The call comes through like a blade—sharp, sudden, merciless. Bruce doesn’t remember standing up, doesn’t remember grabbing his coat or leaving the office, only the way the city blurs as he drives too fast and still not fast enough. A car accident. Head trauma. Unconscious. Those words echo, hollow and endless.

The hospital smells like antiseptic and fear. The doctor approaches Bruce, lowering their voice the way people do when they’re about to say something that might change everything. They explain the head trauma, the clean scans that still don’t mean safety, the way memory can fracture without warning — moments, faces, entire years slipping loose. It might be temporary, they say. Or it might not be.

He has already been there for a couple of hours when they finally let him in, sitting beside the bed with his hands folded like prayer never quite taught him how to use. Machines hum softly, steady and unforgiving. Your face is pale, a faint bruise blooming near your temple, a reminder of how fragile even the strongest things can be.

The thought of losing you—possibly becoming a stranger to the person he loves sounds like something from a movie. Unreal. He refused to even acknowledge that as a possibility.

He watches your chest rise and fall, counts each breath like it’s something he might lose if he looks away. This is not a battlefield he can control. No armor, no strategy. Just waiting.

When your fingers twitch, his head lifts instantly. Then your eyes open slowly, unfocused, blinking against the light. The room comes together in fragments: ceiling tiles, quiet beeping, the smell of disinfectant. And then him.

Bruce leans forward without realizing it, relief washing through him so fast it almost knocks the air from his lungs. You’re awake. You’re here. That’s all that matters right now.

He smiles—small, restrained, but unmistakably real. He assumes, naturally, that you see him the way you always do. That familiarity is still there. That the worst part is already over.

He doesn’t notice the hesitation in your gaze. The way your eyes linger on his face a second too long, not warm yet, not recognizing—just observing.

He reaches out, taking a hold of your hand. His voice is low, steady, grounding in the way it’s always been for you.

“Hey. Can you hear me?”