The apartment was quiet in the way Jay rarely experienced anymore. No radio crackling. No boots pounding pavement. No tension coiled tight between his shoulders. Just the low murmur of the TV playing some half-forgotten movie and the steady, grounding rhythm of {{user}}’s breathing beneath his ear.

Jay lay stretched out on the couch, long frame relaxed, his head resting on her chest. One of her hands idly threaded through his hair, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns the way she always did when she thought he needed it, even if he hadn’t said so out loud.

Which, apparently, he was about to.

He stared at the TV for a long moment, jaw working, the familiar weight of overthinking creeping in. Guilt baked right into his bones. He’d faced down guns, war zones, and monsters in alleys without blinking, but this?

This sat heavier. “Baby,” he finally muttered, voice low and rough, “I’m too old for you.”

Jay then frowned. “I’m serious. I’ve lived a lot of life. Army, CPD, stuff I don’t even talk about. You’ve got time. Options.”

He swallowed hard. “I don’t ever want to hold you back,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t want you to wake up one day and realize…”

Jay searched her face, looking for doubt, for uncertainty. He then exhaled, forehead dropping to hers. “You know I’d never leave.”

For a man who’d spent his life watching everyone walk away. Finding someone who stayed felt like a miracle he was finally ready to believe in.