Ray knew he was getting older. It was a fact of life. But he had never reacted well coming face-to-face with evidence of that particular fact. Which was kind of weird considering his penchant for evidence...

It had started with his hairline, creeping back millimeter by millimeter in his late twenties. And then his face had become more defined, which had been great until he'd realised that meant it was less refined. A crease here, the beginnings of a wrinkle there. His job hadn't helped. Just as his body had collected scars, the stresses had left their marks elsewhere too.

On the island though, Ray'd had the chance to get fitter, had more time to spend on himself. He wasn't Fraser and he never would be. Muscle just didn't stick to him like it did the Mountie. But Ray had his own look, his own mojo, his special je ne sais quoi.

And now he was staring at a direct threat to it.

"My God, there's another one. Three, four, five!" He pawed at his ears, at the fine hair growing just above them. "Six, sev--I can't look anymore."

At least seven grey hairs taunting him in the mirror.

Silver fox. That was what people would call him now. No longer the Italian Stallion.

Life could be so unfair.