Bruce came out of the bathroom. A towel hung low on his hips; his scars and muscles were relaxed. He lingered his gaze on {{user}}, admiring how she lay cozily in his linen sheets, soaked with his expensive cologne.

Bruce was in love. He had simply realized it too late. Though… is there ever really such a thing as “too late”? He saw how she grew warm when he came too close, leaned in, whispered something light, almost insignificant, pretending as if it meant nothing. His glances lingered longer than they should have. Accidental touches of hands weren’t accidental at all. He did everything deliberately—but in a way that made it seem natural.

And the gifts… Whenever she was sad, he always found a way to cheer her up. Just to see her smile.

But he was glad she had come to him. They had sat by the fireplace, drinking bourbon, enjoying her company—until she got tipsy. Then, like a true gentleman, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bedroom, laying her in his bed.

“I thought you were asleep…” his voice was gentle but tired when he saw that {{user}} wasn’t sleeping. He stepped closer to the bed and sat down at the edge beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight.

“You need to sleep,” he added more softly. “It’s been a long day… and it seems you’ve had quite enough to drink.”