fluffysmutmnstr

[fluffysmutmnstr]

~ The Red Sea Diving Resort (2019) ~

[fluffysmutmnstr]

AJSODIDJEJDKDJBE!!!

THE FUZZ FOUND THEM. BAAAHAHAHAH.

I love seeing the sibling interactions, and Joe just being a total cutie and enjoying it from the sidelines.

Oooooh, baby’s got a booooooyyyfriend!!!

Truly, this is a wonderfully delicious holiday treat.

Loved the story about her and her cousin too!!

Wrap Me Up: A Sweet November Christmas Story

Rating: M/E Word count: 4.3k Warning: Oral sex (m receiving)

Summary: As promised, Joe comes home to the farm to meet the goats...and everybody else.

A/N: If you haven't read anything in the Sweet November universe, I advise catching up.

---

Chapter 2 - Mister Hundred and One

“Linds, could you please stop eating all the dough?” You demand the next morning, watching as your sister pinches another glob of oatmeal raisin cookie dough out of the bowl and drops it into her mouth.

“You’re going to get sick,” Andi warns, her face hidden behind the pantry door while she digs for the orange extract.

“Fuck sick,” you roll your eyes. “We’re not going to have any left to bake.”

“Mighty, watch your mouth.” Your mother appears in the kitchen as if summoned by the utterance of any four-letter word falling from her daughter’s mouth.

“Well, it’s true,” you say with a sigh.

“Lindsay, enough with the dough,” she points at her youngest child with a look over the tops of her glasses. “And must you sit on the counter like an animal?” She grabs a wooden spatula from the utensil crock and pokes Lindsey’s behind until she hops down from where she’d been sitting on the counter, swinging her feet back and forth, watching you and Andi do all the work. “We have guests.”

It's Lindsay’s turn to roll her eyes. “Mom, we don’t have guests,” she says, perfectly mimicking your mother’s tone. “We have Joe. There’s no possible way he expects anything nice after living with Mighty for a whole year.”

Your brow furrows. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you’re a mess, sis,” she shrugs as her faded ACDC t-shirt that’s three sizes too big slips off her shoulder. “Anyway, he’s not even awake yet, so I don’t know why we’re—”

“Sorry,” Joe’s voice precedes his appearance in the doorway. He looks adorably sleepy, still squinting behind his glasses as he surveys the busy kitchen. “Don’t mean to interrupt,” he says, offering a smile that looks more than a little intimidated.

“You’re not interrupting,” you assure him, crossing to greet him with a quick good morning kiss. “There’s coffee if you need it.”

“Thank you,” he says quietly, following your point to the far side of the kitchen where the coffee maker is chugging through its second pot of the morning.

“Did you sleep alright?” Mom asks kindly once he’s poured a cup for himself and taken a seat at the breakfast nook. “Oh, honey, we have cream and sugar for that,” she looks distressed the moment before she starts moving toward the refrigerator.

“Oh, no, please don’t trouble yourself,” he holds up a hand. “Black is fine.”

Lindsey doesn’t bother to hide her gag. “What are you, a coal miner?” she asks. “How can you drink it black?”

“Got into a habit for work,” he shrugs. “It’s not that bad.”

You watch, biting back a smile as he puts the cup to his lips and takes a sip. No one else notices the brief spasm of his mouth and neck before he sets the cup back on the table. Black coffee is just fine when it’s the stupidly expensive stuff he brews in the French press at home.

Eight-o-Clock Coffee from the middle shelf of Kroger probably packs a little more of a punch.

You get out the Sugar Cookie flavored creamer from the door of the refrigerator and set it down next to his cup. “It’s Christmas, baby,” you say with a smile. “You can indulge just a little.”

Thank you, he mouths after he’s stirred enough of the cream into his cup to make it somewhat palatable.

“Does anyone want any real food for breakfast?” Your mother asks, looking around the room at the mess you and your sisters have made. “Or should I just give up and accept that you’re all going to eat cookies all morning?”

“Yes, that,” Andi says with a definitive nod before she rips off a sheet of parchment paper for the first cookie sheet on the pile by the sink. “Do that.”

“And we’re not going to eat them all morning,” you correct, jumping back into the flow of things to assist your sister in spooning peanut butter blossom dough out to be baked.

“We have to at least have enough for tonight,” Andi puts in.

“What’s happening tonight?” Joe asks politely.

“That quiet dinner at home you were promised,” you tell him with a quick smile.

“Yep,” Lindsay hops up onto the counter again and starts ticking things off on her fingers. “Dinner, cookies, Christmas movies—” she stops. “Mom, is it still okay if Cameron comes over?”

“Who is Cameron?” you ask before she can get an answer.

“Lindsay’s new boyfriennnnnnd,” Andi says in a teasing voice.

“Ooooooooh,” you sing back. “I didn’t hear about him.”

“That’s because there’s nothing to hear,” Lindsay says with a scoff. “We’ve only been out on like, three dates. I don’t even know if I like him yet.”

“Oh, yes you do,” your mother scolds, slapping her knee as she walks past, apparently having given up on getting her to sit at the table like a human. “We all like him,” she adds while she pours herself a cup of coffee. “He built just the best feeding station for the kids over the summer—makes the bottle feeding so much easier for your father.”

“And he did all the social media stuff for goat yoga this summer,” Andi chimes in. “Almost doubled our numbers.”

“And he’s quiiiite a muffin,” Mom continues while you catch Joe trying unsuccessfully to hide his smile in his coffee cup.

“Mom, seriously?”

“Blueberry,” Andi laughs. “With that crunchy-munchy stuff on top.”

“All of you! Enough!”

“Well,” you glance up from dropping the last of the first dozen cookies onto the sheet. “I’m sold. I cannot wait to meet your blueberry stud muffin, little sister. When’s the wedding?”

“Ohhhkay you can shut up,” Lindsay grumbles. “Swear to God no one in this house matured past seventh grade.”

“Oh boy, she must really like him.” You can’t help but needle her just a little more. “Look how red her face is!”

She jumps off the counter, clearly fighting the blush that’s staining her fair cheeks. “I hate you all!” she declares, swiping another tablespoon’s worth of unbaked oatmeal raisin as she starts to leave the room. After a moment, she pops back in and points to where Joe is still sitting at the table. “Except you,” she says, her mouth full of cookie dough. “You’re okay.”

“Likewise,” he says, lifting his mug in a little salute.

“We really shouldn’t tease her like that,” your mother says with an affectionate sigh once Linds has gone back upstairs.

“Mom,” Andi levels her gaze. “You made me take her with me on just about every date I went on in high school and college,” she reminds her. “I will tease her as much as I darn well please, thank you very much.”

“Samesies,” you agree, offering a big smile.

This is met with another heavy sigh. “I don’t know what your plans are, but someone needs to help your father with getting everyone ready for tomorrow before you do anything else.”

“Tomorrow?” Joe glances toward the calendar. “Is that the…goats in sweaters thing?”

“It is,” you answer with a nod. “And please do not feel like you have to go.”

“What?” Andi looks appalled at the suggestion. “No, he definitely has to go!”

“If he doesn’t want to—” Your mother attempts to intervene.

“Mighty cannot just bring her man home and then let him off the hook for goat photos.”

“Andi, believe it or not, some people don’t think an afternoon spent wrangling farm animals into sweaters to be a super fun and relaxing activity,” you remind her with a look before you shift your eyes back over to Joe. “But you’re totally going, aren’t you?”

His grin widens, deepening those criminally adorable dimples. “Oh, I’m not missing this.”

“See?” Andi shrugs and looks triumphant. “He’s not missing it.”

“Ooohkay,” you say as you start slinging more cookie dough onto another tray.

