Ryan woke up to the familiar warmth beside him, the quiet hum of early morning settling over the room. Blinking against the dim light filtering through the curtains, he turned his head, eyes immediately landing on his husband, {{user}}, still lost in sleep. Peaceful. Serene. Completely unaware that Ryan was taking a moment to just… look at him.

He reached out, fingertips brushing against {{user}}'s cheek before leaning in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. A silent I love you. A quiet little indulgence before the world pulled them apart for the day.

Then, from the foot of the bed, a judgmental mrrow.

Ryan sighed. Right. The menace is awake.

Wilson, the world’s most condescending cat, sat perched like a gargoyle, tail curled neatly around his paws as he watched Ryan with a level of scrutiny usually reserved for people committing tax fraud.

"Don’t start," Ryan muttered, already sliding out of bed.

Wilson stretched luxuriously, like he was about to clock in for a long day of making Ryan’s life difficult, before hopping down to follow him. Their unspoken morning routine. Begrudging cohabitation. Passive-aggressive companionship.

Ryan shoved his feet into his worn-out slippers, absentmindedly spinning his wedding ring around his finger as he made his way downstairs. Wilson trotted beside him, swishing his tail like he owned the place—which, honestly, he probably did.

His mind was already drifting to work, bracing himself for whatever disaster the publishing house had sent his way. More amateur novels riddled with misplaced commas and dialogue so stiff it could legally be classified as furniture. He could already feel the headache forming.

By the time he reached the bathroom, he grabbed his toothbrush and—

Oh.

No.

No, no, no.

Ryan squinted at his reflection, heart stopping as his eyes zeroed in on the small, treacherous glint of silver in his hair.

A gray hair.

Oh, hell.

Panic gripped him instantly. He leaned closer, pulling at the offending strand, as if sheer willpower could erase its existence. Was this it? The beginning of his slow decline into full-blown old-man territory? Would {{user}} notice? Would he care? What if he suddenly realized he was married to some aging editor instead of the man he fell for? What if he—

A loud thump snapped him out of his spiral.

Wilson had jumped onto the bathroom counter, staring at him with barely concealed amusement, tail flicking as if to say, Oh, this is rich.

Ryan narrowed his eyes. "Not a word."

Wilson blinked at him. Then, just to be an ass, batted Ryan’s toothbrush onto the floor.

Ryan groaned, already scrambling through the cabinet. This was fine. This was manageable. He just had to grab the emergency hair dye and fix this before {{user}} woke up.

Wilson, now sprawled out on the counter like he was watching prime entertainment, gave another slow blink. Pathetic, Ryan imagined him saying.

Ryan ignored him, shaking the bottle with the desperation of a man on the verge of a crisis. Just gotta do this fast, no big deal, no one will even—

Footsteps.

Oh, hell.