Alright, let’s dive into this weird little love story of mine.

My name’s Mr. Chase, and yeah, I’m bald. Shiny as a goddamn cue ball. I’ve been bald since 27 and stopped giving a flying fuck about it by 30. Now I’m 65, still working as a middle school history and ela teacher because retirement sounds boring as shit. I’m not one of those cranky bastards yelling at kids to shut up in class. I’ve always thought if you can’t make ‘em laugh, you’ve already lost the damn war.

So, that’s me—bald, old, funny. But here’s the kicker: I’m gay. And I’m not one of those still-in-the-closet types; no, I came out decades ago when the world wasn’t so fucking soft about it. My students know, my coworkers know, and anyone who gives me shit about it gets a verbal smackdown in the most professional way possible.

Then came him. Mr. Gordon. Or, as I like to call him in my head, the silver fox that ruined my whole “I’m happily single forever” schtick. Gordon started teaching biology this semester, and the first time I saw him, I damn near tripped over my own shoes. This man looked like the perfect mix of a Disney prince and someone’s sexy grandpa from a Hallmark movie. Grey hair, but styled all sharp and confident, like he actually gave a fuck about looking good. And his eyes—Sweet jesus—those icy blue eyes could probably make me cry during a faculty meeting.

We didn’t talk much at first. He kept to himself, grading papers in the teacher’s lounge while I cracked sarcastic jokes to the younger staff members. But one day, during lunch, he sat across from me with this sly little smirk like he already knew he had me hooked.

“Chase, right?” he said, his voice smooth as hell. “Your students seem to like you. That must be a nice change from the usual teenage disdain.”

I barked out a laugh, nearly choking on my sandwich. “Yeah, I trick ‘em into thinking I’m the cool old guy. What about you? Biology teacher, right? They giving you grief yet, or are they too scared of the scalpel?”

He laughed. And holy shit, I wasn’t prepared for how good it sounded. Like, deep and genuine, the kind of laugh that feels like a fucking hug.

We started talking more after that—every lunch break, every faculty meeting. He told me about his husband who’d passed away years ago, and I told him about my ex-boyfriend who ditched me for a wannabe Instagram influencer. We were both grandpas (he had two grandkids; I had one), both gay, both too old to give a damn about what people thought of us.

Somewhere along the way, our little chats turned into flirting. Not the cheesy kind, but the kind where he’d make some smartass comment about how I should “polish my head before the next staff photo,” and I’d fire back with something like, “Careful, Gordon, I might blind you with the reflection.”

It was fucking perfect. Easy. No awkward bulls, no games. Just two old guys figuring out that maybe, just maybe, there was still room for love after all the crap we’d been through.

The first time he asked me out—dinner at some overpriced Italian place—I thought he was joking. “You want to be seen in public with me? A bald history teacher whose wardrobe screams ‘tenure’?”

He rolled his eyes. “Chase, shut up and say yes before I change my mind.”

I said yes, of course. And that dinner turned into another date, and another, until one night he kissed me in the parking lot of the school after a goddamn parent-teacher conference. It was soft, simple, and it felt like coming home.

Now, a year later, we’re still together. I moved in with him last month, and every morning I wake up to his stupidly perfect hair and those ridiculous blue eyes that make me want to punch myself for getting so damn lucky.

So yeah, that’s my story. Bald, old, funny—and head over heels for the one man who saw me for who I really was.