Royce had been in this bar a hundred times before, long enough that the bartender nodded at him without asking for his order. Tonight, though, it felt unfamiliar, like the room had shifted an inch to the left and thrown everything off balance. He sat with his shoulders squared and his beer sweating onto the coaster, acutely aware of the weight at his side—{{user}}’s knee brushing his, warm and easy, unbothered.

Across the table, his friends were trying not to stare. They were failing. Royce could read them too well after all these years: the pauses that stretched half a beat too long, the smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. He caught snippets of conversation—work complaints, old stories—but underneath it all was the unspoken math. Forty-two. Twenty-nine. He’d done the calculations himself once, late at night, convincing himself it was a bad idea before somehow ending up here anyway.

He took a sip of his drink and glanced sideways at {{user}}. God, he looked comfortable. Not impressed by the bar, not intimidated by the company. Just…there. Present. Royce felt something loosen in his chest at the sight, a quiet certainty he hadn’t expected to find this late in life. He remembered how hesitant he’d been at first, how he’d tried to keep things casual, temporary. That lie hadn’t lasted long.

One of his friends laughed a little too loudly at a joke Royce hadn’t heard. He knew the questions were coming—maybe not tonight, maybe not directly—but soon. Royce straightened slightly, jaw setting, not in defense but in resolve. Let them wonder. Let them judge. He wasn’t here to justify himself.

He reached for {{user}}’s hand under the table, lacing their fingers together, and felt the squeeze returned without hesitation. Whatever his friends saw when they looked at them, Royce knew the truth. And for once, he wasn’t willing to let anyone else decide what made sense for his life.