“So why does your family call you Mighty, anyway?” Joe asks later on when you’re making your way back to the car, just as the sun is beginning to set. You pop the trunk and set the two bags of last-minute gifts inside while he holds your cup of chai. 

You take your drink back and unlock the rest of the doors. “You haven’t met my cousin, Hayden, yet.”

“Not yet,” he agrees. You watch his eyes dart up and to the right as he tries to remember all the people he’d met at Aunt Barbie’s the night before. “Right? I haven’t?”

“No,” you shake your head as you climb behind the wheel. “Not yet. Anyway, she and I were born a week apart,” you start the car and wait a moment for the heat to kick on. “But she was two months early and was so so tiny, so next to her I looked like this monster steroid baby—” Joe interrupts you with a laugh. “I wasn’t,” you add. “I was normal-sized. Eight pounds or something. Anyway, one of my uncles said that by comparison, because I was small but beefy, I looked like Mighty Mouse. So, everyone started calling Hayden ‘Minnie Mouse’ and me ‘Mighty Mouse’ and now she’s a grown woman named Minnie, and I can’t get anyone to stop calling me Mighty no matter how I try.”

When you look over from clearing the dusting of snow with the windshield wipers, Joe is still smiling. “Well, that’s adorable.”

“Mmm,” you hum with a look before you pull out of the parking lot. “This is a Wisconsin-only nickname, though, alright?”

He laughs quietly and nods. “Yes, love.” He adjusts the vents on his side before he looks around. “Have you got any other hot spots to show me?”

“Oh, you mean this fabulous shopping plaza with a TJ Maxx, and a Michaels, and a Little Caesars isn’t thrilling enough for you?”

“Don’t forget the nail salon.”

“Oh my God, thank you for reminding me.”

“Assuming this is where you spent a lot of your time, growing up?”

“Oh no,” you shake your head, turning back onto the road. “This wasn’t built until I was in college. There’s actually…” you stop and look over at him as an idea occurs to you.

“What?”

“Well, I already drove you past my high school and the three other places that had any significance to me—”

“It was a rousing eleven minutes,” he quips.

“So, there’s really only one other place I can think of that I haven’t shown you.”

“And what’s that?”

You glance over with another grin. “The make-out spot.”

The dirt access road that ran through the back forty of Olsen’s farm was covered in snow, but it had at least been tamped down by heavy tractor tires since the last real snowfall. It was plenty safe enough to drive on. The rest was exactly as remote and secluded as you remembered.

“Are we allowed to be here?” Joe asks, looking around nervously as you slow down to roll over the bumpy ground without breaking an axle.

“Um, I mean, probably not?” You guessed, having to squint a bit in the dim light. “But no one ever comes out here—especially after dark.” You smile at him. “Don’t worry—we won’t get caught.”

“I’m not worried,” he says. “Though I’m not…entirely sure what you’re planning on us doing out here.”

“Really?” You laugh as you slow to a stop. “You can’t think of a single thing I might want to do out here. With you. In the middle of nowhere when I haven’t had you to myself in almost three weeks?”

He lets out a shocked laugh as you put the car in park and turn off the headlights. “Wait—” he watches as you unbuckle your seat belt. “Are you serious?”

“Come kiss me and find out,” you suggest.

Joe is shaking his head, even as he clips out of his seatbelt and pushes the center armrest up so you can slide over to his side. “This is a good car for this,” he comments, noting the lack of a center console for the first time.

“I know.” You can’t help but giggle when he pulls you into his lap and reaches to the side to move the seat back. “There’s a reason I didn’t take the truck.”

“Very smart,” he murmurs the moment before your lips meet his. It’s like someone touches your skin with a live wire, an instant spark that warms you all the way down to your toes. You feel his hands slip around your waist inside your open coat, tugging you as close as you can get. His tongue slips easily into your mouth the moment your lips part and that rush of warmth settles low in your belly when your fingers lace at the back of his neck. “I’ve missed you,” he presses the words into your skin between the kisses he trails over your cheek and down to your neck.

“Missed you too.” You let your eyes close for a moment, enjoying the way he scrapes his teeth lightly over your pulse before you shift to slide away, putting enough space between you so you can reach to unbuckle his pants. You swat his hands away when he goes to do the same, and you have to bite back a smile when you hear him whine into the crook of your neck. “Just sit back,” you instruct him, giving him a gentle push.

It's a bit of a squeeze to fit between his knees and the dashboard, but you manage and can’t help but relish that look of disbelief on Joe’s face while he’s helping you to shove his pants down enough to free his cock. “You really don’t have to—” Any gentlemanly protest he’s about to make dies with a quiet moan when you wet your lips and wrap them around his foreskin, teasing the tip with your tongue.

You take a second to pull off your gloves so you can lick your palm before you move your hand slowly up and down his length while you focus on all those sounds he’s making as you work your lips and tongue around the head. You take him deeper with each slow dip of your head and flatten your tongue along the underside, ensuring everything is as wet as possible before you hollow your cheeks, sucking lightly.

Joe’s hand goes to your head, his fingers dragging against your scalp before he grabs hold of your ponytail and keeps you moving in the rhythm he helps you set. He groans louder, a sound you can hear him trying to muffle through a clenched jaw when you seal your hand to your lips and move them both together, sucking his cock in earnest.

You can feel a slight tremor in his thighs as you keep going, not planning to stop until he comes. But there’s something about the way he says your name that gives you pause. Once—then again, a little more panicked. Before you can try to figure out what’s wrong, he pulls your hair, hard, and puts a hand under your chin, pulling you off him abruptly. “Stopstopstop—” he babbles with an edge to his voice.

“What? What’s—oh fuck.” Your eyes widen when you realize why he’s panicked. The car is awash in flashing red and blue lights.

“No one ever comes out here?” he repeats as you both scramble to get out of this compromising position. He only just manages to get his pants back on, but there’s no time to get yourself back to the driver’s side before there’s a knock on the passenger side window.

“Fuck my life,” you breathe out as you reach over, still stuck in Joe’s lap, and click the button to roll down the window.

At the very least, the police officer doesn’t shine a flashlight directly into your eyes. And because of that, you can see exactly who it is who’s just busted you. “Officer Steve Patterson,” You give a valiant attempt at a casual smile and tone, despite still wiping the corners of your mouth and doing your best to shield Joe’s face with your upper body. “How the hell are ya?”

“Hey Mighty,” The officer who’d busted you at least three times during your junior and senior years of high school sounds amused. “I heard you were home for Christmas.”

“Uh-huh. Just uh—” you cough. “Doing some sightseeing.”

He glances around the space surrounding the car. “You forget you’re not allowed to be out here?”

A million possible responses come to mind but for some reason, the only one that comes out when you open your mouth is, “We’re not?”

Officer Steve lets out a little laugh as he shakes his head. “Didn’t see the signs?” he asks and then shines his flashlight on the nearest trees—all posted with big No Trespassing signs.

“Oh, those signs,” You feel Joe’s fingers dig into your hips, a clear request to get on with it if you’ve ever heard one. “I, uh, I thought that was for the other side. Of the—uh—the trees. Or the fence. Whatever.”

He raises his thick eyebrows. “The other side?” he repeats.

“Yeah,” Now that you’ve started this playing dumb routine, it’s surprisingly difficult to stop. “I thought it was like, a reassurance? Like ‘Hey, don’t worry, the people on the other side of this sign won’t be trespassing on your side over here.’”

“Is that right?” Steve asks. “That’s…that’s the best you can do?”

You swallow hard. “Yyyyyup.”

Steve shakes his head with a quiet chuckle. “How’s about you and your boyfriend get out of here and we’ll call this a warning?”

