summary: after breaking up with your boyfriend because he thought you were too “old school”, you meet an older man at a bar who seems very interested.
a/n: first rafe fic!! join the taglist <3
🏷️: @downbadwellread
the breakup should have hurt more than it did.
instead, you mostly just felt annoyed.
you sat alone in your favorite little diner the morning after, stirring cream into your coffee while replaying the argument over and over again. your ex had spent nearly twenty minutes listing all the reasons you were “too much.” apparently liking handwritten letters instead of texts was too much. wearing dresses instead of leggings was too much. wanting flowers for no reason other than the fact they were pretty was too much. wanting a man to actually plan dates instead of asking what you wanted to do every single weekend was too much.
“you’re like a fifty-year-old woman trapped in a twenty-something’s body,” he’d snapped.
and honestly?
good.
if having standards made you old-fashioned, then so be it.
the problem was that hearing it from someone you’d spent nearly two years loving still left an ugly ache in your chest. it followed you through the rest of the week until friday night found you sitting at a dimly lit bar downtown, nursing a cocktail you barely touched while a jazz record crackled softly through the speakers overhead. the place was exactly your style. dark wood, amber lighting, old music, actual conversation instead of people screaming over club music. most people your age hated it.
you loved it.
which was why you didn’t immediately notice the man watching you.
he was sitting several stools away at first, broad shoulders filling out a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. older. definitely older. not old, but mature in a way that made every man in their twenties suddenly seem unfinished. his dark blond hair was slightly messy, a few strands falling across his forehead, and there was something effortlessly confident about him. no peacocking. no trying too hard. just the quiet certainty of a man comfortable in his own skin.
you caught him looking and quickly glanced away.
then looked back.
he was still looking.
and smiling.
heat crawled up your neck.
a few minutes later, he appeared beside you.
“you’ve been staring into that drink for fifteen minutes,” he said, his voice deep and warm. “starting to think you don’t actually like it.”
you laughed before you could stop yourself.
“maybe i don’t.”
“then why keep drinking it?”
“because i paid fourteen dollars for it.”
his grin widened immediately.
“that’s a fair answer.”
you found yourself smiling too.
the conversation came easier than it should have. his name was rafe. he was older than you by more than a decade, owned several businesses, had a daughter who apparently thought she ran his entire life, and possessed the kind of confidence that made you want to keep listening whenever he spoke. unlike every guy you’d dated recently, he didn’t spend the entire conversation talking about himself. he asked questions. remembered your answers. actually listened.
and when you casually mentioned your breakup, his eyebrow lifted.
“let me guess,” he said.
you laughed. “go ahead.”
“he thought you expected too much.”
your eyes widened.
“how did you know that?”
“because you’re sitting in a dress from another decade drinking a cocktail in a jazz bar.” amusement danced across his face. “a man would’ve had to be blind not to realize you appreciate effort.”
the simple statement hit harder than it should have.
you stared at him for a moment.
rafe noticed.
“what?”
“nothing.”
“that’s a lie.”
you rolled your eyes.
“it’s just…” you hesitated. “he used to call me high maintenance.”
rafe’s expression changed immediately.
not angry.
not shocked.
just confused.
“wanting effort isn’t high maintenance.”
your throat tightened unexpectedly.
“apparently it is.”
he shook his head.
“no. wanting expensive gifts for no reason is high maintenance. wanting a man to respect you enough to open a door isn’t.” his gaze softened slightly. “sounds like he was lazy.”
you laughed so hard you nearly spilled your drink.
“you don’t even know him.”
“don’t need to.”
for the first time all week, the ache in your chest eased.
the night stretched on around you. people came and went. glasses clinked. music drifted through the room. somehow neither of you noticed how much time had passed until the bartender announced last call.
rafe glanced at his watch and winced.
“well.”
“well.”
neither of you moved.
which made both of you laugh.
when you finally stood, he was already reaching for your coat before you could grab it yourself.
another small thing.
another thing nobody your age ever seemed to do anymore.
outside, the summer air was warm and heavy. city lights reflected off the pavement from an earlier rainstorm, and for a moment neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave.
“can i ask you something?” rafe said.
you nodded.
“how old are you?”
“21.” you told him.
his eyebrows rose slightly.
“and you really like all that old-fashioned stuff?”
“i really do.”
a slow smile spread across his face.
“good.”
“good?”
“because i do too.”
your heart betrayed you by fluttering immediately.
rafe noticed.
of course he noticed.
he stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough that you could smell his cologne.
clean. expensive. comforting.
“i know we just met,” he said quietly, “but i’d like to take you to dinner.”
your breath caught.
“like a date?”
“yes, sweetheart.” his smile turned softer. “like a date.”
the nickname should have felt presumptuous.
instead it made your stomach flip.
you smiled before you could stop yourself.
“you know, most people ask for my number first.”
“i’m old school.”
that made you laugh again.
and when he offered his arm for you to take as he walked you toward your car, you slipped your hand through it without hesitation, realizing that maybe your ex had been right about one thing.
you were old-fashioned.
you just hadn’t been waiting for a younger man to appreciate it.
