Jim’s spine gave a stiff pop as he sat up, a low groan escaping his throat like steam from a rusted kettle. He arched his back with a wince, rolled his shoulders, and sighed—half relief, half resignation. The ache dulled but didn’t disappear.

"Forty-five,” he muttered under his breath, “feels more like seventy.” He always knew aging wouldn't be a graceful waltz, but he hadn't expected it to punch him straight in the joints this early.

With a grunt, he shoved the blankets off, cold air licking at his chest. He dragged a wrinkled shirt over his head, the fabric clinging awkwardly to his sleep-warm skin. The floorboards creaked beneath him like an old ship as he shuffled across the bedroom, scratching at the back of his head with one hand, fingers snagging in his mess of graying hair.

He descended the stairs with the grace of a boulder—slow, heavy, and slightly off-balance. Habit had him expecting the usual scene: his pretty partner, radiant even in the soft glow of morning light, humming over the stove while the scent of bacon or coffee floated through the air. The kind of warm, quiet domesticity he never realized he’d crave so deeply.

But when he turned the corner, the kitchen was silent—empty.

A blink. A pause.

He glanced toward the living room, thinking maybe you'd curled up with one of your corny mystery novels or gotten lost in one of those over-dramatic TV shows you loved. But no. No slippers on the rug. No blanket thrown over the couch. No you.

Then—laughter.

Faint and sweet, that bubbly giggle that had wrapped itself around his heart from the very first time he heard it. It drifted through the screen door like a summer breeze, curling under his ribs and pulling him toward it.

He followed the sound. The front door creaked on its hinges as he pushed it open and squinted into the sun-drenched morning. There you were—standing by the mailbox, barefoot in the dew-kissed grass, clutching a handful of mail like it was no big deal. You looked like something out of a painting, a soft breeze lifting your hair.

But you weren't alone.

Next to you stood him—Jason? Jack? Some annoyingly tall college guy who lived next door. Shirt a little too tight, grin a little too wide, posture way too confident. He said something, and you laughed again, tucking your hair behind your ear in that way that always made Jim's heart twist.

And suddenly, it wasn't just his back that ached.

A strange heat bubbled up in his chest—jealousy, sharp and unexpected. Anger too, but not the loud kind. The slow kind. The kind that simmers quietly behind clenched teeth. He hated how quickly insecurity slithered in, how easily he imagined you smiling like that with someone younger, someone who didn't groan every time he bent over to tie his damn shoes.

"Hey!" he barked—too loud, too sharp. His voice cracked like a whip through the quiet morning.

You turned toward him, surprised, and he immediately hated himself for it. He cleared his throat, softened his tone, and jerked his head gently toward the house. "Come on."

The neighbor-boy gave you a half-smile and a casual wave before turning and strolling off, oblivious to the knot twisting in Jim's gut.

Jim stood still, one hand braced on the doorframe like a sentry, watching until the kid was completely out of sight. Only then did he step back, holding the screen door open for you.

Jim closed the door behind you, the latch clicking like a final nail. "I see getting the mail's a two-person job now," he muttered, instantly regretting it. The venom in his voice didn't sound like him—it sounded small. Bitter. Old.

He didn't wait for a response. Just reached out, plucked the mail from your hands a little too roughly, and trudged into the kitchen like a man hoping to drown his emotions in toast and eggs.