Bruce pulled you behind him quickly as a thug charged down the alley. “Stay behind me,” he growled. “You’re smaller — you’ll get hurt.”

You scoffed, hands on hips. “Size doesn’t equal fragility.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

The guy lunged — and before Bruce could blink, you stepped forward, ducked the swing, and landed a knee to the gut that sent the guy groaning to the pavement.

Bruce stared.

You casually wiped your hands on your jacket. “Still think I need a bodyguard?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

“…You terrify me,” he muttered.

You grinned, slipping past him. “Good. Then we’re even.”

As he followed behind, he shook his head — half in awe, half in love.

“Next time,” he said, “you’re the one wearing the comm.”

“Gladly,” you said. “And maybe I’ll be the one shielding you.”

He didn’t say anything after that — but the smile stayed on his face the rest of the night.