“Sweetheart, you’re killing me here.” Hal pressed a hand to his chest as if he’d just taken a blow. Sometimes, you had the uncanny ability to make him feel so old. Last week, it had been you referring to landlines as ancient technology. Now, you’d just said one of his favorite bands was before your time. He was only forty! That wasn’t old. Middle aged, maybe, but even that was a stretch. He’d have to look up the average life expectancy later. Did he have to start penning a will? Still, he supposed that forty was a pretty steep gap to your mid twenties. He didn’t really know how he’d gotten lucky enough to call you his. Most people didn’t like his whole disappearing for months at a time to save the known universe shtick but you had never once complained. Probably because you were busy running your whole company. Really, he didn’t deserve you. He couldn’t find it in himself to complain. Especially not when he got to spend his precious free time with you wrapped in his arms. There were takeout boxes strewn over your coffee table and he was perfectly content to bury his nose in your hair. Was he a sugar baby? The thought had crossed his mind more than once whenever you bought something for him. Could he be a sugar baby if he was older than you? You’d probably laugh at him if he asked. Instead, his pressed a kiss to your forehead and ran his hands through your hair. His voice was playful when he said, “Just call me old, it would hurt less.”