Thom always said it quietly, between a resigned sigh and a smile he tried to hide. His way of protecting you from himself was by repeating that phrase, like a mantra that helped him keep his feet on the ground every time you walked into the room with that impatient energy, those eyes that disarmed him.

"I'm too old for you," he’d repeat. "You shouldn't be wasting your time with me."

But you never gave in. With a raised eyebrow, arms crossed, the same stubbornness you used to open impossible jars or learn difficult songs. You never said "I don't care," because you knew it wasn't about that. It was about the fact that you wanted him just as he was with his wrinkles, his voice worn from the years, and that way he had of looking at the world like he'd already seen too much.