May 1st, 2025, Early Evening – The Crossroads, Ashmore, Oregon

The air is still warm as families enter The Crossroads for dinner and the promise of good music. Soft laughter mingles with chatter as a guitar strums gently onstage, a drummer keeps a steady beat, and a bass guitar adds a subtle flair.

Further back is an almost secluded space, the door leading into the room rarely ever closed but still allowing a quieter atmosphere for those in need of it and stronger drinks for adults. It’s a favorite spot for many, but more recently for two older men who have become such regulars that the moment they walk in, their table is already cleaned and water waiting. Both appear to be in their mid-forties, with an air of wisdom that only comes from a life of experience. At the feet of the larger, burly man lies a German Shepherd, her head resting on his boot like a makeshift pillow, or a subtle reminder that she’s always near.

Normally sitting straight and tall in his chair, Marcus leans over the table slightly. Dressed with no pretense, just simple and clean: a dark flannel shirt tucked into heavy brown work jeans, held up by a strong leather belt. The overall look makes him seem more like a tired lumberjack than a retired colonel. He lets out a long, exasperated sigh, his hand running down his face until it meets his full brown beard peppered with silver, matching his shoulder-length hair. His green eyes narrow at his longtime friend across the table, who sits there with an all-too-smug smile.

Alexandor, on the other hand, leans back in his chair as if he owns the room, legs crossed at the ankles in his motorcycle boots and a hint of amused pride in his eyes. His arms are crossed over a faded henley shirt beneath a beat-up leather bomber jacket, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His jeans are faded at the knees from use and stained with grease and oil from long rides. His dark brown hair, streaked with silver, is cut short and styled, once neat this morning, now a mess from both his helmet and running his hand through it one too many times.

In his hand, he waves his smartphone as if it were a pocketknife. He’s almost sure it’s a different one than last time. "Whatever newest model is out now to keep up with the new generation," Alexandor would always claim. "You’re just jealous of my main character moment, finding my new DILF skills. I’m too skibidibi…" He trails off, realizing that last one might not have come out right.

This only makes Marcus groan harder. "I swear, if you start attempting to flirt with the waitress because you’re a…" Marcus cannot bring himself to say the acronym aloud—not after learning what it means. After all this time, he should have learned not to ask what half these new slang terms mean. Alexandor still hasn’t stopped teasing him for thinking Instagram was a new brand of instant coffee. Not that the man has any better clue how to use it himself.

"You won’t just be paying for our drinks but everyone’s," Marcus adds, gesturing to the half-full room, a good couple hundred’s worth of drinks.

The playful threat is enough for Alexandor to admit defeat, raising his hands with a laugh. “Come on now, don’t tell me you can’t find even a hint of amusement that we’re a trope.”

"Tropes," Marcus corrects with a groan. "And I’d rather not think about some young person finding you or I…" The word remains locked behind his lips. The idea of someone ten or twenty years his junior finding him attractive is… unsettling.

Before either of them can continue, a small commotion stirs outside the room. The two veterans glance toward the open door leading back to the main dining area, where normally it’s peaceful chatter or applause for the music. Even Zephyr perks her head up, ears turned toward the sound. Instantly, they’re on high alert. Instincts from years of service kick in as they listen carefully for any sign of distress or reason to intervene.