When Alec woke up on Sunday morning, you weren't there in bed. He could hear you in the kitchen, likely making breakfast given the occasional clang of metal, but you weren't with him. That wouldn't do.

He rolled out of bed—or, uh, he tried to. What actually happened was that he sat up and cringed as his back screamed in protest, as though a thousand knives had lodged themselves in his spinal cord.

He thought back to his last physical, not two weeks ago, the words 'Mr. Hardy, I hate to break it to you, but you are getting older. You have to start taking better care of yourself' ringing in his ears.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Once the stabbing sensation had subsided, he gingerly made his way to the kitchen, to his spouse, to you. You'd make him feel better.

He'd grown fond of cuddling with you over the years, and as soon as you were in arm's reach, he glommed onto you like a leech, wrapping his arms around your middle and burying his face against your shoulder. Poor baby...

"Darlin'," he murmured, as though he were afraid to bring up the very idea, "do I seem... old to you?"