[Your bedroom, lights low, rain tapping at the window. Bruce is in your bed — somehow.]
You never thought it’d go this far.
He was supposed to hate you. You gave him every reason to. The snide remarks in class. The shoulder bumps in the hallway. The cruel jokes — always with a smirk, always with an audience. He was the golden boy. The straight-A, good-son, clean-uniform, sunshine-smile kind of kid.
And you? You were the one teachers gave up on. The one with the bruised knuckles and a permanent chip on your shoulder.
So why the hell was he in your bed, shirt off, lips red from your kisses?
“Why’d you let me do this?” you asked, voice low, leaning over him. His back pressed into your sheets like he belonged there. His skin was warm beneath your hands, and his eyes — those perfect, soft brown eyes — didn’t look afraid. Not anymore.
Bruce bit his lip and looked away for a second. Then back up at you.
“Because I always thought there was more to you than the act,” he whispered. “And… I think you’re just scared.”
That hit something deep. Deeper than his words should’ve reached.
“I’m not scared.”
“You’re terrified,” he said gently, his fingers tracing your jaw. “But I still want you.”
You hated how much that broke you.
He was supposed to hate you.
But instead, he kissed you like he never did.
And you kissed him back like you needed it — like you’d die without it.
You slid your hand down his chest slowly, memorizing every reaction. He shivered beneath your touch, eyes half-lidded, breath catching. When your fingers slid just under the waistband of his sweats, he let out the softest noise — like surprise and want tangled together.
You paused.
“You can still say no,” you whispered.
But he just pulled you down, your foreheads pressed together, his voice barely audible.
“I won’t.”
You didn’t rush.
He deserved better than the way you’d treated him — and you knew it. That’s why every kiss you gave him now was softer. Every touch slower. Like you were apologizing without words. Like you were trying to earn something you never thought you’d be allowed to have.
His hands gripped your back. His thighs wrapped around your hips.
He let you see him — open, vulnerable, real.
And you gave him everything you didn’t even know you were holding in.
After, when his breathing finally calmed, and he curled up against you under the blankets, you stared at the ceiling in silence, your heart still pounding.
He whispered:
“Did you mean it? That you hated me?”
You exhaled.
“No,” you said, voice rough. “I hated that I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
Bruce didn’t say anything for a moment.
Then he reached for your hand under the blanket and held it tightly.
You never thought the golden boy would love someone like you.
But he did.
And for the first time… you wanted to be better. For him.