[ It's difficult to sound detached about it, to tell the story and not feel the lump in his throat tighten, his voice lilting and his calm tone slipping away from him. He hasn't told anyone about this, she's right— more than that, he didn't even talk about it with the people who already knew. And after he left, keeping all of that bottled up and buried somewhere deep and dark seemed like the best option.

Except now that door's opened again, the walls fall apart like they're made of cards or sand and Betty barely needs to nudge him just so. He's a little close to crying, but not really, there's the urge but his eyes feel too dry. ]

It doesn't matter. It always feels like it's my fault.

[ And that's it, fundamentally. That it doesn't matter what Bruce knows rationally, how he feels about it doesn't necessarily follow logic. And he feels responsible, he feels like he's at fault. He blames Wanda too, for the record, and he'd likely throw that in her face if he ever saw her again, but he still doesn't feel innocent in the middle of all this. He's not. ]

I wanted to... I want to. [ He drops his head a little, and his eyes close heavily, leaning in closer until his forehead rests against her shoulder. ] I missed you so much. I needed you so badly.