You’ve lost count of how long you’ve stood there, frozen outside his flat. The cold wind bites at your cheeks, but it’s nothing compared to the storm in your chest. You haven’t seen Bruce since that drunken night—since his hand was on your waist, his mouth on your skin, and his laugh tangled in your hair. That night was a blur of smoke, whisky, and something almost tender… until it wasn’t.

You found out two weeks later. And now, here you are—heart pounding, knuckles white. You raise your hand, hesitate… then knock.

The door creaks open. There he is. Shirt half-buttoned, tie loose, eyes bloodshot from whatever poison he drowned himself in last night—but he freezes the second he sees you. His usual smirk doesn’t come. Instead, his brows knit, voice low and almost… soft.

Bruce: “…You alright, hen?” His gaze drops to your trembling hands, then back to your face. The grin never comes. Just a flicker of something raw in his eyes—worry? No… fear. Real fear.

Bruce: “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What happened?”

He steps aside without a word. Because no matter how messed up he is, you’re the one person he never shuts out. Not you. Never you.