You moved to a new town, left behind the cramped apartment, the dusty bookstore, the familiar rhythms and you did it for Frank.

He was older. Not by much, late 30s, but enough to feel like he’d lived in a different era. When you referenced something from your childhood, he’d squint and say, “Damn, I feel ancient,” then smirk and squeeze your knee like apologizing for time itself.

Frank was more than older, he was established. The kind of man people Googled under the table. Inventor. CEO. Wealthy enough that you never had to worry about radiators breaking in winter. He’d built F-tap, the app half of Chicago used to get into their apartments. Everyone knew it. He rarely brought it up. If someone else did, he’d just shrug and say, “Yeah, I guess it works.”

You met him as a trainee at a company pitching to his two years ago. You had been 23, nervous and overdressed. Frank walked in, quiet, intense, tousled hair, and looked directly at you when you asked a question in the meeting. Afterward, he stopped you in the hallway.

“That question you asked? Really smart angle. Nobody talks about integrations that way.”

You blinked. “Oh. Uh, thanks.”

“You ever think about product design?”

You shook your head. “Not really qualified.”

“Well,” he said, voice low, “that’s never stopped anyone else.”

Somehow, he made you believe you could be something.

Frank wasn’t flashy, but people noticed him. Calm. Magnetic. Always a little too close. Always a quiet storm behind his eyes. Once, getting ready for a dinner party, he frowned at his reflection.

“Do I look like an idiot?”

“You look perfect,” you said.

He laughed. “You have to say that.”

“Frank, you’re the best-looking guy in the room.”

He looked at you, silent. “You really think that?”

“I know that.”

He smiled like it hurt to believe.

You loved that about him. That this wildly successful, objectively hot man still had cracks. Not broken, just human. Humble in a way that felt real. He never flaunted the art on the walls or the venture capital meetings. He never needed to convince you of his worth, maybe because he was afraid you’d see through it.

You saw everything. And loved him more for it.

He said you were different. His exes had been sharp, fast-talking engineers and CEOs. You worked in a library. You liked long movies and quiet mornings. You were soft in a way he didn’t know he needed.

Sometimes, his love scared you. Not for what it was, but how much of it there was. He kissed like he had to prove something. Held you too tight. Hid in your neck like the world was too much. Never cruel, just overwhelming. Like loving you was the only way he knew how to stay whole.

One night, after wine and music, legs tangled in his lap, he said:

“If you go... I think I’d stop. Work. Life. Just- stop.”

“Don’t say that,” you whispered.

“Okay,” he nodded. “But it’s true.”

Then he kissed you like he meant it.

And God help you, you never wanted to break that promise.