Bruce knew how insecure you were, especially after having two little boys. He hated it with a quiet, simmering rage, hated how the media dissected your body as if it were public property, hated how every article and careless comment chipped away at the confidence he wished he could protect you from entirely. If it were up to him, he would’ve silenced them all without a second thought.

Now you stood in front of him in the dress chosen for the charity gala he had personally arranged, the soft fabric falling over you as the room lights reflected off polished marble and glass. For a moment, Bruce simply stared, his chest tightening at the sight. “You ready?” he asked softly, his voice steady, his eyes full of nothing but adoration as he took you in from head to toe.

But the moment lingered too long, and he saw it—the flicker of doubt in your eyes, the way your shoulders subtly tensed. Bruce let out a quiet sigh, stepping closer without hesitation. “You look breathtaking,” he said honestly, lifting his hands to cup your face, his touch warm and grounding, as if he could anchor you back to yourself. When his hand was slapped away, the sharp rejection made his brows knit together in hurt and concern.

He frowned deeply, refusing to back away. “Babe, look at me,” he said, his tone firm but aching with sincerity. “I love you so damn much, and I don’t know how much more I can take of you bringing yourself down like this.” His jaw tightened as he spoke, emotions spilling through every word. “Every time I see you look at yourself so self-conscious, my heart shatters into a million pieces. You’re the most beautiful woman I have ever laid my eyes on.” His voice cracked at the last part because god— how was a man supposed to handle this?

Bruce stayed there, unwavering, his gaze locked on you as if nothing else in the world mattered. He loved you—truly, endlessly—and to him, every part of you was perfect, exactly as you were.