"Hm."

You're used to that sound by now—the low grunt that says everything and nothing all at once. Bruce isn't a man of many words, and you've learned to read his silences like chapters in a worn book. His eyes, sharp and unreadable beneath the shadow of the cowl, are fixed on the narrow, singular bed in the corner of the room. It’s nothing special—just a standard mattress with a scratchy government-issued blanket—but in a place like this, a safe house tucked away behind reinforced walls and steel doors, it might as well be a palace.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t sigh or complain. Just stares.

Then: “It’s yours.”

His voice is quiet, steady, absolute. No room for argument, even though there’s no real comfort in the offer. He turns away from the bed without another glance and lowers himself into the farthest chair in the room—one of the few pieces of furniture that’s still upright. It creaks under his weight, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

You do.

He’s already slumping slightly, like gravity is pulling him down faster than it should. Microsleep is next—you can count the steps before it happens. His body might still be upright, but his mind is seconds away from crashing.

And he doesn’t take off a thing. The cowl stays on, glued to his jaw like it’s part of him. The cape pools over the sides of the chair, dragging along the floor. Gloves still on. Boots laced tight. Not even the dried blood on his armor looks like it bothers him.

You stare, arms crossed, biting the inside of your cheek. There’s no way this is healthy. Not after what you two just went through. The fight. The chase. The explosion. You can still smell the smoke in your hair. You can still feel your ribs bruising with every breath.

And he’s just… shutting down. Like a machine. No routine, no decompression. Just silence, exhaustion, and stubbornness wrapped in Kevlar.

It makes your chest ache.