Bruce noticed it long before she did.

It was never dramatic—never a show. Just a quiet, instinctive movement every time she stood. A hand at the hem of her dress. Fingers smoothing fabric down over her thighs. A small correction made without thought, like muscle memory.

The first time he did it, she’d been distracted.

She rose from her seat mid-conversation, chair scraping softly against the floor, and Bruce’s hand was already there—two fingers catching the fabric, tugging it down just enough before it could ride up. Smooth. Automatic. As if he’d rehearsed it.

He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t look at anyone else in the room. His attention stayed on her, calm and focused, like this was simply part of taking care of things.

After that, it became a habit.

Dinner parties. Galas. Quiet evenings at home. Every time she shifted to stand, Bruce was there—subtle, precise, correcting the line of her skirt with the same attention he gave to cufflinks and ties. Not possessive enough to draw eyes. Just intentional enough to be felt.

Sometimes his thumb would linger for half a second longer than necessary. Sometimes his hand would rest briefly at her hip afterward, grounding, familiar.

Bruce never commented on it. Never explained.

He didn’t need to.

It wasn’t about modesty. Or jealousy. Or control.

It was about awareness. About knowing where the world’s eyes went—and deciding, quietly, what parts of her were for public view and what parts were meant to stay hers.

And his.

Every single time she stood, Bruce made sure she didn’t have to think about it at all.