You never thought the quietest part of Grammy night would be the hotel suite — but here it was, warm light spilling across the carpet, soft music humming from a speaker, and Bruno standing in front of the mirror with his shirt half‑buttoned.

He glanced over his shoulder when you stepped out of the bathroom. “Damn,” he said, slow and appreciative. “You look incredible.”

You laughed under your breath. Adjusting the tie of your tuxedo. “You’re biased.”

“Of course,” he said, turning fully now. “But I’m also right.”

He crossed the room, still barefoot, still somehow looking like he belonged on the cover of a magazine even without the finishing touches. He reached out, brushing a stray thread from your face.

“Nervous?” he asked.

“A little.”

He nodded. “Me too.”

You blinked, a little surprised. “You? You’ve done this a million times.”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling softly, “but I’ve never done it with you.”

The suite was scattered with garment bags, open makeup kits, cologne bottles, and jewelry trays. Bruno moved around the room with a kind of calm rhythm — humming, adjusting his cuffs, checking the time, then drifting his gaze back to you like he couldn’t help it.

They both stood side by side in front of the full‑length mirror — You, in their finished look, Bruno in his red tailored suit, hair tousled neatly, rings glinting under the lights.

He studied your reflection, not with vanity, but with something softer.

“We look good together,” he said.