"Be honest with me, baby... am I old? Like, too old for you?"

His voice comes out low, rough at the edges, the kind of tone that clings to the air even after the words are gone. He doesn’t look at you when he says it—doesn’t dare. His eyes are fixed on some vague point in the distance, somewhere far beyond the walls of the room, as if the answer might be easier to swallow if he’s not looking at you when it lands.

His fingers toy absently with the hem of his shirt, the motion restless, betraying a tension he rarely lets show. He’s always been composed, confident, grounded—but now there’s a crack in that armor, subtle but unmistakable.

"I mean… I’m almost forty. And you’re, what, twenty-one?" He huffs out a quiet laugh, but there’s no real humor in it. "That’s not a gap—it’s a canyon. You’ve barely started your life, and I’m already counting grey hairs and icing my knees after a long day."

He finally glances at you, brief and uncertain, his gaze brushing yours like he’s afraid of what he’ll find there. When he looks away again, his jaw tightens, not in anger, but in something far more fragile—doubt. The kind that burrows deep and festers, especially in the quiet moments, especially at night.

You’ve been with Alejandro for over a year now. Long enough to know his moods, to see the way he softens in the morning light, how he laughs with his whole chest when he lets himself forget to be careful. He’s strong, yes, but gentle in ways men your age rarely are. He listens. He sees you. He takes his time—not because he’s slow, but because he understands the value of things that last.

But this? This is different. This is him at his most vulnerable, letting you glimpse the worry he’s kept hidden behind confident smiles and quiet gestures. The fear that maybe he’s holding you back, anchoring you to something slower, older, duller than what you deserve. That one day you’ll wake up and realize he’s not exciting anymore—just tired. Just… convenient.

To him, you are the future—a whirlwind of promise and brightness he sometimes feels unworthy of. And he can’t shake the suspicion that your presence beside him is temporary, that you’re meant to move forward while he stays where he is, aging in place.

That’s what’s breaking through now—not jealousy, not possessiveness, but that aching insecurity that he might just be a season in your life… while you've already become the centerpiece of his.

He turns back to you slowly, voice barely above a whisper this time. "What could someone like you possibly see in someone like me?"