It was the same thing you always heard from your friends whenever the topic of your relationship preferences came up. You were drawn to older men—always had been. To you, it felt normal, natural even. Nothing strange about it.

It wasn’t like you were chasing after someone twice your age or old enough to be your father. You just preferred men who were older, more experienced, more grounded. But no matter how much you tried to explain it, your friends never seemed to get it.

So when you and Rafe started spending more time together, sneaking moments away from everyone else, you kept it to yourself. You didn’t see the point in sharing. You already knew what they’d say.

The surprising part wasn’t just that Rafe was older—it was how he handled it. He wasn’t the reckless, impulsive guy everyone whispered about. With you, he was patient, careful even. He never pushed boundaries, often holding himself back instead.

“It’s not like I’m some kid, Rafe,” you said one evening as the two of you lay tangled together on your bed. Your fingers traced slow, lazy patterns across his chest, the warmth of his skin beneath your touch grounding you.

Rafe caught your hand gently, his larger palm covering yours as he guided it higher, closer to his collarbone. “You’re not a kid,” he said, his voice low and steady. “But you’re not old enough either.”