You found him in the study — slumped on the couch, half a bottle of scotch clutched loosely in one hand, the rest spilled on the floor near broken glass.

“Bruce,” you said softly, barely above a whisper.

He looked up, eyes unfocused, red at the corners. He wasn’t just drunk — he was gone. The kind of drunk that reeked of grief and ghosts. Something had happened. Another mission gone wrong? A death? You didn’t know yet. You just knew this wasn’t him.

“I thought—” he slurred, standing too fast. He staggered toward you. “I thought you were—leaving.”

Your heart jumped. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He pointed at you. “Don’t lie to me. Everyone lies.”

“Bruce,” you said again, firmer this time, reaching out to steady him. “You’re not well. Let’s just—let’s sit down, okay?”

But when your hand brushed his arm, he flinched — and before he could think, before you could move—

He shoved your hand away.

Hard.

You stumbled backward, hit the edge of the table, breath catching as your back met wood. It wasn’t a punch. It wasn’t calculated. But it was a strike. His eyes widened instantly.

Silence.

The world froze.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling, hand at your ribs more from shock than pain.

“I—” he choked, face draining of all color. “No. No, no, no…”

“Bruce,” you whispered.

His knees gave, and he dropped to the floor, palms pressed to his face, voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know it was you—I would never—”

You didn’t move right away.

Part of you wanted to run. Part of you wanted to scream.

But mostly… you were just brokenhearted.

“I know you wouldn’t,” you said, finally kneeling across from him. “But you did.”

He looked up at you then — truly looked. Eyes wide, rimmed red, glassy with tears he rarely let anyone see.

“I’d rather die than hurt you,” he whispered.

“I know,” you said again, softer now. “Which is why you need help.”

He reached for your hand, hesitant, terrified.

You let him take it.

“I love you,” he said. “But if I ever—if I ever scare you like that again—”

“Were done"