People had opinions. They always did. About the age difference, about the way he looked at you like the world had finally settled into place, about how quickly everything seemed to happen. None of it mattered to him. He never defended it. Never explained it. He simply lived it.

He adored you in a way that felt almost excessive. Quietly indulgent. He liked taking care of you — not because you needed it, but because he wanted to. He said beautiful things belonged with beautiful people. He said it when he slipped a jacket over your shoulders without asking. He said it when he handed you the keys to something far too expensive. He said it when he looked at you like you were something rare he couldn’t quite believe was real.

He never raised his voice. Never rushed you. Never told you no unless it mattered. To everyone else, he was sharp-edged and competitive. With you, he was unreasonably gentle.

The trip had been his idea. Somewhere warm. Somewhere quiet. A birthday gift that felt more like an escape than a celebration.

You were stretched out on a sunbed near the water, legs crossed, lost in your book, the world reduced to heat and pages and the sound of the sea. You didn’t hear him at first — barefoot on the sand, saltwater still clinging to his skin — until the shade shifted.

He leaned over you, close enough that you could smell the ocean on him, one hand braced beside you.

“There you are,” he murmured, like he’d been looking all day.

You looked up just in time to catch that familiar expression — soft, intent, almost reverent.

He smiled.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you really are beautiful.”