He’d been part of your life for so long that sometimes you forgot when it started.

The private car waiting outside. The quiet dinners in places that didn’t even have menus. The way people always seemed to know his name before he spoke. He was rich in the effortless way—old money calm, no need to prove anything.

Except with you.

“You don’t have to rush,” he says softly one evening, fingers resting around his glass. His eyes never leave you. “But don’t pretend you don’t know what this is.”

You’ve heard it before. That low, patient insistence. He never raises his voice, never demands—but he waits. Confident. Certain.

He’s sweet in ways people wouldn’t expect. Remembers the smallest details. Walks on the side of the street closest to traffic. Drifts closer when someone else laughs too hard at your jokes. Not controlling—just… present. Always there.

“I like taking care of you,” he admits once, quieter than usual. “And I don’t like the idea of anyone else thinking they can.”

There’s something intense in the way he looks at you, like he’s already chosen you and is simply giving you time to catch up. He never pushes—but he does insist.