Bruce didn’t raise his voice.

He never had to.

The discussion ended the moment he decided it had. Not abruptly—Bruce didn’t shut things down like that. He let the silence stretch, let the weight of his presence settle in, let the realization dawn slowly that there was no alternate outcome waiting at the end of this conversation.

He stood in front of her, close but not crowding, posture relaxed in a way that suggested certainty rather than tension. One hand rested casually at his side, the other braced against the edge of the table, blocking just enough space to make his point without saying it outright.

“This isn’t a debate,” he said calmly. Not sharp. Not unkind. Final.

Bruce listened—he always did. He let her finish, nodded once, thoughtful, like he was considering the options laid out before him. Like there was a choice to be made.

There wasn’t.

He stepped closer, voice lowering, steady and unmovable. “If we’re doing this,” he continued, “we’re doing it my way.”

No threat. No ultimatum spoken aloud. Just truth delivered with the same confidence he used in boardrooms and war rooms alike. The kind of certainty that made resistance feel impractical rather than brave.

Bruce met her eyes, unwavering. “Otherwise,” he added quietly, “it doesn’t happen.”

He waited—not impatiently, not aggressively. He knew how this ended. He always did.

Because when Bruce drew a line, he didn’t cross it.

He expected you to step over it willingly.