“I love that idea.”

The officer bends to peer closer into the car. “Sound good to you, sir?”

Joe raises a hand with his thumb up. “Fantastic!” He says, and the word is muffled against your coat.

“Alright then.” Steve straightens up. “Tell your dad I said, ‘Merry Christmas’, Mighty.”

“I sure will,” you say back, way too cheerfully.

It’s some small Christmas miracle that he doesn’t wait for you to go first so he can follow you out. You wait until his flashing lights have turned the corner before you deflate with a heavy sigh. “Joe, I am so sorry,” you say, lifting your head from the headrest, unsure of what to expect in his expression.

“I thought it was for the other side,” he repeats, managing to keep a straight face for all of three seconds before he bursts out laughing.

“I was flustered!” you exclaim as your face heats up. “Shut up,” you whine as you smack his arm. “You better not tell anyone about this.”

“Oh my God,” he laughs harder. “Yeah, I’m going to get right on with Vic about this and make sure she sets a press release for the morning.”

It takes a minute to clumsily untangle yourself from his lap and get situated behind the wheel again. “Alright, well, that was the make-out spot,” you say as you flip the headlights back on and fasten your seatbelt again. “And this concludes our tour!”

The fire is starting to fade just a minute before your dad pokes it back to life with the blackened iron spear. “Alright,” he says as he moves to pick up his phone from his armchair. “Are you girls done with movies tonight? I think you got all the classics.”

Despite the earlier run-in with the law, the rest of the night had turned out to be surprisingly relaxed and low-key. After dinner, you and your sisters had piled up plates of cookies and sprawled around the living room. You and Joe on one side of the couch, your mom on the other. Dad in his armchair, Andi and Reed on the loveseat, and Lindsey and not-her-boyfriend-but-totally-her-boyfriend Cameron sitting on the floor in front of them while Lindsey absently strums and tunes her beat-up acoustic guitar.  

“I’d say How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Charlie Brown, and Love Actually make for a pretty substantial start to the mandatory Christmas movie viewing,” Reed says, glancing at his watch. He gives Andi a tap on the thigh. “We should probably go soon—can’t leave the dog too much longer.”

“And since we can’t watch any of the stop motion classics—”

“Wait,” Joe interrupts you. “Why is that?”

“Mighty, shut up…” Lindsey groans.

“Because someone has been afraid of them since she was a baby,” Andi leans forward and tickles Lindsey’s neck.

“Not really,” Cameron looks over at her, a smile tugging on his lips. Your mom was right—he’s a total muffin. “Right?”

“Just—” she squirms away from Andi and covers her face. “I don’t know. The eyes and the way they move—”

“Leave your sister alone,” your mother says sleepily as she stands up. “Whatever you want to do next, it’ll have to be without me. I can’t keep my eyes open.”

“Right behind ya,” your dad says and points first at you and then at Andi. “You two be nice.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re always nice.”

Your parents head upstairs amid a call and response of ‘Good night’ and ‘Don’t stay up too late’. You yawn loudly once they’ve gone and burrow a little tighter against Joe’s chest. “I’m pretty tired, too,” you admit as you feel him tip his chin to kiss the top of your head. “I’d be okay with calling it a night.”

“Wait, no!” Linds holds up one hand. “Just one more thing.”

Andi sighs. “What?”

“Since you’ve been making fun of me all day,” she says with a dramatic pause before she presses her fingers to the neck of her guitar and gives it an experimental strum.

“No,” You’re already shaking your head as you sit up. “Not happening.”

“What’s not happening?” Joe asks, looking a cross between amused and concerned.

“No, it’s happening,” Lindsey insists, plucking the strings in a familiar melody. “Pleeeease?”

Andi tosses her head back with a dramatic groan. “Are you kidding me?”

“Nope!”

“What is happening?” Cameron asks, shooting a look around the room.

“Lindsey’s going to make them sing the Snow Miser song from A Year Without Santa Claus,” Reed says helpfully.

“I thought you just said those movies scared you,” Cameron remarks, looking more confused.

“Just the visuals—not the songs. And I’m totally making you sing that one right now.”

“You absolutely are not,” you assure them all firmly. “It’s late and we all want to go to bed.”

But your baby sister is already pouting her lips and widening her eyes like a puppy dog. “Pweeeease?” she begs in a pathetic tone. “Just once?”

“Oh my God,” Andi rolls her eyes. “Well, I’m not singing by myself,” she says. “I only know the Snow Miser part.”

“I didn’t get to hear it last year,” Lindsey continues with her pouty little whine. “Since somebody had to go move to London and everything.”

Joe gives you a playful poke in the ribs. “Come on,” he cajoles lightly. “I want to hear you sing.”

You give him a look. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

He gives you one back. “You do sort of owe me for this afternoon.”

“What happened this afternoon?” Andi asks, her ears perking up like a German Shepherd.

“Fine,” you throw up your hands to avoid answering. “One verse each and then I’m going to bed.”

“Yay!” Lindsey claps her hands like a little kid and goes back to her guitar. “Andi, you start.”

Your older sister shoots you a look of exasperated solidarity and clears her throat to start the song the two of you used to have to sing to Lindsay at least ten times a holiday season when you were kids.

I'm Mister White Christmas, I'm Mister Snow. I'm Mister Icicle; I'm Mister Ten below. Friends call me Snow Miser, whatever I touch, Turns to snow in my clutch. I'm too much.

And if you’re being honest, it’s much more fun to sing when Lindsey is playing guitar rather than making you sing along to the grainy soundtrack from the 80s. You always forget how good she is.

I never want to know a day that's over 40 degrees, I'd rather have it 30, 20, 10, 5 and let it freeze!

You take a drink from what remains of Joe’s hot toddy as Andi finishes her verse.

Friends call me Snow Miser, whatever I touch, Turns to snow in my clutch. And you have to join in on the last line with the rest of the room.

I’m too much.

“Your turn, Heat Miser,” Lindsey grins from across the room while she strums the few notes between verses, and you take a breath to start singing.

I'm Mister Green Christmas, I'm Mister Sun.

You can see Joe’s smile grow from the corner of your eye and you have to try to smother your own smile while you keep going.

I’m Mister Heeeeeat Blister You drag the word out so Andi can do her usual whistle that only makes you want to laugh harder even while you’re rolling your eyes.

I’m Mister Hundred and One They call me Heat Miser whatever I touch Starts to melt in my clutch.

You look over and can’t help but reach out and grab hold of Joe’s chin, giving his face a little shake.

I'm too much.

You make it through the rest of your verses before Lindsey declares your debts paid and puts her guitar away to walk those who are heading out to the door.

“I’m going to bed,” you say and go to stand up, but Joe pulls you back down. “What?” you giggle when he locks his arms around your waist and refuses to let you move.

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head before he presses a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “I’m just glad I’m here.”

You feel your smile widen as you tap your nose against his. “Me too.”

---

Taglist:

@grimeysociety @freyaswolf @fluffysmutmnstr @lma1986 @zestychili @pedroschka @palomahasenteredthechat @quinnyficsy @ghostinthebackofyourhead @moon1ighteyes @musicoveralll @rehfan @girlwiththerubyslippers @alltheselovelywords @bootywizzard @lightcommasticks @babybluebex @drawdownthem00n @aysheashea @figmentofquinn @mrsjellymunson , @fullstealthwombat @madisonavenuekitten

[fluffysmutmnstr]

You Look Good Series

summary: Yes, he'd broken your heart. And yes, you'd broken his, too. You'd spent your years at LAMDA falling in and out of love with Joey Quinn and when you'd left London 10 years ago, you had officially called time of death on your relationship. But a chance encounter at a dive bar in the Bronx has you rethinking everything you thought you knew about your old flame.

