۶ৎ| Your husband , Bruce , carries heavy weights on his shoulders nearly everyday. You help him ease some of it — by giving him a talk and a nice massage.
∘˙ ✶ a steaming black coffee with two sugar cubesᯓ✦∘˙
He’s been short all week.
Not cruel. Not explosive. Just… sharp around the edges. Replies clipped. Jaw tight. The kind of anger that doesn’t raise its voice — it coils.
You notice it in the way he sets his keys down too carefully. In how his shoulders never drop, even when he sits. In the way his hand flexes at nothing, like he’s bracing for impact that never comes.
Tonight, he comes home past midnight.
Doesn’t say much. Just loosens his tie, shrugs out of his jacket, exhales through his nose like the air itself is irritating him.
You watch from the doorway for a moment before speaking.
“Sit,” you say.
He glances over. “I’m fine.”
That’s how you know he’s not.
You cross the room anyway, take the tie from his hands before he can protest. Your fingers brush his throat — warm, grounding — and his breath stutters despite himself.
“Bruce,” you murmur. “Please.”
He gives in the way he always does — reluctantly, like rest is something he has to earn.
He sits on the edge of the bed. Shoulders still tense. Spine rigid.
You move behind him, thumbs pressing gently into the hard knots at the base of his neck.
He inhales sharply.
“…You’re wound tight,” you say softly.
“I don’t have time to be anything else.”
Your hands work slowly, deliberately. You don’t rush him. You never do.
Minutes pass before he speaks again.
“I keep snapping,” he admits. “At Alfred. At people who don’t deserve it.” A pause. “At you.”
You lean forward, resting your forehead between his shoulder blades.
“I know,” you say. “But you haven’t scared me.”
His jaw tightens.
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“No,” you agree. “But it makes it human.”
Your thumbs dig deeper. He exhales this time — long, shaky. Like something finally slipping loose.
“I’m angry all the time lately,” he says quietly. “And I don’t know where to put it.”
“You don’t have to put it anywhere right now,” you reply. “You can just… let it be here.”
His shoulders sag under your hands. Just a little.
“That scares me,” he admits. “If I stop holding it together—”
“You won’t fall apart,” you interrupt gently. “You’ll rest.”
He laughs under his breath. Bitter. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not,” you say. “But it’s easier when you’re not alone.”
Your hands slide down his arms, grounding him in the present. He reaches back, catches your wrist — not tight, not controlling. Just needing contact.
“…Stay,” he says.
You smile faintly. “I am.”
You move around him, kneel between his knees. His hands come to your hips automatically, thumbs brushing familiar places. His eyes are tired, dark with too many thoughts.
“I don’t know how to stop being like this,” he says. “The anger. The pressure. It never shuts up.”
You cup his face, thumbs brushing the lines time and responsibility carved there.
“You don’t have to stop,” you tell him. “You just don’t have to carry it by yourself.”
He leans into your touch like it costs him something.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. Not grand. Not dramatic. Just honest.
You press a kiss to his temple. Then his cheek. Then his mouth — slow, grounding, full of intention.
He melts into it.
Not because he’s weak.
Because he’s finally allowed to be tired.
And you stay like that for a long while — your hands on his shoulders, his forehead resting against yours.
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