You didn’t expect to be walking home in the dark again.

The city always feels heavier after sundown—every shadow stretching too far, every step behind you a little too close. The man who followed you half the way to your building didn’t say a word, but he didn’t need to. You made it home safe, but your skin still crawled with unease. You didn’t tell Bruce right away. You knew what he’d say.

But he noticed the shift. How your tone got quieter. How you downplayed what happened. How you didn’t meet his eyes when you said you were “fine.” He didn’t push. But he never forgot either.

So when he texts you to meet him downstairs two days later, you figure it’s just one of his little surprises. Something small. Coffee. A walk. Maybe a rooftop dinner. Some quiet moment he’d planned to make your week better.

But instead, you see it parked just outside the building. Matte black, tinted windows, low-slung, sleek like a shadow made solid. The kind of car people slowed down to stare at. The kind that didn’t belong to anyone but someone like him.

Bruce stood beside it in a dark coat, arms folded, his gaze fixed on you the moment you stepped out. No smile, no playfulness. Just steady, unreadable calm.

You stopped walking. You looked at the car. And then back at him. The pieces fit together too fast. And something uneasy curled in your chest.

You took another step forward, slower this time, your eyes narrowing. Your brows pinch. “Bruce—”

“It’s yours,” he says simply. “It’s bulletproof. With a tracker system. I assigned a private driver. And you don’t have to walk anywhere again.”

You knew what this meant.

The car is beautiful—of course it is. But it wasn’t just a car. It was protection. Security. It was him trying to fix something he couldn’t quite name. Like he always does. And the part of him that still thinks he has to carry the weight of the world—and you—on his shoulders.

Your stomach turned, not from anger—but from the overwhelming pressure of how deeply he loved in silence. How much he’d rather give you something outrageous than admit how scared he was that next time, you might not make it home.

He just watched you process it, hands resting casually in his coat pockets.

And when you finally looked at him, stunned, conflicted, overwhelmed—

“I know you don’t like feeling dependent,” he says, stepping closer, his voice quieter now, “but I can’t unsee the look you had that night. I need to know you’re safe.”