1 2 3 4* 5* 6 7 8 9* 10* 11 12 13, 14, 15, 16*, 17, 18, 19*, 20

Deleted Scenes/Directors cut: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 , 6, 7*, 8, 9*

Chronological Order

Playlist 

You Look Good Prompts

[fluffysmutmnstr]

[fluffysmutmnstr]

baby don’t play with me because i’ll delete every fucking word tonight and disappear like a ghost.

if i find out someone has fed my work to the plagiarism machines to get an ending because they’re impatient, not only will i do everything in my power to find out who you are and expose you irl, i will also show up to your house, punch your mother in the head (because you definitely still live with her) and shit in every single pair of your shoes before i beat the fucking brakes off you. choose wisely.

[fluffysmutmnstr]

IT’S HAPPENING, IT’S REALLY HAPPENING.

Omg, I love Joe knowing all about Hallmark movies. Him watching them with Kira is such a sweet visual.

SHITSCRAM BAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

BRING ON THE GOATS

Wrap Me Up - A Sweet November Christmas Story

Rating: M/E eventually

Word count: 3.5k

Summary: As promised, Joe comes home to the farm to meet the goats...and everybody else.

A/N: If you haven't read anything in the Sweet November universe, I advise catching up.

Chapter One: It's beginning to look a lot like...

It’s stupid to feel this anxious. You know that. You know that there’s no reason to be bouncing on the balls of your feet like this, checking your phone every thirty seconds. As if there’s going to be something more than Joe’s ‘Just landed’ text from fifteen minutes ago that will send this whole venture into a tailspin.

There is nothing, of course. Same as the last ten times you checked. Only this time, as you’re about to tuck your device into the pocket of your parka, it starts buzzing with an incoming call.

You bite back a sigh as you put it to your ear. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, honey, are you driving yet?”

“No, not yet,” you say, stretching up onto your toes to see if you can spy Joe through the clump of people nearing the arrivals gate.

“Oh, good.” She makes a surprising sound of disgust. “For heaven’s sake. What is this?” she asks before she sighs. “I don’t know which of you it is, but whoever is rearranging the letters on my Christmas decorations needs to stop it right now.”

You frown. “What?”

“The little blocks on the table in the foyer?” she asks, as if this is something you are going to be able to recall instantly from memory. “They spell out ‘Christmas’? Or they’re supposed to—”

“Mom?” You interrupt as politely as you can. “Is this why you called me? Because I didn’t touch anything…”

“Oh,” she stops her muttering. “No. It isn’t. Can you stop and get a few things on the way back? I sent your sister to the store this morning, and she never gets everything I need.”

You don’t have to ask which sister. Lindsay and her Swiss cheese memory is the only possible option. Not to mention that if it had been Andi who had left a chore half-finished, you’d probably be able to hear her and your mother fighting from here. “Uh, sure,” you say with a shrug, trying not to feel disappointed when you still can’t see him. “Just text me what you need. We’ll get it on the way home.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Be safe. Watch for deer.”

“Always,” you assure her. Finally, the crowd wanes enough for you to spot a familiar face beneath a baseball cap slowly making his way toward the door. You can’t help the smile that comes over your face. “Okay, Mom, gotta go.”

“Oh, is he here?” she asks, ignoring what you just said.

“Yeah,” you tell her impatiently. “We’ll be home soon. Love you, bye.” You hang up before she can say anything else and manage to wait until he’s through the glass doors beside the security checkpoint before you rush through the corridor and throw your arms around his neck.

“Ooof,” he grunts when you collide with his chest, stopping him in his tracks. His arms go immediately around your waist, doubling your efforts to hug him as tightly as possible. And just like it always does, the combination of his warmth and scent and the quiet way he laughs into your hair settles every anxious nerve in your body and turns down all the noise in your brain. “What, no kiss?”

You shake your head, burying your nose in his neck, unwilling to let go for another long moment. “Hug first.”

Joe obliges and lets you hug him as long as you want, not letting go until you do first. Then he goes with you easily when you drag him by the hand around the nearest corner and pull him back to you, sealing his lips to yours in a kiss that makes it feel like it’s been an eternity since the last one.

It hasn’t. It’s barely been two weeks.

But still.

“Hi,” he says when you part, pink-cheeked and just a little breathless.

“Hi,” you echo.

“I missed you.”

You let out a little hum of contentment. “I hope you remember that after we survive this holiday unscathed.”

“Unscathed?” Joe repeats with a laugh. He takes your hand and starts walking toward the baggage claim. “Is that the best you’re hoping for?” When you don’t answer, because, yes, that’s exactly the best you’ve allowed yourself to hope for, he squeezes your hand. “Have you forgotten who you’re dealing with?”

You glance over with a lift of your eyebrows. “Joseph Quinn: International Heartthrob?”

He snorts. “I was going to say, Joe Quinn: Voted Most Likely to Charm Anyone Under Any Circumstance.”

You grin. “Did they vote on those kinds of things at Eton?”

Joe throws an easy arm over your shoulder and gives you a teasing shake. “You’ve gotta stop telling people I went to Eton,” he mutters into your hair before kissing the top of your head.

“I promise you’re the only one I tell,” you assure him, enjoying the way your skin buzzes when he laughs against you. You look up at him from the corner of your eye. “Anyone Under Any Circumstance, huh?”

“The internet doesn’t lie, love,” he gives a shrug of faux modesty.

“The internet hasn’t met my mother,” you warn lightly.

“Well, it’s a good thing I have,” he reminds you as you round the corner to the carousels of bags and suitcases. “And unless I’m mistaken, I think she very much doesn’t hate me.”

Your smile widens. He’s not wrong. Your parents finally came to London at the end of the summer—they’d spent a week doing all your favorite things in the city with you, taking too many photos to send to your sisters, and mercifully keeping the complaints about the crowds and the noise to a minimum. Joe had done his best not to have to work for most of that week, and you’re pretty sure that the only reason your mother had finally warmed up to him was because he’d cooked for them almost every night.

She’s still talking about the carbonara.

Which, in her defense, is one of the best things Joe cooks. You can’t blame her.

You switch the radio station when Mariah Carey comes on as soon as you start up the truck. Last Christmas isn’t a huge improvement, but you just can’t deal with the Queen of Christmas following you around literally everywhere you go. The text from your mother has you stopping first at the butcher for two more pounds of bacon, then at the grocery store for Crisco, raisins, orange juice, and a brick of Velveeta cheese. You catch Joe’s eye as you bag up your purchases at the self-checkout. “What’s up? You’re not about to start another round of disordered eating, are you?”

If he is, it’s the first you’ve heard about it. He’s not supposed to have to start anything until at least the middle of January. And even then, you’re pretty sure they want him to gain about twenty pounds.

“No, no,” he shakes his head. “I just…don’t know that I’ve ever actually seen cheese sold by the brick before.”

You can’t help your smile. “America was built on bricks of processed cheese food, my love.”

“That explains quite a bit,” he says with a tilt of his head in consideration.

It’s still almost a forty-minute drive from the store where you stop on the outskirts of Madison to the farm. Plenty of time for this rundown.

“Okay, so they’re definitely going to make you sleep in the guest room,” you assure him. “Despite, you know, how they know we live together.”

He smirks. “Figured as much.”

“And we’ll have to go to church on Christmas Eve—”

“Also figured that,” he assures you. “Your parents are…” he squints in recollection. “Catholic?”

“Guilty as charged,” you quip back. “Oh, and if Mom asks—”

His grin widens. “You want me to lie and say you still go every week when we’re at home?”

