I was only 8 when an older man first caught my attention. It was during “The Parent Trap” that I felt an illicit flutter when Dennis Quaid’s Nick Parker reclined, chest hair exposed, while Meredith Blake, played by Elaine Hendrix, sat on his lap, stroking the tuft of hair.

Throughout my adolescence, there was a rotating list of older men who caught my eye: George Clooney, Russell Crowe, and my parents’ friend Raúl, whose salt-and-pepper beard made me dizzy. I wanted a man who’d been around long enough to have stories — someone whose confidence I could run my fingers through.

But even still, I hadn’t planned on marriage, let alone marrying a man nearly three decades my senior. And then I met Christopher.

The first time I heard his voice, I was hunched over a laptop at Frothy Monkey, a coffee shop in Nashville, the city where we both were living at the time.

“Want to join our book club?” he asked the server.

I turned and saw a man with silver-streaked hair sitting with an older woman with a brightly printed sweater, both of them smiling at the server. I approached their table to ask if I could join. The two of them — Christopher and Dorinda, I found out — were so excited to have a new member that they offered to let me pick the first book.

Every Thursday, we met at Frothy Monkey. We read books like “Migrations” by Charlotte McConaghy, “Planes Flying Over a Monster” by Daniel Saldaña París, and “Poor Things” by Alasdair Gray. We didn’t always have the same taste in books, but we could spend hours talking about them. I felt a pull toward Christopher after he helped me take my car to the shop when I got a flat tire. I knew he was older than me, but I wasn’t sure of his age. I only knew I left each meeting starving for the next.

I wasn’t actively seeking an older man, but, then again, I wasn’t necessarily seeking anything. I had dated men in their 30s and 40s when I was in my 20s. At the time, the age gap was too noticeable. These men either had young kids or they were fresh out of a divorce. I had been using dating apps at that time and my age range was set from 32 to 60, but I had little luck and decided to get off them. My friend Kelcey and I printed out date cards with brief bios and our phone numbers, and we passed them out at bars. We wanted a real-life meet-cute.

Around the same time, Christopher and I began to spend time together outside the book club, mostly dinner and drinks at his favourite restaurants. I always insisted on paying for myself — I didn’t want him to think I was looking for a sugar daddy (not that there’s anything wrong with that — it just wasn’t what I was looking for).

We had so much more in common than two people of different generations; we both had lived in Arabic-speaking countries, were in creative fields, and were very (very) anti-Trump. Christopher checked off traits that I wanted in a partner: well-traveled, artsy and liberal. But even though we had been spending a lot of time together, I couldn’t tell if we were heading to friends or flirtation. I was growing impatient and knew I needed to find out one way or another.

I invited him to my house for Thanksgiving for an intimate meal with my parents, cousin and friend. During dinner, I found out Christopher was actually in his 60s and that he had been married for 16 years. Was I shocked? Yes. But it wasn’t a deal-breaker. It excited me because it meant he wasn’t afraid of commitment — that was until my mom asked him if he would ever get married again, and he replied, “Hell no!” I couldn’t tell exactly what I felt for him yet, but when I heard him say that and I felt a twinge inside of me, I suspected I was falling for him.

Not long after, I decided to go on a weekend trip to Shaker Village in Kentucky and invited Christopher to go with me. I hoped being away from our everyday lives would give me the boost of confidence I needed to make a move and finally figure out what there was between us — if anything. We booked separate rooms, but as we were unloading the car and dropping off his bags to his room, I kissed him. There was no buildup: I simply walked over, wrapped my arms around his waist, and kissed him. He kissed me back.

“I was really hoping you would do that,” he admitted.

Afterward, he pulled out an additional key to his room and handed it to me.

The night we kissed, Christopher explained that I had to be the one to make a move because he respected me and wanted to make sure he was reading the signs correctly.

I saw Christopher in a new way that weekend. He was the one who initiated conversations that others I had been with shied away from. I was no stranger to moving quickly in relationships, so when we cuddled up in bed the next night, I had every intention of having sex with him because I wanted to know if we were physically compatible. Before we were intimate, he asked me about STIs — something I’ve never had anyone do. We confirmed that neither of us was sleeping with other people. We left the weekend agreeing that if we were to go on dates with other people, we would be transparent about it, but neither of us saw other people after that.

Christopher was initially self-conscious about holding hands or kissing in public. He said women would give him this look, like how dare you take advantage of this younger woman? I never noticed. It didn’t bother me. Once Christopher saw how confident I was around him, he loosened up too.

My concerns didn’t stem from the knee-jerk pop-culture associations people often make the moment they learn I’m 28 years younger than Christopher. No, I’m not concerned that he’ll dump me for someone younger once I “get too old.” I know he loves me because I’m me, not because of how old I am.

