#{the hulk}

Too late. His breathing had gone uneven, chest rising too fast, hands trembling at his sides. Someone shouted. Something exploded too close.

And then Green. Massive. Unstoppable. The Hulk roared, and the ground seemed to shake with it.

“Everyone back!” someone yelled.

But you didn’t move. Because you knew him. Because somewhere in there, beneath all that rage, was Bruce—and Bruce would never hurt you.

Right?

“Hey!” you shouted, stepping forward despite the chaos. “It’s okay—it’s just me—”

The Hulk turned.

His eyes locked onto you—but they weren’t seeing you. Not really. Not yet.

“Easy,” you said, softer now, hands raised slightly. “You’re okay. You’re safe. You don’t need to—”

He moved too fast.

One second he was across the debris-strewn ground, the next— Impact.

Pain exploded through your side as you were thrown back, your body hitting the concrete hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. Everything went white for a split second, sound swallowed by a ringing void.

Then nothing.

When Bruce came back, it was like waking up in a nightmare he couldn’t escape. The battlefield was quiet now. Too quiet. Debris everywhere. Scorch marks. Cracks splitting the ground.

And then he saw you. Lying too still. “No—”

The word fell apart as it left his lips.

He scrambled toward you, ignoring everything else—ignoring the voices calling his name, the hands trying to pull him back.

“Y/N—hey—hey, look at me—”

His hands hovered over you, shaking so badly he was afraid to touch you. Like even now, even like this, he might still hurt you.

“This wasn’t— I didn’t—” His voice broke. “I didn’t mean to.”

You stirred faintly, a soft sound slipping past your lips. Relief hit him so hard it almost made him dizzy.

“You’re okay,” he whispered quickly, even though you clearly weren’t. “You’re okay, you’re okay—”

But he could already see it—the way you winced, the way your breathing hitched, the way your body refused to move quite right.

And the realization hit him like a second blow. He did that.

After that… Bruce disappeared. Not physically—not entirely. He still showed up when he had to. Missions. Meetings. The necessary things.

But you?

He avoided you like you were made of glass and guilt. If you walked into a room, he found a reason to leave. If you tried to talk, he’d mumble something about work, about needing space, about not wanting to make things worse.

It was driving you insane. And a little bit furious. So you stopped letting him. You found him in the lab. Of course you did.

Bruce stood hunched over a workbench, shoulders tight, like he carried something heavy even now. Maybe he always did.

“Really?” you said from the doorway. “This is how we’re doing this?”

He froze. Didn’t turn around. “You shouldn’t be up,” he said instead, voice strained. “You’re still healing—”

“Don’t,” you cut in, stepping inside. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“This,” you gestured between you. “Talking around me like I’m not the actual problem you’re avoiding.”

That made him flinch. Finally, he turned. And god—he looked wrecked. Dark circles. Tension carved into every line of his face. Eyes that wouldn’t quite meet yours for more than a second.

“I hurt you,” he said quietly. It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t angry. Just… defeated.

“Yeah,” you said. You didn’t sugarcoat it. Didn’t pretend it didn’t happen. Because it did.

Bruce swallowed hard, gaze dropping to the floor. “I lost control,” he continued. “And you paid for it. So forgive me if I don’t think being around you is a good idea right now.”

“Or ever?” you challenged. He didn’t answer. That told you enough. You stepped closer. He tensed immediately. “See?” you said softly. “That right there. You won’t even let me stand near you.”

“I could do it again.” His voice cracked on the last word.

That stopped you for a second. Not because you believed it—but because of how much he did. “You think I don’t know the risk?” you asked gently.

He shook his head, frustrated now. “No, I think you do, and you’re ignoring it. Which is worse.”

“I’m not ignoring it,” you said. “I’m choosing it.”

That made him look up. Really look at you. “What?”

“I’m choosing to still be here,” you said, steady. “With you.”

His expression twisted. “You shouldn’t.”

“Why? Because you messed up? Because you lost control for a second in the middle of a battlefield?”

“A second is all it takes!” he snapped, then immediately recoiled from his own volume. “That’s the problem. That’s always the problem.”

Silence stretched between you.

“I can’t risk you like that again.”

You took another step closer. He didn’t move this time—but his hands clenched at his sides like it took everything in him to stay still.

“You’re not the only one who gets a say in that,” you said.

