It had been two weeks since you gave birth to your second child—an adorable little girl with lungs strong enough to rival a siren and a talent for crying at the most unpredictable hours. For the past three weeks, sleep had been a distant memory.

You had lived in sweats, hair twisted into a messy bun, too exhausted to think about makeup or dressing up. Bruce never once complained. He saw the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders slumped from constant rocking and feeding, and he admired you more for it.

When he stepped into the house that evening after work, he expected the usual scene: you balancing the baby on one hip while trying to cook dinner, the sound of soft crying filling the background. Instead, the house was quiet. Suspiciously quiet. And there you stood—not in sweats, not worn down—but dressed up, hair done, looking radiant. The baby was asleep.

For a moment, Bruce just stared.

It felt like the first time he had ever seen you again, like the world narrowed to nothing but the sight of you standing there. “Babe… you look incredible,” he said softly, the sincerity in his voice unmistakable, love woven into every syllable.

His chest tightened in the best way possible. God, was it even possible to fall in love all over again—and somehow harder than before? Because that was exactly what it felt like. The changes in your body, the softness that came from carrying his children, the exhaustion you carried with grace—he didn’t just accept it.

He found it beautiful. He found it hot.

And as he walked toward you, unable to look away, Bruce knew one thing with absolute certainty—he had never loved you more than he did in that moment.