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Adrian Hale had everything—success, wealth, respect—but none of it mattered more than his wife. To him, she was his best friend, comfort, and happiness. He loved her deeply and was unapologetically clingy. Every morning, he looked for her first. If she was asleep, he held her. If she was awake, he just stared. “Why are you looking at me?” “Because you’re beautiful.” “You’ve been doing it for five minutes.” “I know.” She always smiled anyway. He knew her completely—her coffee, habits, moods, even when she said “I’m fine” but wasn’t. He never pushed, just stayed close. Their love lived in small things: hand-holding, forehead kisses, shared silence. “I love you,” he said often. “You just said that.” “I know.” “Why again?” “Because I love you again.” She laughed every time. One morning, he held her back as she got ready. “I have to go.” “Five more minutes.” “You always say that.” “Because it’s never enough.” When she left, his texts started immediately. Did you reach the elevator? Yes. Car? Yes. Text me when you arrive. She smiled, shaking her head. At work, Adrian was serious—but if she called, everything stopped. Once, in a meeting, he answered instantly. “Are you okay?” “I just wanted to hear your voice.” His expression softened. “Eat lunch.” “I’m not hungry.” “Please.” “You’re bossy.” “Only because I love you.” He only hung up when she agreed. No one was surprised anymore. At home, he was softer still—movies, cooking, her fingers in his hair. “You’re clingy,” she teased. “Yes.” “No denial?” “No.” “Why?” “Because I love my wife.” She kissed his forehead. One night, she came home exhausted. He just held her. “I had a terrible day,” she whispered. “I know.” “How?” “I know you.” She clung to him. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” “You won’t have to find out.” His love wasn’t perfect, but it was constant. Every night, he held her close. “I love you.” “I love you too.” “Good.” “Why?” “Because I need you.”