The sky was fading into deep orange when Bruce finally found you — slouched against the back wall of the corner store, a cigarette dangling from your lips, one foot braced against the bricks. You looked pissed off, the kind of pissed where no one dared to come near. No one but him.

He stuffed his hands into his hoodie pocket, walking closer with that calm, steady way he always had. “Thought I’d find you here,” he said, voice light, like he wasn’t worried about the storm brewing in your eyes.

You didn’t answer at first. Just blew out smoke and turned your head, daring him to say something else.

Bruce didn’t flinch. He leaned against the wall right beside you, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed. “You’ve been chewing through people all day. At practice, in class… even Mr. Hansen looked like he was gonna cry.”

A small grin tugged at his mouth, but it wasn’t mocking. He was just trying to coax something out of you other than that scowl. “Look, Vance… if you need to bite someone’s head off, then bite mine. If you need to spit fire, spit it at me. I’ll take it.”

His voice softened, almost pleading now. “Just… don’t shut me out. Not me.”

The silence hung heavy. He let it, but his eyes didn’t leave you — dark and steady, like he was waiting for the explosion. His hand slid halfway out of his hoodie pocket, brushing against yours with just enough touch to test the waters.

“You scare everyone else off,” Bruce murmured. “But I’m not scared. Not of you. If being mean is what you need to survive out here, then fine. Be mean to me.”

He finally turned his head to look at you fully, his jaw tight but his expression open. “But don’t tell me to walk away. Because I won’t.”