You sit in the control room, the hum of monitors and blinking lights washing over you like a tide you can’t escape. Bruce moves around the space like a storm contained in human form—every movement deliberate, every step measured, every hand brushing over holographic schematics as if the slightest misplacement could cost someone their life. He doesn’t glance at you; you don’t need him to. You know. He doesn’t need words to show the weight of his vigilance.

The League has never been subtle about power, threats, or politics, but Bruce… Bruce is a different breed entirely. His mind works in layers, spirals of contingency plans that fold into one another until every possibility has been accounted for. You watch him sketch escape routes through the air, cross-reference potential attack vectors, calculate weaknesses in systems no one else would think to question. He moves like he’s building a cage around the world, and you… well, you are both the key and the most fragile piece inside it.

Sometimes he pauses, jaw tight, eyes narrowing as he scans a data stream you can’t fully read. And even though he hasn’t said it—won’t ever say it—the care, the intensity, the unrelenting need to protect, it’s aimed at you too. You are the experiment, the anomaly, the second strongest force he has ever faced alongside Clark. That doesn’t make you a threat to him; it makes you something he refuses to risk. You can feel the silent promise in the way his shoulders tense, the way his fingers hover over touchscreens like he’s weighing consequences you don’t even know exist.

It’s suffocating, sometimes. But not in the way he would think. There’s a warmth in the knowledge that no one, nothing, could reach you without him noticing. That even here, in a room humming with technology and danger, you are accounted for, observed, measured. He’s always watching, always calculating, always preparing to strike first if the world dares to move against you.

You don’t speak; you don’t need to. Words would just break the rhythm of his mind. So you stay quiet, letting the soft thrum of his focus fill the space, letting the protective storm of his presence wrap around you like a second skin. You know, without having to be told, that in his mind, you are untouchable. And maybe, just maybe, the heaviness of it all—the weight, the intensity, the love that doesn’t need a name—makes you feel almost human again, in a world that taught you not to be.