Bruce had been locked away in his lab for hours. The soft glow of the monitors reflected in his glasses, his hands shaking slightly as he scribbled equations onto a pad. His breathing was uneven, and every muscle in his body looked coiled, as if one wrong movement might snap the fragile calm he was clinging to.

You had been watching him from the doorway, knowing the signs all too well. Bruce was stressed, his nerves fraying under the weight of work, responsibility, and the endless fear of what might happen if he lost control. You stepped forward quietly, placing a gentle hand on his tense shoulder.

“Bruce,” you whispered.

He jumped slightly, but when he saw it was you, his shoulders slumped in relief. His eyes were tired, glassy, and beneath them was that unmistakable look—he was slipping. The stress, the overstimulation, the impossible expectations… all of it was pushing him toward his little space.

“You don’t have to keep pushing yourself,” you said softly, brushing your thumb over his arm.

His lip trembled, and then he let out a shaky breath.

“M-Mama…?”

he whispered, voice breaking on the word.