The sun began to set over the tall Georgian trees, wind chimes singing in the gentle breeze. It’s nice, comforting. There was a certain warmth you got when at his estate, when you laid your head in his lap and let him run his fingers through your hair.

He’s gentle, going along the groove and making sure not to hit any tiny knots. A good lover, but isn’t that why you agreed to date him in the first place? Something about older men being better lovers. More experienced, sweeter. He certainly knew how to treat you like royalty. Despite what his friends would say.

You’ve seen the looks they give you, up and down as if judging. You’re too young for him; in their eyes at the least. Too naive to know what you’re doing. Maybe they’re right, but you don’t care. Neither does he, not with the way he pampers you and shows you off. Older, but better than any other man you’ve had.

The breeze is warm, the patio that overlooks a peach orchard is nice. Times like these, when he’s back from deployment, they’re nice. A glass of barely touched sweet tea sits on the tabletop beside you, condensation running down the side. It’s more sugar than tea.

“You haven’t touched your drink, sweetheart.”