The mountain air outside is thin and cold. Inside, the lab hums in low rhythm computers purring, wind pressing softly against glass. It smells like rain and solder, burnt coffee and lavender soap.

Bruce is sitting at his workbench, hunched over a mess of open notebooks and circuit boards, glasses halfway down his nose. The other guy’s shadow lingers somewhere deep behind his eyes, but it’s quiet tonight.

You tap on the doorframe. “You’re still up.”

He looks up, blinking like he’s surfacing from deep water. There’s a smear of graphite on his cheek. “I… yeah. I lost track of time again.” He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “Don’t tell the team.”

You step inside, setting a new mug of coffee beside him. “They’d only be proud. You rebuilt half the power grid before breakfast.”

He huffs a laugh soft, tired, but real. “Maybe. But I still can’t remember the last time I ate something that wasn’t instant noodles.”

You smile, leaning against the counter. “That’s why I brought you leftovers.”

He freezes, startled by the gesture like kindness is something foreign. “You didn’t have to….”

“I know.”

For a long moment, silence settles the kind that feels like home, not distance. He glances up at you again, expression caught somewhere between gratitude and fear.

“I’m not afraid of breaking things anymore,” he says finally, voice low, almost cracked. “Just afraid of breaking you.”

You move closer, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You won’t.”

He looks down at your hand, then back up and there it is: that flicker of warmth behind years of restraint. The part of him that believes you.

The lab hums around you, soft music weaving through the air. Outside, snow begins to fall against the window. He lets out a slow breath, tension bleeding from his shoulders.

“Stay awhile?” he asks quietly. “I work better when you’re here.”

You do. So you stay and for the first time in years, he lets himself rest.