The silence in the study was deafening after Bruce's words hung in the air between you. The lunch you'd brought—his favorite, carefully packed—sat untouched on your hands, the steam long since faded.

Bruce had his face buried in his hands, elbows propped on the polished wood, his shoulders tense beneath the fabric of his dress shirt. The morning light streaming through the windows did nothing to soften the exhaustion etched into his features.

You stood frozen, the paper bag in your hands suddenly feeling absurdly heavy.

"You drain my energy."

The words echoed in your skull, sharp and unrelenting. You'd only wanted to help. To pull him out of the brooding spiral he'd been in since dawn. But now— Now you weren't sure if you were his solace or just another burden.

"It's just that, sometimes, you drain my energy" He keeps going. "You're talking all the time, all the time wasting too much energy on everything. And I'm stressed. Life is not as easy as it is at your age." Does he love you? Or does he just tolerate you?