“She won’t buy every week,” you glance over with another smile before steering the truck around a flattened bit of roadkill in the middle of the lane. “Maybe once a month.”

It’s strange to hear him say ‘home’ when you’re both here. The place that used to be home. But good strange. Feels-right strange.

The kind of strange that isn’t really strange at all.

While the city limits get farther and farther away, the expanse of uniform farmland stretches longer and longer on either side of the highway. As one Christmas song blends into another, you feel Joe’s fingers brush the side of your neck, just below your ear. He twists a lock of your hair, brushing it back and forth against your skin.

“Distracted driving is a punishable offense, Mr. Quinn,” you warn teasingly.

“Just keep it between the lines,” he says in a tone that does just a little too much to your belly to ignore him.

“I’m serious,” you laugh lightly. “There are cops all over this stretch.”

He heaves a dramatic but good-natured sigh and lets your hair fall back against your neck. “Have it your way,” he says. “What else do you need to warn me about?”

You bite your lip, trying to remember your train of thought and wishing he hadn’t been so quick to listen to your protests. “Uh, there’s a Christmas party on the 23rd where, like, all of my cousins will be in attendance, and I promise no one will expect you to remember all their names. Oh,” The circled dates on the big paper calendar in your parents’ kitchen shift back into focus in your memory. “Don’t feel like you have to come, but I’m not going to be able to get out of helping out on Saturday with the goats. I’ll probably have to be at McGarrity’s all day.” That thought slides right into another, and you purse your lips together, blowing out a slow breath.

“What’s wrong?” Joe asks. “I don’t know what a McGarrity is, are they—”

“They’re fine,” you laugh despite the little twist in your stomach. “Just, uh, I should probably mention that you might run into Brian, and he might…not be the nicest guy in the world to you.”

When you spare a look at the passenger seat, Joe still looks concerned. “And Brian is…”

“Brian McGarrity,” you say quickly. “We were sort of a thing when we were kids.”

“How sort of?”

“We were,” you admit. “He's an ex-boyfriend. You know, high school sweethearts and all that.”

“Uh-huh…”

“Anyway, everyone got a little too attached to the idea of us growing up and living some early Taylor Swift lyrical existence—”

“And why is that?”

You shrug. “Because they’re deeply uncreative, and there’s nothing anyone loves more than a pair of kids who grew up on neighboring farms ending up together.”

“Ah,” he nods, and there’s something a little more cynical in his tone as he asks, “So, the McGarritys are goat farmers as well?”

“Oh, no,” you shake your head. “They run the Christmas tree farm.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake...”

“What?” You look over, concerned to see him rolling his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Just stop the car.”

“What?” You let out a shocked laugh. “What are you talking about?”

“Do you not hear yourself?” he asks. “Do you not realize you’re driving us straight into the opening credits of a bloody Hallmark movie?”

You gasp, letting your mouth drop dramatically for a moment. “I most certainly am not!”

“You might as well just break up with me now,” he insists. “Tell me how you’ve learned the true meaning of the holiday season and have decided you’d rather stay here on the farm than come home with me, your non-flannel-shirt-wearing-boyfriend from the big city.”

You can’t help but snort as you shake your head. “Oh my God…”

“I assume one of your sisters will be played by Lacey Chabert,” he goes on. “Maybe the whole town will be rallying together to save some skating rink or clock tower that my father is inexplicably trying to purchase and turn into luxury condos—”

“Shut up!” you demand, laughing in earnest. “You are being so silly.”

“At least admit that this has all the makings of an incredibly cliched holiday story,” he says, and you’re grateful to see a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“I will do no such thing,” you say loftily, looking over at him again. “But you’re kinda turning me on with your knowledge of the Hallmark Christmas movie formula—not gonna lie. Is there something you’ve neglected to tell me about your viewing habits when I’m not around?”

To your surprise, the tops of Joe’s ears and cheeks turn pink. “Uh—Kira loves them,” he says with a cough. “She had her tonsils out a few years ago, and I watched about fifteen of them with her one weekend trying to help her feel better.”

Your bottom lip pouts while your heart melts just a little bit more. “You’re such a good big brother,” you say sweetly. “But you’re worrying for nothing. First of all, neither of my sisters looks like Lacey Chabert.”

“Small miracles.”

“And more importantly,” you continue, flicking your turn signal to take the exit that would eventually lead to your small town. “I am already well aware of the true meaning of the holiday season, thank you very much.”

“Oh?” Joe lifts his brow, looking amused. “And what is that?”

“An excuse to wear red satin lingerie and save the best blowjobs for Christmas morning,” you say without skipping a beat. You shoot him another glance with a grin. “Honestly, it’s like you don’t even know me at all.”

His smile grows, and you feel that familiar flush of warmth that has nothing to do with the dashboard heater. “I love you.”

You giggle. “I love you, too.”  

It’s just starting to get dark when you pull up the long drive, and Joe unloads his bag from the back of the truck. You take his hand and steal a quick kiss at the beginning of the walkway. “Don’t be nervous.”

He grins. “You’re the nervous one,” he counters lightly and delivers a swift, sweet kiss to the tip of your nose before motioning to the path. “Lead the way.”

The door is unlocked, as always, and the house is surprisingly quiet when you shuffle in, kicking snow from your boots. “Hello?” you call, waiting a moment for a response before you continue. “I brought cheese! And a boyfriend!”

It’s just another few seconds that you’re left to wonder before there’s an explosion of footsteps and conversation after the door to the basement flies open. There is the sound of your mom and both sisters talking over one another before Andi calls for Reed, her husband, whose heavy footfalls you hear on the stairs next.

“Yo!” You call again when they reach the top of the stairs before they can take a left and swarm together into the kitchen. There’s a second of total silence before the noise turns in your direction, and without warning, Joe is attacked with hugs and kisses to his cheek, introductions to people he’s been hearing about for just over a year, and Reed offering to take his bag up to his room and then doing it without waiting for a response.

He looks adorably overwhelmed for a second before the din dies down, and you can squeeze in next to him again. “Can we let him breathe, please?”

“I’m just so glad you’re here safely,” Mom says with that warm Midwestern smile you’ve seen a million times before she gives you a once over with a critical eye that’s just as familiar. “Mighty, you’re not wearing that, are you?”

Joe’s brow furrows at the mention of your childhood nickname. You don’t have time to explain as you look down at your outfit. Just a sweater and leggings. You can’t see anything too offensive about that. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t be wearing this?”

“You know how I feel about you girls and your leggings as pants,” she says, repeating an argument you’ve had far too many times. “It looks like you ran out in your stockings.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Mom, it’s just us,” you remind her. “It’s not a big deal—”

“Please go change before we leave,” she interrupts you.

“Leave?” you repeat. “Leave for what?”

“Dinner at Aunt Barbie’s,” Lindsay says, taking the grocery bag from Joe’s other hand.

It’s your turn to frown. “Aunt Barbie’s? Since when are we going there? I thought I was getting your cheese and stuff to make dinner here.”

Not to mention that you’d told Joe it was just going to be a quiet first night. No pressure, just hanging out and the likelihood of him being able to go to bed early to get his body on Central Time.

“No, that’s for tomorrow,” she says.

“I told you you didn’t tell her,” Andi puts in.

“I most certainly did.”

“No, you told me,” your older sister corrects. “Mighty was out in the barn with Dad when Aunt B called.”

“Wait, okay,” you hold up your hands before your mother can respond to Andi’s tone before she responds to her words. “We’re going to Aunt Barbie’s tonight? What time?”

Your mother looks at her watch. “We need to be there by six.”

“So, fifteen minutes?” you clarify, trying to keep the irritation out of your voice. “We have fifteen minutes to get ready?”

