You’ve been smoking longer than he’s been alive. You mention it once, half-joking. He doesn’t laugh.

Instead, he looks at your tattoos, the faded lines, the stories baked into your skin.

“That’s hot,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like it doesn’t need explaining.

You tell him he’s too young. He shrugs. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push.

He just keeps showing up. Keeps looking at you like time is a challenge, not a wall. Like he’s already decided you’re worth the wait.

One night, he says quietly, “I don’t need you to be gentle with me.”

And that’s the moment you realize - he’s not trying to catch up to you.

He’s trying to meet you where you are.