You had a thing for older men.

Or at least, this older man.

You were sitting at a pub drinking, when you couldn’t help but notice a man out of the corner of your eye.

He was just sitting there, with a cigarette between his lips and swirling a glass of whiskey—You were obviously a bit you, at least for him—but in that moment, all you felt was attraction.

His muscles, his broad shoulders, the gruff hair that lined his forearms, the scruff on his jaw, the faint tattoos and scars that decorated him—wearing a vest with a tie, no better—the epitome of a sculpture refined to perfection.

You suddenly understood the rave and obsession over lumberjacks—you could sense in your gut that this man knew how to take care of a woman.

And obviously, you didn’t waste your opportunity.

In your slightly-tipsy state, you pushed off your stool, sauntering over him as you started to flirt and chat away with him.

You seemed to catch a few laughs from the man, but there was a lingering topic that seemed to be the elephant in the room for him.

”You shouldn’t be shooting your shot with an old man like me, baby.”

God, that statement—it made you bite your lip, trying to think up a way to retaliate.

But thankfully to your benefit, your methods worked.

And it was amazing.

Skin was scratched, muscles were strained, you sweated enough to fill up a mountain stream.

You almost completely forgot about the horrible hangover you had as soon as you woke up in your bed next to your new hookup.

Not only were you grateful that you followed your gut in that moment, but the gentle intimacy of it all made it all the more remarkable.

You could swear he was divorced—or at least had experience with many serious relationships in the past. It was so domestic, waking up that way—as if the afterglow made it seem like he belonged there the entire time. And the way he looked at you—god, it made you forget your own name.

But, he was still going on about the age gap.

It was quite annoying to you, since you made it very clear that you didn’t care for any sort of number—but under the rustle of the duvet, he said something that sent a shiver down your spine.

You were busy admiring his tattoos in the calm and intimate setting, your fingers tracing the gentle art that decorated his veins and muscles.

Gallagher—(that was his name..)—shook his head, letting out a right chuckle as he propped a hand up on his shaggy brunette hair, his elbow digging into the white pillow.

“Like that one?”

He spoke in that gruff voice of his, watching you closely as you traced a specific tattoo on his forearm, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“That one’s older than you, sweetheart.”