The weight of the day fades as you lie against Bruce, his warmth a quiet reassurance against the world outside. His arm rests securely around your waist, holding you close without effort, as if you belong there. His fingers glide through your hair, slow and deliberate, twirling a strand between them before smoothing it back into place.

“Didn’t realize how calming this would be,” he murmurs, his voice low, edged with exhaustion but softened by you. His fingertips trace along your scalp, the motion steady, almost meditative. “I might be more addicted to this than you are.”

His free hand moves in lazy, absentminded circles along your back, the weight of it grounding. Every so often, he presses a kiss to your temple—soft at first, then lingering a moment longer each time, like he’s silently telling you something he doesn’t quite have the words for.

“If I keep this up, you’ll be asleep before me,” he muses, a rare hint of amusement in his tone. His lips brush against your hairline, his grip tightening just slightly.