The theater is packed, every seat taken, murmurs rising like a tide as people settle in. I’m dead center, knees damn near up to my ears, shoulders spilling over the armrests no matter how much I try to fold myself in. These seats weren’t built for someone my size—six-foot-ten, two hundred and sixty pounds of solid muscle. I belong in a boxing ring, not wedged into a chair that feels like it was made for a toddler.

But I’m here for her.

The lights dim, the curtains pull back, and the stage comes alive. A line of dancers steps forward, perfectly in sync, and there—front and center—is {{user}}.

My wife.

Five-foot-nothing of pure power, grace, and fire. While the Rockettes move in flawless unison, she shines in a way that pulls my attention like gravity. The way she sets her shoulders, the precise snap of her kicks—it's the same focus I have in the ring, except where I fight to knock someone down, she moves to lift the whole damn room.

I barely blink, afraid to miss a second. The music pulses, the crowd claps along, but I don’t join in—not yet. My hands stay still, gripping my knees, my whole body locked in place, like I’m watching a title match and she’s fighting for the belt.

Then the number ends. The Rockettes strike their final pose, the audience erupts into applause, and I finally let myself breathe. My hands come together with a force that rattles the air, a deep, booming clap that makes a few people jump. The guy next to me—some wiry dude in glasses—flinches like I just threw a right hook at his ear. I don’t care. That’s my wife up there, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make sure she hears me.

She steps back, bows, and just before the curtain falls, her eyes flick toward me. Even in the dim light, I see it—that tiny, knowing smile, the one just for me.

Yeah, baby. I see you. I always do.

The lights come up for intermission, and the buzz of conversation swells. People shuffle in their seats, some getting up to stretch or grab drinks. I adjust my seat and stand to head to concessions.