Mom looks from you to Joe and back again, looking confused. “Is that a problem? You’re home with plenty of time.”

“It’s not a problem,” you lie. “I just thought, maybe, you know, since one of us just spent, like, sixteen hours on a plane, we could have a night to relax? Before all the Christmas craziness starts?”

“It’s fine,” Joe jumps in before anyone can say anything else. “I’m good,” he looks from your mother to you and puts a hand on the small of your back. “Really,” he promises. “I slept on the plane.”

“See?” Your mother brightens. “He slept on the plane. He’s fine. Mighty, please go put some real pants,” she commands you to change for the second time. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, turning to return to the kitchen. “You know the Christmas craziness started two weeks ago around here.”

There’s a moment of almost awkward silence between you, Joe, and your sisters once your mother departs the foyer. Joe clears his throat first. “Is there a—a bathroom I can use?” he asks, glancing around. “I just want to brush my teeth.”

Andi offers a sympathetic smile and points in the direction of her husband, who had disappeared with all of Joe’s things a few minutes ago. “Top of the stairs,” she says. “Right next to the guest room. I’ll show you.”

“Thank you, Andi,” you say weakly, watching Joe follow her up the stairs. When they’re gone, you and Lindsay share a look. “Mom definitely didn’t tell me anything about this.”

“No shit,” Lindsay says with a grin. “Sorry if you thought you were going to ease your boyfriend into the Family Holiday Extravaganza Experience,” she puts her hands out to the sides and wiggles her fingers.

“Should have known it was too much to hope for,” you say with a sigh and glance down at your clothes. “Guess I’ll go…put on some jeans.”

Lindsay snorts and turns to face the little table next to the staircase while you head upstairs to your old bedroom. “Please do,” she says sarcastically. “You’re offending the Christmas gods with that elastic waistband.”

“I can hear you, Lindsay Eileen!”

You share a wince and climb the rest of the stairs before your mother can drop your middle name, too.

It’s not until you’re back downstairs, pulling on your coat and scarf for the second time, that you notice the little blocks on the table. The ones that are supposed to spell out ‘Christmas.’

Instead, your little sister has rearranged them—likely for the second time that day—so that the message reads ‘It���s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Shitscram.’

She appears at your side while you press your lips together, trying to smother the urge to laugh. “I just thought it was more appropriate.”

Joe takes your hand in his and lifts his eyebrows, glancing toward the open door and the members of your family who had already started for their cars. “Shall we?”

You take a deep breath, already wondering just how many apology blowjobs you’re going to have to give him to make up for this week and nod.

Let the Shitscram festivities begin.

---

A/N: The 'shitscram' blocks are inspired by this referenced Tumblr post. I say referenced because I cannot seem to find the original. If anyone has a link, let me know and I'll link appropriately.

--

Taglist:

@grimeysociety @freyaswolf @fluffysmutmnstr @lma1986 @zestychili @pedroschka @palomahasenteredthechat @quinnyficsy @ghostinthebackofyourhead @moon1ighteyes @musicoveralll @rehfan @girlwiththerubyslippers @alltheselovelywords @bootywizzard @lightcommasticks @babybluebex @drawdownthem00n @aysheashea @figmentofquinn @mrsjellymunson , @fullstealthwombat @madisonavenuekitten

[fluffysmutmnstr]

[fluffysmutmnstr]

How Joseph Quinn looks at Pedro Pascal — (so would i)

[fluffysmutmnstr]

EXCUSE YOU SAME VIBE DIFFERENT PHOTO

[fluffysmutmnstr]

AKSKIFIFURHRHDUDOEK.

The dinner was fucking PRECIOUS. Those kids is2g, Peter with the distract & save. I’m glad she finally told her mom about what happened. Made me miss my mom, but in a good way? Idk, your words are powerful.

I was legit worried about them boning in her childhood home. Too many unpredictable variables there, thank goodness for mamma Donovan.

GIVE HER MORE ORGASMS JOE. SHE DESERVES THEM.

Also I think I stayed at a less charming locationed version of that hotel in the mid west. So there’s that.

I’m so glad she let her walls down (and orgasms in). Thank you for this cathartic journey love.

(when you've got trouble) i've got trouble too - chapter nine

rating: M/E

word count: 13.5k (don't look at me)

Summary: An unexpected visitor.

Warnings/Tags: slow burn, friends-to-lovers, boss/employee relationship (kind of? not really), bad behavior, fuckboy behavior, fourth-wall breaks, drug use, recreational drug use, casual sex, mentions of gross behavior, Joe is not a nice guy right now, it's called a redemption arc for a reason, overdosing, implied/referenced drug addiction, bed sharing, unresolved sexual tension, resolved sexual tension, p-in-v sex

A/N: Thank you for still reading and being sweet about this fic while we weather the horrors of the American experience.

I love you and I keese you all! I hope you like this!

After three months, you stop wondering if you’ll hear from Joe. You waste the equivalent of roughly two days off and on berating yourself for blocking and deleting all trace of him from your phone before you give up and accept that if you’re going to hear from him again, it’s going to have to be because he gets in touch with you.

And given how you left things, that’s probably not the worst thing in the world.

Now, if this were certain other franchises, we might do a circular shot of you sitting in one place in a catatonic state of depression while the months tick by, but that’s not what happened.

For one, your mother would never stand for that kind of nonsense, and if nothing else, she’d flip you out of bed after a week so that she could do the laundry.

For another, you’re a grown-ass woman, not an emotionally unstable seventeen-year-old girl in love with a sparkly vampire.

You have things to do.

And as spring melts into summer, those things pile up. There are kids to drive to and from day camps and swim lessons, meals to help prep in the kitchen while your mom chatters about her clients, or Peter talks about the antics of the old-timers he volunteers with down at the VA. There are about a million movies and shows to catch up on once everyone has gone to bed and you finally have the TV to yourself. There are 30,000 trips to the hardware store to procure supplies to assist your stepfather in finishing the pergola over the back deck.

There’s your own life to think about—the career decisions you’re considering and the research you have to do to see what it would take to turn them from considerations to possibilities. There are friends you haven’t seen or heard from in way too long that you have to get back in touch with. There are aunties and cousins to visit in San Francisco for the Fourth of July and fireworks to watch from the rooftop of your cousin Simone’s apartment.

There are so many things to do that don’t involve being attached to your phone or obsessed with what’s going on inside of it. It’s August when you realize you can’t remember the last time you logged into any of your social media accounts or even used the device for more than just the occasional navigation or Google search. And it’s not even you who points it out.

“Okay, Mister Hugo,” you say as you roll the last of the sage green paint back over the markings on the walls of his bedroom. “We’re going to let this dry, and then you, sir,” you set the roller back into its tray, “will have a brand new canvas to decorate.”

Hugo’s smiles are gigantic and delightfully contagious. “Fank you, Hazel,” he says, pressing himself into your side as you stand up.

You bend and give a kiss to the top of his curly hair. “And once it’s dry, what’s the rule?” He looks up with a scrunched expression of confusion, urging you to prompt him, “Where does the coloring go?”

“On my walls,” he says, his memory triggered.

“And where does the coloring not go?”

“Anywhere else.”

“Excellent,” you say with a grin. “Come on,” you take hold of his hand and lead him downstairs, where you set him up on the kitchen counter to clean off the few spots of green paint decorating his tawny brown skin.

“All repainted?” your mother asks with a smile as she enters the kitchen just as you’re helping him down.

“All green!” he says with another bright grin before he takes off into the backyard.

She waits for him to go before she turns her attention back to you. “And Hazel, my love, as much as I love this thing you’re trying out where this is not permanently affixed to your hand,” she reaches into her pocket and sets your phone on the counter next to the cutting board. “You are going to have a hell of a time replacing it if one of these little minions knocks it into the fish tank.”

