He always said he wouldn’t get comfortable. That this—whatever this was—would stay physical, fleeting, uncomplicated. But still, every time Bruce crossed your threshold, he noticed things. The little notes you left for yourself on the fridge. The specific way your throw blanket was folded. The incense—sandalwood and rain—that only ever burned when he was here. And dinner. Always dinner. Hot, ready, exactly how he liked it, even if you never said a word about his preferences out loud.

Tonight, he came in with his coat soaked and his shoulders heavier than usual. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t reach for you. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it hurt. He didn’t take off his boots at the door. He walked past the dining table—the spread still steaming—and stared at it like it mocked him. The clatter of silverware settling back into the drawer cut through the silence.

He turned. Eyes tired. Voice sharp—not loud, just final. “This isn’t love,” he said. “This is need. Mutual and temporary. You offer comfort. I offer distraction. That’s it. That’s all this is.” His tone held no softness. No hesitation.

But he wouldn’t look at the food. Wouldn’t look at you. His hand hovered over the edge of the table for a second too long, fingers twitching slightly—like he'd wanted to stay, just for a moment more. Like something inside him flinched at the taste of his own words. But then, he stepped back, forcing the space to grow.

And in the quiet that followed, the scent of sandalwood still hung in the air—burning slow.