“That’s not how this works—”

“It is for me.” You were right in front of him now. Close enough to see the way his breathing stuttered. Close enough that he could reach out but he didn’t. “Look at me,” you said softly.

He hesitated. Then he did.

“I’m still here,” you continued. “I’m hurt, yeah. But I’m healing. And I’m not afraid of you, Bruce.”

“You should be.”

“I’m not.” Your hand lifted slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wanted to. He didn’t. Your fingers curled gently around his wrist—careful, grounding, real.

He sucked in a breath like the contact burned.

“I know it wasn’t you,” you said quietly. “Not really. And I’m not going to punish you for something you already hate about yourself.”

His eyes shut tight. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

“I didn’t say it did.” You squeezed his wrist lightly. “I said I’m not leaving.”

That broke something. His shoulders sagged, tension unraveling just enough for the cracks to show. “I thought—” he started, then stopped. Tried again. “I thought if I stayed away, at least I couldn’t hurt you again.”

“Or,” you countered gently, “you just end up hurting both of us in a different way.”

He let out a shaky breath. “Yeah,” he admitted. “That too.”

A small, fragile moment passed between you. Carefully, he turned his hand, letting his fingers brush against yours. Testing. Like he expected something to go wrong. Nothing did. “I’m still scared,” he said.

“I know.”

“I don’t trust myself.”

“Then trust me a little,” you offered.

His lips twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. “You always make things sound easier than they are.”

“Only because you make them sound impossible.” That earned you the faintest huff of breath. Progress.

You stepped a little closer, resting your forehead lightly against his shoulder.

Tony had generously given you and Steve a whole floor after four months of dating ("For the sake of everyone's sanity," he'd said). You came home late, dressed down in a black sweater and slacks, toeing off your shoes by the door when you heard the unmistakable sound of ice clinking into a glass.

Steve rarely drank, but there he was, framed in the warm glow of the living room lighting. Shirt unbuttoned halfway, sleeves rolled, and nursing a glass of bourbon like it was his second language.

He glanced over and smiled. "You always this quiet when you come home, sweetheart?"

“Didn’t want to wake you.”

Steve hums, taking a long sip of his glass before moving towards you. He wasn't drunk. No liquor can affect the captain, so what he says next shocks you. “Y’know, for a man who can bench-press a quinjet, you’re awfully delicate with me.”

“Delicate? I’m trying to be respectful.”

“Respect is lovely.” A calloused finger traces the seam of your sleeve, causing you to shiver. “But it’s starting to feel like you’re handling me with museum gloves.”

“I don't want to overwhelm you.”

Steve’s grin turns lopsided. “Sweetheart, you think I’m going to short circuit if you let your hands wander below the Mason-Dixon line?”

“Steve, you’re not—”

“What?” he challenged, voice dropping. “Not like the men you're used to? Not dirty enough? Not shameless enough?”

“No—just, you’re old-fashioned.”

“So are brothels. Doesn’t mean I don’t know what goes on inside them.” You choked on air, yet he continued as if he didn't just drop a bomb on you. "Do you think I'm innocent when I spent three weeks in the 40s sharing barracks with hundred and ten men who had very creative pin-up collections?"

He takes another step forward. “Or how Peggy snuck a Kinsey Report into my footlocker before D-Day and told me to ‘study hard.’”

That mental image nearly short circuits you. “You read the Kinsey Report?”

“Cover to cover.” Steve leans in, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Chapter Six was my favorite.”

Your brain scrambles for the table of contents. Chapter Six covers homosexual behavior in males. Oh. Steve eases back just enough to watch realization dawn across your face, and he looks dangerously pleased.

“For the record, my innocence was mostly marketing. Howard figured the public liked its heroes apple pie pure.”

“Howard staged your personality?”

Steve shrugs. “Gave me media training between weapons demos. ‘Smile, wave, keep it wholesome.’ He’d be livid if he knew I planned on letting my very modern, very adult boyfriend kiss me like he means it.”

The words spark along your nerves. You catch a handful of his Henley and pull him flush. “Kiss you like I mean it, huh?”

“Unless that’s too scandalous for 2025.”

The challenge in his tone flips a switch you’ve been guarding. Your mouth finds his. Steve returns it, guiding your hips until you feel the warm press of him. Nothing innocent about that. When you finally break for air, his pupils are blown wide.

“Still standing,” he teases.