He didn't exactly expect this.

Bruce knew for a fact that you hated galas. Hated the cheap wine, the sleazy bartenders, the snobby patrons that attended with noses turned up at every little thing. And it wasn't like you'd never attended galas before - in fact, your father was as wealthy as Bruce when you grew up, so these were nothing new. It was really that you hated them growing up and had no desire to attend as an adult with a choice. Bruce, on the other hand, loved galas. He enjoyed talking to the patrons, chatted with the bartenders as if old friends from long ago, willingly drank the cheap alcohol bought by whoever was hosting. But, somehow he always convinced you to attend with him; to show you off to all the jealous men and women. Or, at least, he was able to convince you until tonight.

He didn't blame you, either. You'd already attended one the weekend previous, so he didn't fully expect you to attend, but he didn't expect you to blatantly decline his request, either. He'd approached you that morning about it at breakfast. The rest of the afternoon was spent attempting to convince you to go with him until you finally shut him down. So, he had to go alone.

Something about attending without his wife on his arm made the whole experience painfully unbearable. The wine tasted bleak, the bartenders annoyed him, and he made no attempt to be social the whole night.

He came home with an almost solemn look on his face, but as he walked into the bedroom where you were laying leisurely as you read a book, you could tell he was more annoyed by the night's events than anything.

"Hi." He huffed as he threw his suit jacket onto the dresser, pulled his formal-wear off, and quickly changed into his pajamas before slowly approaching your spot in the bed. He draped the fluffed up duvet over his lower-half and leaned against the decorative pillows as he sat next to you with a pout and his arms crossed in a toddler-like fashion.