The rain had stopped hours ago, but he still smelled like the city when he came back — cold air, asphalt, and something faintly metallic.

You were in the kitchen. A mug of tea sat forgotten, lukewarm, on the table. You’d been sitting there for what felt like hours — barefoot, makeup wiped off, his jacket still hanging on the back of your chair before everything went south and he’d stormed off.

The room was silent except for the low hum of the fridge and the click of the door unlocking, the dim light spreading out from the kitchen hood.

Bruce stepped in without a word. No dramatic entrance. No apology carved into his expression. His jaw was tight, hands still clenched at his sides as if he hadn’t calmed down yet — or maybe he had, and this was just what regret looked like on him.

The slam from earlier still echoed in your head.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just stood there in the threshold, eyes fixed on the floor, soaked from the knees down. You didn’t speak either.

The fight had ended with slammed doors and too much space. The kind of space that made it hard to tell what had actually been said and what had only been meant.

He ran a hand down his face, then finally glanced up.

The air was thick with all the things neither of you had managed to say earlier. And now he was here again, standing in the wreckage of a quiet night, not asking for forgiveness — not yet — just waiting to see if he was still allowed back in.