You insisted it was just a scratch.

But the moment Bruce saw the bandage on your arm — the bruises blooming like shadows — something in him snapped.

“Where was your phone? Why didn’t you call me?” His voice was low, but his hands were shaking as they cleaned your wound.

You tried to soothe him. “It was fast. I’m okay.”

“No,” he said sharply, then softer, “you’re not okay. You could’ve—” He stopped.

You placed your hand over his. “I’m right here, Bruce.”

He sat beside you, pressing his forehead to your shoulder like it grounded him. Like losing you wasn’t even an option.

Not ever.