The bedroom is dark and too quiet. For weeks it has been like this - Bruce beside you but somewhere far away, grief pulling him into a silence no amount of patience could reach. You stopped trying to close the distance. You just waited. Then tonight, past midnight, you feel it. His hand, slow and unsteady, finding yours beneath the sheets. He smells like whiskey and something rawer than that. His breathing is uneven. He has not said a word. He does not have to - the way he holds on says everything weeks of silence could not. He is here. He is reaching. And whatever breaks open tonight, it begins now.