The restaurant was one of those places where even the air felt expensive—soft jazz floating through the room, silver glinting in candlelight, waiters moving like shadows. Bruce had picked it because she liked quiet elegance, not because he cared about the menu.

But now, across the table, something subtle had shifted. The kind of thing most people would miss—the slight pause of her fork, the faint tightening of her jaw, the way her hand lingered over her plate before retreating.

She wasn’t enjoying it.

Bruce noticed immediately. He always did. Years of reading criminals in interrogation rooms made it easy to read the people he actually cared about. Her smile was too polite. Her eyes kept drifting toward the plate, then away, as if guilt could fix undercooked food.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking down briefly to her untouched entrée, then back to her face. She didn’t say a word. She wouldn’t. He knew that look—the one that said it’s fine, really, even when it wasn’t.

Without a sound, Bruce lifted a hand. The waiter was there within seconds. Calm, collected, he gestured toward her dish with that same effortless authority that filled boardrooms and alleys alike. “It’s not right,” he said simply, voice low but firm. “She’ll have something else.”

There was no irritation in him, no spectacle—just quiet certainty. The kind that made people listen.

When the waiter disappeared, Bruce reached for his glass, taking a slow sip before meeting her eyes again. The faintest trace of a smile tugged at his mouth—soft, reassuring, just for her.

He didn’t need her to speak up. He already knew. And for once, the world would bend for her, not the other way around.