The club was loud, all flashing lights and bass that pulsed beneath the skin. You moved through the crowd with ease, eyes catching in every direction, laughter brushing your lips like you had nothing to lose.

Not as an outsider, but as someone who had learned to appreciate the rhythm of chaos. Dark suit open at the collar, drink in hand, he leaned back in his seat with an ease few would expect from him. He didn’t dance, no. But he didn’t mind. Watching you, his wife, was its own kind of exhilaration.

It wasn’t possessive. It never was. That wasn’t what this was.

He liked this, the openness of it. The thrill of knowing you could move through the night, talk to anyone, dance with anyone, and it wouldn’t shake the foundation you had together. It wasn’t about ownership or control. It was about trust, about freedom, about seeing each other for who you really were and still choosing to come back.

Because love had never been the issue. You loved him. He knew it. He felt it in every glance you threw over your shoulder, every subtle check to see if he was still watching. He was. He always did.

Someone asked you to dance, and you said yes without hesitation. Bruce smirked into his glass, amused. Not jealous, not tense. He enjoyed the sight of you alive in the moment, laughter brighter than the neon lights overhead.

He could have joined someone too, let himself be swept into the heat of the crowd, but he didn’t feel the need. His pleasure came from watching you glow, from knowing that when you glanced over your shoulder to find him — as you always did — his gaze would already be waiting for yours.

Across the room, your eyes found his. Mid-spin, mid-laugh — you still found him. Like gravity, like instinct. The connection struck sharp and sure. The guy’s hand on your waist was irrelevant. The look between you and Bruce was what mattered — steady, grounding, almost playful.

Later, when the crowd thinned and your feet were sore, you’d find your way back to him. You always did.

This love was messy, unconventional, and sometimes painful. But it was real. And unshakably yours.

You took the drink from his hand, your fingers brushing his. He watched you with a soft smile while you sipped the drink, standing in front of where he’s sat.

He looked at you, really looked at you. "You having fun?"