My worries boiled down to longevity — in years and in novelty. At the age of 62, were there any firsts left for him to share with me? What would our future look like when he got older? Would the age gap be noticeable when it came to our hobbies and interests?

And though I have some anxiety about what happens when Christopher gets older, he isn’t the only one aging in this relationship. I, too, will go through changes, including menopause. Though he’s older than me, that doesn’t mean that he will necessarily die first — though statistically, he will — but ultimately, that’s not something I spend my time worrying about.

A few weeks after our first kiss, we were lying in a hotel bed in Denver.

“I almost bought a ring,” Christopher told me.

“I would say yes if you asked,” I told him.

“So should we … get married?”

In previous relationships, we both had played it safe. This time around, we were in love. We didn’t want to talk ourselves out of what we had. When I told my parents we were getting married — ideally in a few months — they were more worried. They said they weren’t uneasy about the age gap — even though Christopher is only five years younger than my dad — but the speed at which we were moving concerned them. However, as they spent more time with Christopher, their initial hesitation gave way to a realisation of how much we love each other and they gave us their blessing.

Not everyone was quite as supportive.

“Won’t it be weird bringing him around your friends? What if you decide you want kids? What’s it going to be like in 20 years?” My friend Kelcey fired off. She wasn’t the only one with questions. But others could see how happy I was and welcomed Christopher into their worlds. My friend Jessica and Christopher have the same music taste and bonded over bands I had never heard of. Drew chatted with him about politics while Christopher made silly faces at Drew’s 1-year-old son. My cousin and Christopher have inside jokes, like calling each other the wrong names, which was their lighthearted way of poking fun at my dad, who referred to Christopher as “Steven” for the longest time.

Before I met Christopher, I knew I wasn’t interested in having children, and he was happy with the three grown children he already had. We both loved what opportunities a child-free life could bring us: taking vacations whenever we wanted, not having an obligation to live in an any particular city, and extra income to spend on travel. He offered to get a vasectomy, and I happily got off birth control.

Being with someone older also means they’ve seen a lot. That time I needed to rush off the subway because I thought I was about to shit my pants? It didn’t faze Christopher a bit. When I got that bump on my ass and I didn’t know what it was, he took a picture and offered to pop it for me when it was ready. With people I dated previously, I often felt that I needed to impress them. I was self-conscious of my body. Early on, when Christopher and I were still new in bed together, I was on my period and he didn’t care.

Having a nearly 30-year age gap means we know different things. We have different passions and experiences. It’s not just him — the more experienced one — teaching me. I’ve introduced him to silicon instead of single-use bags, kink in the bedroom, and “Legally Blonde” (he has the “bend and snap” down). Christopher and I are both Virgos; we tend to be serious and care what other people think, but it’s much easier to play, to be silly, when you’re not alone. I told him the theory about how dogs look like their owners, and now we can’t pass a dog and their human without comparing the two. He’s taught me about brutalist architecture, introduced me to my new favourite kitchen tool, the mouli grater, and one of my new favourite podcasts, “The Ezra Klein Show.” Sometimes he’ll reference a film, and he’ll be surprised I never saw it, until he remembers I was 2 when it came out.

We’ve had candid conversations about how our age difference could impact our sex life, what our financial future looks like, and balancing our life with my parents, who are also aging. Our therapist helped us map our short-, medium-, and long-term goals. We planned what we could by setting up a joint banking account, making a will, and having weekly “state of the unions,” a designated time for us to discuss finances, weekly schedules, and anything else on our minds.

Since our marriage in March 2024, we’ve had to navigate a series of traumatic deaths — four in one year — the end of my parents’ 36-year-old marriage, and we’ve made a major move from Nashville to New York. Nothing has been too much for Christopher. He’s stuck by my side — not just because he’s already experienced it all, but because he loves me.

We’ve had so many firsts as a couple: the first time he ever used a vibrator on someone. Our first time visiting Antarctica. The first time either of us has lived in New York. I couldn’t believe that at 63 years old he had never had an apple cider doughnut. Turns out, there are plenty of firsts left for us to share. It took falling for someone much older to realise that time doesn’t make love more real — or less worth it. And age isn’t a reason to be afraid of falling.

Christopher often tells me, “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.” The same is true for me.

Nicole Reed is a Brooklyn-based writer. She is currently pursuing her master’s in happiness studies and working on her first-person essay collection that explores her marriage in relation to her parents’ gray divorce. You can read more of her work at www.nicolelouisereed.com.

Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch at pitch@huffpost.com.