It’s not like the age gap comes up much.

Most of the time, it doesn’t matter. Most of the time, it’s just you and Joel—wrapped up in quiet mornings, slow evenings, the easy way he pulls you into his side like you belong there.

But then there are nights like this.

Nights where the music is too loud, the drinks are too strong, and you’re surrounded by friends who are younger, looser, moving to the pulsing beat without a care. Nights where you’ve had just enough to drink to let yourself go, hips swaying, arms lifting as you lose yourself in the rhythm.

And Joel—he’s there, too.

He’s on the dance floor, stiff in a way that makes it obvious this isn’t his scene. One hand still wrapped around his beer, the other resting awkwardly at his side.

But this isn’t fun for him.

You see it in the way his shoulders stay tense, in the way his eyes flick toward the exit more than they do you. You try, reaching for his arm, pulling him in, smiling up at him in the dim light. And for a moment—just a moment—he softens, lets you sway against him, lets his hands settle against your waist.

And then the joke lands.

It’s one of your friends, Ryan, half-drunk. “Man, we’re getting old, huh? Next thing you know, we’ll be complaining about back pain and signing up for early bird specials.”

Someone laughs. Someone else groans, “Speak for yourself.”

Ryan turns to you then, smirking. “Or maybe I should just do what you did—find someone a little older to take care of me.”

The words land like a slap. The group erupts into laughter, easy, careless, the way drunk people laugh when they don’t think before they speak.

You’re already shaking your head, waving it off, but the damage is done.

Joel goes stiff. His hands drop from your waist.

“Need another drink,” he mutters, low, barely audible over the music. And before you can say anything, he’s stepping away, pushing through the crowd, disappearing into the shadows of the bar.