You wince and tuck it into your back pocket. “Where did you find it?”

She gives you a look. “Balanced precariously on the corner of the fish tank,” she says, with that tone that reminds you she doesn’t like repeating herself. “Assuming you left it there when you fed them this morning.”

“Probably,” you shrug. “Thanks for grabbing it.”

“Mm,” she nods with a quick hum. “When’s the last time you turned it on?”

Your shoulder moves again. “I don’t know. Probably…Thursday?” you guess. “Last time I had to go out to Ukiah for those weird fittings Peter needed for the deck. Why?”

“Because your Aunt Tori said she’s been texting you pictures of stuff from Grandma’s house to see what you want.”

“Oh, shit,” you mutter with another wince. “Sorry. I’ll call her this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” she leans over and kisses your temple before pulling back to point a finger. “And if she’s found that Depression glass, you better say you want it because even if you don’t, I do.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave her off good-naturedly. “I know.”

The afternoon gets away from you, and in between picking up Connor from a visit with his biological mother and dropping Maddie off at a friend’s house for a sleepover, you completely forget about not having turned on your phone until you’re loading the dishwasher after dinner.

As expected, Aunt Tori has indeed been sending you poorly composed cellphone shots of numerous knickknacks and bric-a-brac from your grandmother’s house in Oakland. You send her an apology and ask if it’s a good time to call. It isn’t—she’s on shift at the hospital—so you exchange a few texts instead.

Yes, please—you’ll take some of the silk scarves that always hung on the back of the bathroom door.

No, thank you—you don’t need any of Grandma’s impressive collection of Black Santa figurines.

Yes, please—if her original paintings are being split up among the children and grandchildren, of course, you’d like one, but you aren’t picky and will take whichever Aunt Tori wants to give you.

Fine—if taking at least one Black Santa Claus is non-negotiable, then you will take exactly one.

You’ve only barely set the phone down when it vibrates again. “Ugh,” you mutter out loud as you reach for it. “Alright, I will take two Black Santas if I really have—” You stop short because instead of another text from Aunt Tori, it’s from a name you haven’t seen on your phone in quite some time.

Something in your chest twists painfully at your first glimpse of Joe since March. More than just seeing his face again, it’s the fact that he looks good. Healthy. His face is fuller, his curls have grown back, and the smile he’s giving the camera looks relaxed and easy—not forced like you’ve seen in so many selfies over the years.

Before you can say anything in response to Vic’s message, she sends another text with the link to the episode.

“Everything alright, sweetie?” Peter asks as you drift back into the living room, still staring at your phone.

“Uh-huh,” you mutter.

“How many Black Santas is Tori unloading on you?” he asks with a smile you can hear.

“Just one, so far,” you answer, forcing yourself to blink and look away from the screen.

He lets out one of his deep laughs. “She talked your mom into five.” He studies your face for a moment before his brow crinkles. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” you blink again and shake your head. “Yeah, I think I’m just going to—” you point to the stairs.

“Okay,” he nods, still looking concerned. He swats your arm affectionately when you stop by the couch to drop a kiss on his cheek.

You’re familiar enough with WTF to know that Maron takes about fifteen minutes to do his usual intro before he goes into the interview, so you drag your fingertip along the progress bar and let it play, telling yourself your heart doesn’t jump into your throat when you first hear Joe’s voice.

He always sounds nervous on podcasts—he’s said it’s because he feels like an idiot when he has to just talk as himself. You actually kind of agree with him—you never listen to interviews with actors. They tend to be shallow, uninteresting, and reveal themselves to be the vessels they are—there to be filled up with whatever character they need to bring to life.

But Joe only sounds like an idiot for the first few minutes of this interview. Then he relaxes, and he sounds like himself. Funny, self-deprecating, surprisingly insightful. They talk about the end of his Marvel contract, how it felt playing George Harrison, and what he’s got next on his agenda.

You’re trying to figure out why Vic sent this to you when the conversation takes a serious and unexpected turn.

“But you did take time off, right?” Marc asks casually. “Earlier this year?”

“Uh yeah,” Joe replies, and you can hear the way he sounds a little guarded. “Well, it wasn’t really time off. I had a few weeks between some stuff and—uh—yeah. I used that time to—” he coughs. “Well. Turns out I had a bit of a drug problem.” Another cough. “So, I figured it was time to do something about that.”

In your room, your brow furrows, and you pause the episode and playback the last thirty seconds to hear him say it again, certain you’d heard wrong.

But you didn’t. As the interview continues, Joe is shockingly candid about having checked himself into rehab for a twenty-eight-day reset and everything that transpired in the last year to get him there. The drugs, the partying, the women, the shift in his attitude toward his fans. By the forty-minute mark, you’re pretty sure he’s acknowledged more than you ever thought you’d get him to admit and proven you wrong that he had, in fact, been listening to you all the times you tried to tell him to get his shit together.

“It’s just like—you work so hard for so long to get someone to open this door and let you in,” he says while you start moving around your room, tidying up without even realizing it. “And once you’re through it, you stop caring about everything you had to let go of to be able to squeeze through. All that twisting and warping of yourself you had to do.”

“You can’t be too hard on yourself, though,” Maron says with that laid-back, sympathetic surrogate dad tone he’s perfected. “That’s what they do—they give you the keys to the candy shop and tell you to take whatever you want. Anyone’s gonna be overwhelmed by that.”

“Sure,” Joe agrees. “But I knew what I was doing. And I know plenty of people who manage a level of fame without totally forgetting who they are in the process.”

“Sounds like this epiphany hit you before you did too much damage, at least.” Maron pauses. “Unless there’s some horrific thing you’re about to admit to that didn’t make the papers.”

Joe lets out a choked laugh that makes it hard for you to breathe. “Not quite so dramatic,” he says. “Did punch one of my oldest friends in the face while I was fucked up.”

“Well, we’ve all done that,” Marc jokes. “Shit, I wasn’t even high the last time I did that. I was just trying to impress a girl.” He waits another moment. “Assuming you had a slightly better reason than that?”

“Oh, no,” he assures the host. “The woman we were fighting over—” he coughs quietly. “She wasn’t dating either of us. And she wasn’t even there to be impressed—not that she would have been.” You have to turn up the volume to hear what he says next over the sound of your heart pounding in your ears. “And it really might have been all for nothing since that was right around the time she told me what an asshole I’d become and left the country. So.”

There’s a thoughtful pause before Maron asks, “This is before you got clean?”

“Yep.”

“Well, what’s she say now?”

“Ah,” Joe gives one of those cagey, nervous chuckles you could mimic in your sleep. “Not much, actually. I’ve called a few times, and she’s—uh—yeah, she’s not pickin’ up. Might have my answer already.”

You frown and swipe out of Spotify to look at your call log. Nothing you missed from Joe or any other London number. No texts. No calls. No voicemails.

But then you study the screen more and realize that your phone only logs incoming calls that occur when it’s turned on. And your phone has spent more than half the summer completely powered down.

By the time you tune back in, mind racing, the conversation has moved to the next film on his list that he’s due to start shooting in October in LA. He’d be there for two months. You’re trying not to think about the fact that October is only two months away—or about how LA is only a nine-hour drive, and if you really wanted to, you could get in the car and—

“You’ve been hittin’ the convention circuit a lot harder than you used to,” Maron says, interrupting your thoughts.

“Yeah,” Joe agrees. “Part of my cactus-hugging, I suppose,” he says and then chuckles briefly again in a way that you can practically hear him shaking his head. “No, it’s not as bad as all that. I am trying to make up for all the ones I canceled the last few years, but it’s fine. People are lovely. They’ve mostly always been lovely at those events. Least I can do is show up and say thanks for giving me a career.”

