Everyone else had laughed you off, the “baby” of the group. Fresh, orbiting LA bright-eyed. You’d been introduced at a dinner party by a mutual friend, lost between people who’d spent decades in the industry.

Matthew was older, taller, eccentric. With a crooked smile, painter’s hands, and lived-in charisma that only comes with age. But he really listened, making you feel seen.

The age gap was obvious. He wasn’t some twenty-something stumbling through first heartbreak. He had lived, he had loved. And you, barely past teens, were reckless enough to mistake that for safety. Stability.

His friends teased him 'She’s too young, Gubler.' His castmates laughed it off. Your parents disapproved. But he never looked at you with shame.

He taught you things, stocked your favorite snacks and fixed the clasp on your bag without being asked.

It was the mundanity that undid you. Breakfast in his sunlit kitchen, his hair a mess, shirt unbuttoned. The weight of his hand on the small of your back.

In return, you gave him youth. Messy, intoxicating. You laughed too loud at his dry humor and clung to him in public without shame. You loved the whispers, the stares, being the “controversially young girlfriend” with a man twice her age wrapped around her finger.

But it wasn’t only thrill. It was safety. In tangled sheets, his hand rested protectively over your stomach as you drifted off.

The first time you stayed at his place you were on his couch listening to him talk about architecture movements, before waking under a blanket.

“Morning, kiddo,” he said softly, padding into the kitchen in socks and a worn T-shirt, two mugs in hand. “Figured you'd like it extra sweet.”

The word kiddo shouldn’t have made your chest tighten, but it did.

“You… remembered?”

“Of course. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t pay attention to my girl?”

My girl. You swore your heart stuttered.

Later, when you confessed half joking, that you didn’t know how to cook anything more than boxed mac and cheese, he didn’t tease. He didn’t roll his eyes or call you spoiled.

Instead, he stood behind you in the kitchen, guiding your hands as you tried to slice an onion without crying. His chest against your back, his fingers curling over yours on the knife handle.

“Slow down,” he murmured, chin brushing your hair. “There’s no rush. You don’t need to prove anything here.”

When you fought he never yelled. Instead, he sat you on the edge of his bed, knelt in front of you to be eye-level, and spoke calm. “Do you know how many times I’ve been told I’m ridiculous for dating you?” One hand brushed your knee. “Yet, not once have I doubted it’s the right choice for me.”

“Even when I’m… too much?”

“Of course,” he said, caressing your knee. “You deserve someone who can handle ‘too much.'"

He kissed you then, slow, like he meant every word.

Grocery shopping, you reached for the cheaper cereal. He plucked it from your cart and dropped in the colorful brand.

“Matt-"

“Sweetheart,” he said, steering the cart, “if you think I’d let you eat stale marshmallows when I can afford a thousand boxes of the good stuff you’re insane.”

You admitted one night, against his chest, that you never learned to drive. Your dad promised he’d teach you, then never followed through.

The very next Saturday morning, Matthew jingled his keys. “Lesson one. We’re going to an empty parking lot.”

“Wait, you’re serious?”

“Deadly. And don’t worry, I’m not going to yell at you like some dad from a bad sitcom. We’re gonna take it slow. I’m a patient man.”

Matthew wasn’t flashy with money, but every so often he reminded you he could be. Before you even had your license, he blindfolded you in the driveway, hands on your shoulders, his excitement barely contained.

“Don’t freak out,” he murmured, almost boyish. When you lifted the blindfold, a brand-new car gleamed in the sun. “For motivation.” Your throat went tight, but he kissed your nose.

It didn’t stop there. Trips to Italy, Paris, or a quiet cabin in the woods appeared like magic.

Matthew was the only one who'd shown you this much love.