — really looked. Hair still damp from the rain, guilt in every line of his face.

“Because if I let myself feel how much you mean to me out there…” His voice dropped. “I’d hesitate. And if I hesitate, I die.”

You stepped closer, hands trembling. “And if you keep treating me like I don’t belong in this part of your life — like I’m some delicate thing you have to protect from the truth — you’re going to lose me anyway.”

That stopped him cold.

The kitchen was quiet again, but it was a different kind of silence — the kind that settles in when the truth’s too loud to ignore.

Finally, Bruce closed the space between you, gently reaching for your hand.

“I don’t know how to be what you need,”