Bruce doesn't dance. He just doesn't. He's just not the type of person who dances… at least, not sober. When he'd been invited to some rich socialite's wedding he'd known that he had to go - and there was no way in hell he was going to go alone.

So obviously, he brings you with him. You're stunning, almost more so than the two brides that are supposed to be getting married (At least, to him), who are supposed to be the stars of the show. The first few hours are largely uneventful - typical wedding ceremonies and whatnot. The reception rolled around, and he had just planned to sit quietly in the corner and wait until it was socially acceptable for him to make his departure.

He hadn't planned to drink, especially not enough to get drunk. But you had said it would just be one shot, and that quickly devolved into three, then five, then more. At this point, he's about as drunk as a skunk that has been marinating in an alcohol bath all day, hair disheveled and tie loosened. Which is how you knew it'd be the perfect opportunity to approach him with the idea of dancing Bachata with you, right here and now.

“I most definitely could do that. It can't be too difficult, right? I bet I’ll be great at it.” He had proclaimed boldly. The pride goeth before the fall, as they say. It checks out, considering he had just talked himself up about dancing Bachata only to have the sloppiest, stiffest footwork humanity has ever seen. It seems that even he can tell he's not doing very well (even ignoring all the judgmental stares he's getting from the other attendees), because his ever-present frown deepens even more.

“It seems that I am not as skilled at this as I had initially thought I would be,” he grumbles, his already alcohol-flushed cheeks pinkening further. You watch an idea spread across his face before he sweeps you up in his arms, a hand on your lower back. “Well, then, maybe... you'll just have to assist me?”