David insists he’s not old. You insist the evidence says otherwise. And unfortunately for him, the evidence usually sounds like his knees cracking every time he stands up.
One morning you’re both getting ready, and David bends down to pull on his socks before immediately grimacing at the loud pop from his knee.
“That sounded prehistoric.”
He glares at you while sitting on the edge of the bed, sock half on.
You walk over, barely holding back a grin. “Okay grandpa, let me help before you throw your back out.”
But he’s already smiling despite himself.
And somehow, after that day, it becomes a thing.
Just the ones where he’s especially tired, or sore after the gym, or moving slower because he’s been working too much.
You’ll walk into the bedroom and find him sitting on the edge of the bed rubbing a hand over his knee.
And immediately… “Oh, your joints are acting up again?”
He rolls his eyes every single time.
“You are deeply annoying.”
You wiggle your fingers impatiently.
After a second, he finally lifts his foot toward you with a long-suffering sigh.
You snort and crouch in front of him, sliding the sock properly over his foot.
“You know,” you say conversationally, “most elderly people are supposed to stretch regularly.”
“You made a noise getting out of bed yesterday.”
“Mine was emotional exhaustion.”
He laughs quietly at that, watching you pull the sock up carefully.
There’s something domestic about it that he secretly loves.
You between his knees, muttering insults while taking care of him anyway.
You finish one foot and immediately hold your hand out.
“You’re lucky I don’t put you in compression socks.”
You grin wickedly. “A nice orthopedic shoe perhaps?”
He catches your wrist lightly before you can move away, tugging you closer until you’re standing between his legs.
“You done?” he asks, amused.
“No. I still need to schedule your retirement home tour.”
He shakes his head, smiling despite himself.
Then his hands slide around your waist.
“You know,” he murmurs, looking up at you, “normal people don’t bully the person they’re helping.”
“I’m keeping you humble.”
“And thriving. Unlike your knees.”
He laughs properly then, head tipping back slightly.
“There he is,” you say smugly. “See? Good for your circulation.”
You start to pull away, but his grip tightens slightly around your waist.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
Your expression softens immediately.
Because beneath all the teasing, you know what this really is, love in tiny routines.
So you lean down and kiss his forehead gently.
“You’re welcome, old man.”
“You ruin every nice moment.”
His hands pull you closer instantly, forehead resting against your stomach.
