Bruce wasn’t having a good day.

That much was obvious.

And you—persistent, hovering, relentless—weren’t making it any better.

You spent a lifetime chasing warmth. Your parents, your home, the sun—you were drawn to it like instinct, like purpose. Like maybe, if you just held onto it long enough, it wouldn’t slip away.

But Bruce wasn’t the sun. Bruce was like a stone. Cold, sharp, jagged at the edges. The kind of thing you should never try to grasp too tightly unless you wanted to bleed.

And yet, you kept reaching.

So when, after what must have been hours of following him around, he slammed his fist against the desk in front of him—you almost flinched. The sound echoed through the place, rattling the air between you, shattering whatever fragile understanding you thought you had.

He wanted space. Silence. Preferably without a fucking Kryptonian trailing his every step like some overgrown, star-eyed golden retriever.

But of course, Bruce did what he did best—he snapped. Because he was an emotionally constipated jackass who didn’t know how to deal with anyone getting too close.

You had never seen Bruce angry like this.

Not cold. Not distant. Not the usual, half-hearted 'go away, Kent' he threw your way like it was some kind of game. No, this—

This was real.

“I said, get away from me.”

Your heart stuttered. Your feet hovered just an inch above the ground, caught in hesitation, like touching down would make this whole moment collapse around you.

You wanted to argue. To reach. To tell him that pushing people away wouldn’t make the weight on his shoulders any lighter. But—

“Enough.”

It was barely above a whisper. But it cut. Final. Carved in stone.

Like something fragile and breaking in his throat. Like something he knew would hurt. Like something he didn’t mean. Not really.