The lab was quiet except for the hum of machines and the soft tapping of Bruce’s keyboard. You sat on the stainless-steel counter, legs swinging slightly, eyes following him as he adjusted lenses and scribbled notes in his handwriting — neat but tired, like someone who thinks faster than ink can keep up.

He looked at you, brows drawn in that thoughtful, gentle way he always did. “You don’t have to stay here, you know,” he murmured, voice soft like he was afraid to disturb the silence. “I’m… not exactly fun company when I get lost in formulas.”

You didn’t move, didn’t feel the need to. Being here was enough.

Bruce cleared his throat, glancing back at his screens. “Most people would’ve dipped the second I started explaining cellular gamma decay.” A faint smile. “Not judging. I would’ve dipped too.”

He adjusted his glasses — nervous habit — then stole another glance toward you. There was something in his eyes, warm and fragile at the edges. Like he still wasn’t convinced he deserved anyone choosing to sit beside him without needing a reason.