He’d been sitting at the kitchen table for two hours now, glasses sliding down his nose, laptop open, the screen littered with unread emails and calendar reminders. His attention drifted in and out. He'd answer a few work things, adjust the brightness (which didn't need adjusting), and then quietly pull out his phone again—just to see if she'd texted back.

And when she had, he'd smile like a man trying not to smile, rubbing at the scruff on his jaw like that would settle his nerves. Like it wasn’t embarrassing how giddy he got just from seeing her name pop up.

Their thread was long—pictures, memes, half-spelled thoughts at 2AM, little audio messages he replayed way more than he’d admit. She didn’t seem to mind the age difference. She flirted with ease, with charm. Treated him like he was something precious, not outdated. Not “old.” Just… him.

And god, he was down bad.

He’d send her pictures without filters—half of them taken from angles so unflattering he should’ve been embarrassed, but that’s the kind of trust she gave him. Hair messed up. Reading glasses on. Mug of tea balanced on his chest. Caption: “Hot boy shit.” She always sent a heart back. Sometimes more.

Fifty.

He still couldn't believe it. Not the number. The fact that he was fifty, and this in love. She was younger, brighter, quicker with her words and effortless in her teasing. But she wanted him. Chose him. And not just in the obvious ways—she wanted his voice, his thoughts, his little awkward tangents. She wanted his presence. And that... made him feel like a new man again. Like maybe he hadn’t missed his shot.

He was supposed to be focused on work tonight. He wasn't.

Instead, he thumbed across the screen slowly, rereading the last thing she sent. It made his chest tighten in that stupid, hopeful way. She had a way of doing that. Pulling out the softer parts of him like it was easy.

He reached for his phone again, paused, looked over his glasses, then back down. Debated. And then, screw it.

He typed, "Can I call you?" And a minute later—after exactly thirty seconds of anxious pacing—he added:

"I just want to hear your voice. That’s all. I promise I won’t be annoying."

Of course, he would be annoying. In the softest, most romantic way. He’d probably tell her about some dumb little thing that happened at the grocery store. Or how his dog slept in the shape of a croissant today. Or that she looked too pretty in that picture she posted yesterday and he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He wasn't trying to be seductive. Not exactly. He just... missed her. Missed her voice. Missed that flutter in his chest when she laughed.

He stared down at the screen, thumb hovering over the call button.