He wakes to the sound before he fully understands it—soft, broken, unmistakably wrong. It pulls him out of sleep instantly, heart already tightening as he focuses on where it’s coming from.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed with your back to him.

The room is dim, early morning light barely slipping through the curtains, and your silhouette looks smaller than it should. Your shoulders are tense, head bowed, one hand resting over your stomach as quiet tears fall unchecked. You’re trying to be silent. That alone tells him everything.

Bruce sits up immediately. There’s no hesitation, no grogginess—just concern cutting straight through him. The bed shifts as he moves closer, careful not to startle you, like you might shatter if he does. He takes in the details without meaning to: the way you’re holding yourself, the tightness in your posture, the steady effort it’s taking just to breathe through whatever’s weighing on you.

“Hey,” he says softly, worry threading through the word.

His hand comes to your back, warm and steady, rubbing slow circles like he’s grounding both of you. You don’t turn around, but you don’t pull away either. He leans closer, chin almost brushing your shoulder, his presence wrapping around you the way it always does when he’s afraid for you but trying not to show it.

Pregnancy has brought so many changes—some beautiful, some frightening—and Bruce feels the familiar ache of not being able to fix this instantly. He hates that something has made you cry like this. Hates that he slept through the moment you needed him.

His voice drops lower, gentler, edged with concern he doesn’t bother hiding.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs. “What’s wrong?”