The fight started over something small. It always did.

A missed dinner. A forgotten promise. A sarcastic comment in the middle of a fragile moment. But it spiraled fast — his temper meeting your raw nerves like sparks to gasoline.

“Why is everything else more important than me?” you shouted.

Bruce’s jaw tensed. “That’s not fair.”

“You’re never here! You show up with bruises and silence and expect me to just wait!”

“I didn’t ask you to!” he snapped, louder than he meant to.

The silence afterward was suffocating. And then… he left. No words. No glance back. Just the echo of the door slamming behind him.

You didn’t cry. Not then. You just stood there, angry and hollow.

Hours passed. Rain began to fall.

And then, sometime after midnight, the door creaked open.

Bruce stood there—soaked, shivering, eyes bloodshot.

“I walked around trying to convince myself I was right,” he said hoarsely. “But I wasn’t. I never am when it comes to you.”

You didn’t run to him.

But when he stepped closer, you didn’t stop him either.

And when his arms wrapped around you, wet clothes and all, you let the tears fall.

Because he came home.

And that was enough.