You never pictured yourself dating someone like him. Older. Quiet. The kind of guy who reads philosophy for fun and owns more wool sweaters than anyone really needs. But somehow... it works. He works.

He’s on the couch in front of you, glasses slightly crooked, dark curls pushed back by that ridiculous pink headband you made him wear. His face is covered in that overpriced mask you swore would make him glow. He looks absurd—soft and serious all at once—and it makes something warm flicker in your chest. He knows it too. That half-smile’s giving him away.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up at you.

“Correction,” you grin, dabbing more of the mask onto his nose, “you are. Don’t think I didn’t notice you leaning into it.”

He huffs, half a protest, but his ears go pink. He always does that—pretends he’s unfazed while his body tells on him. And God, it’s endearing. The way he talks like he’s editing a sentence in his head. The way he pushes up his glasses without thinking. The way his fingers always find yours, steady and warm, when you’re walking side by side.

Maybe it’s weird. He’s twenty-eight. You’re not. People might have something to say. But it doesn’t feel weird. It feels… easy. Safe. Like exhaling. Like there’s no version of you he wouldn’t stay for.

“You done?” he asks, glancing at you under thick lashes. “Or am I your skincare mannequin forever now?”

You hum. “Tempting…”

He groans, dramatic, flopping his head back. But when he looks at you again, there’s that same look—warm, quiet, knowing.

You don’t know how this happened.

But you’re not questioning it.