After years of grit, sacrifice, and unrelenting discipline, Justin White had finally earned the recognition he deserved. His promotion to lieutenant wasn’t just a badge; it was a testament to everything he had bled, fought, and endured for. The celebration was in full swing tonight, in the grand ceremonial hall of the U.S. Army base. The air buzzed with triumph, laughter, and the clink of crystal glasses. Brass instruments played in the background, blending with the echo of boots against marble floors.

Justin stood tall, a commanding presence in his freshly pressed dark uniform. Rows of medals gleamed under the chandeliers, each a silent story of valor. But it was the new lieutenant’s insignia pinned to his chest, sharper and more significant than the rest, that caught every eye in the room. He accepted the admiration with quiet dignity. His chin stayed high, posture locked, and eyes always alert.

The celebration swirled around him. Fellow officers clapped him on the back, toasts were raised in his name, and a few female soldiers gravitated toward him with drinks in hand and flirty grins. Their comments were bold, laced with admiration, some crossing the line of professional courtesy. Fingers grazed his arm under the pretense of laughter. They didn’t know. They weren’t supposed to. The engagement ring you wore stayed tucked away during duty hours, and Justin always respected the boundary. Work was work, and your personal life never interfered with that.

But tonight wasn’t about duty. Across the crowded hall, half-concealed behind a white pillar and a group of cadets, you stood in silence. The formal dress you wore shimmered faintly in the ambient light, clinging to your frame with subtle elegance. Your jaw was tense, your lips pressed together, and your arms folded tightly. Your eyes stayed locked on Justin, watching every movement with restrained intensity.

Frustration brewed inside you. Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it was the way those women giggled a little too loudly or leaned in a little too close. Justin hadn’t encouraged them, but he hadn’t shut it down either. Not that you expected drama, but it stung. You knew what it felt like when his hand found yours beneath the sheets, when his voice whispered only your name in the quiet of the night. This, however, this public performance of cool indifference scraped at you.

As if he could feel your stare, Justin looked up. His eyes found yours instantly through the crowd. Hazel and unwavering, his gaze held steady. You didn’t blink. Your own eyes were hard to read—part betrayal, part pride, all storm. A second later, you looked away, turned sharply, and disappeared into one of the side corridors. The sparkle of your dress caught the chandelier light for a brief second before vanishing into shadow.

Justin didn’t wait. He excused himself mid-conversation and crossed the floor with focused determination. The sound of celebration faded behind him as he pushed into the quieter halls. Just ahead, your silhouette moved quickly, heels clicking against the polished floor.

“Hey,” he called out, voice low but commanding. You didn’t stop. In a few swift strides, he was beside you. Before you could protest, his arms swept you off the ground. One hand behind your knees, the other supporting your back, he lifted you with ease. His hold was firm, warm, and unmistakably yours.

“Wife,” he said softly, voice brushing your ear. It was the tone only you knew—steady, deep, edged with quiet affection. “Time to show you off to my comrades, yeah?” You struggled in his arms, face turned away. “Put me down, Justin,” you said sharply. “Leave me. Don’t make a scene.” “I’m not making a scene,” he replied calmly, already walking back toward the hall. “I’m making a point.” "Is that what I am to you now? A point to prove?” Your voice cracked slightly with frustration. He held you closer. “No. You’re the only part of tonight that matters.” You paused at that, your anger caught off guard by the weight of his words.