That’s enough to make you stop your mindless straightening. He’s been doing cons again? On purpose?

The interview fades into background noise as you do the thing you’ve been purposefully avoiding for five very productive months and log back into Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram. You wade through the predictable deluge of notifications before you take a deep breath and search for his tag.

And…yeah. Joe has indeed been doing con appearances. Denver. Holland. Seattle. Barcelona. All the places he’d canceled on in the past. There are pictures and clips of him at panels, about a million photos of him posing with fans, and once you head over to Tumblr, you find more than a dozen people relaying their experience with him at signing tables.

Stranger still is what you find when you go to his Instagram. The first thing to catch your eye is the colorful ring around his profile picture—a notification that he posted a story. The thing you had to do for him for 3 years and that he treated like getting his teeth pulled without anesthesia. Unable to help your curiosity, you tap on it.

Joe has recorded himself walking down a street that looks vaguely familiar. You at least recognize the palm trees over his head as he starts talking. “Alright, I know I’ve been trying to give you all five things to try or check out each week, but this week I was a combination of boring and busy.” You smile without realizing it as he gives a little wince. “So, you’ll just have to forgive me. But, okay, first recommendation. I’m in LA at the moment, and I had the best Mexican food of my life at a little place in Glendale called Taco Azteca. I’ve been there twice this week—don’t tell Tim—and honestly, you could order anything on their menu, and I promise you’ll love it. Personally, I’ve eaten way too many lengua tacos, but their vegetarian burrito is equally life-changing.”

He goes on to recommend an indie film that one of his friends produced that’s available on streaming and an album by a band you’ve never heard of. “And since I only had those three things for you, I’m going to tell you that The People Concern is one of LA’s largest social service agencies, and they’re always in need of donations and volunteers. If you’re in this area, they have locations Downtown and in Santa Monica—they do so much good stuff. They provide interim housing, mental and medical health care, substance abuse assistance—really, they’re amazing. So, if you’re looking for a charity to support, you need to check them out.” He pauses again and squints his one eye as if he’s trying to recollect something. “Yeah, okay. I thought I could come up with something else, but that’s all I’ve got. So.” He makes a brushing motion with his hand before signing off. “Go forth—eat good food, enjoy some art, and try and help someone if you can. Bye, guys.”

The next few slides are photos to support his video: tacos, a screenshot of where to stream the film he mentioned, a Spotify link to accompany the band recommendation and a list of items needed by The People Concern with a link to donate directly to them.

As that story jumps to the next person you’re following, you have to shake yourself out of your shock and go back to his page. He has a highlight reel now of these little recommendation videos. It looks like he’s been doing one a week since at least the beginning of May. You let yourself watch a few more, noticing that he looks better and better as the weeks go by. Healthier. Happier. More and more like the person you used to know.

A knock at the door startles your attention up and out of the internet. Maddie stands in the doorway, backlit from the light in the hallway. “Hi, Hazel.”

You smile and set the phone down. “Hi, sweetie,” you wave her in. “What’s up?”

She climbs up onto your bed and deposits herself in your lap before she looks up at you through her thick blonde fringe. “Can you tell the boys that I’m big enough to watch their scary show with them?”

You bite back your smile. “What scary show?”

She moves her shoulders. “I don’t know what it’s called. But it’s on Netflix. There’s like monsters and ghosts and stuff, and it’s really cool, and they said I can’t watch it with them because I’ll get scared, and they’ll get in trouble.”

You pick your phone back up again and swipe over to your Netflix app. “Show me which one it is.” Maddie moves her finger over the screen three times before she taps on a thumbnail of a show you absolutely would not let her watch if she were your kid—some found footage series about pretty twenty-five-year-olds pretending to be high schoolers battling a new horror each week. “This looks pretty scary, Mads.”

“But I can be brave,” she insists quietly. “I promise I won’t get scared.”

You let out a quiet sigh. “Well, you know I don’t make the rules, kiddo,” you remind her gently. “So, it’s up to Mama Jenny if you’re allowed to watch this. But for right now,” you go on quickly before she gets too disappointed and tap out a few letters in the search bar. “How about you and I watch this one?”

She squints at the screen. “Are You Afraid of the Dark?”

You nod when she looks up again. “I used to watch this after school when I was your age. It’s scary,” you assure her. “But not too scary.”

“Okay,” she agrees and turns back to the screen, leaning back against you. You hand her the phone and tap on the first episode. It takes a moment before she looks up again. “I can’t hear it.”

“Oh, right,” you disconnect the Bluetooth and turn off your headphones. “Sorry about that.”

“What were you listening to?”

You bite your lip for a moment. “I was listening to an interview with someone I used to know.”

“A friend?”

“Um—” your mind blanks. “Sometimes.”

Her expression twists. “How do you have a sometimes friend?”

“Well, he was—” you stop again. “I think it’s complicated.”

“Did you have a fight?”

“Yes,” you answer honestly.

“Did he say sorry?”

Without your permission, your mind flashes back to him moving uninvited into your apartment to take care of you. The meals he cooked, the movies you watched on the couch, the way he slept that last night with his arms around you while the sound of his heartbeat lulled you to sleep. “Yeah,” you say finally, clearing the hoarseness from your throat. “He did.”

The confusion doesn’t fade from her face. “So why is it complicated?” she asks. “Just be friends again.”

You smile. “That easy, huh?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs. “Why not?”

“Why not,” you echo softly and then gently turn her head back to the screen. “One episode, and then you have to go to bed.”

She talks you into one extra episode before she gives you a hug and heads downstairs to her bedroom. You call a goodnight to your mother when she walks past the door and then lay awake in the dark for half an hour before you reach for your phone and send Vic a reply.

You start keeping your phone on again. It still spends most of the next week in your room, but the only time it rings is when a local activist group calls to ask your opinion on some water rights ballot measure.

By the third week of August, you’ve accepted that Joe is just not going to call you again. If you want to talk to him, you’re going to have to ask Vic for his number.

It’s that added step that keeps you in limbo. If you hadn’t deleted him, you probably would have caved and called him by now. And if you chickened out after a single ring, you could have said it was a purse dial or one of the kids messing with your phone.

But you don’t have his number. So you can’t do any of that.

The house is almost empty on the afternoon of the twenty-first. Peter loads everyone into the car for a back-to-school shopping trip to Ukiah that you pass on to start studying the LSAT prep books that arrived a few days ago while your mother sees her usual collection of couples in need.

She’s bid the last of them goodbye by the middle of the afternoon and is just getting her purse in order to head to the grocery store when someone rings the doorbell. She’s closest and only offers you a raised eyebrow as she crosses the room. “Are you expecting anything?”

From your pile of books and notebooks, you shake your head. “Not that I know of.”

You’ve already lost interest by the time she turns the lock and pulls open the door. “Can I help you?”

“Oh—um—hi.”

Three syllables have you sitting bolt-upright on the couch.

“Hi…” your mother sounds somewhere between amused and apprehensive before she repeats her question.

“Sorry,” Joe says, and if you weren’t sure it was him before, hearing him say that cements it. “I’m—uh—I’m looking for Hazel. Does she—” he coughs. “Does she live here?”

You could get up right now and interrupt them. But you feel rooted in place, watching from the side as your mother raises her eyebrows, appraising him through the screen door. “And who is asking?”

“I’m Joe,” he says, more like it’s a question he’s unsure of. “Joe Quinn? Hazel and I—well, she used to work for—we were, uh—”

“Ah.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “So this is the famous Joseph Quinn.”

“Sorry,” he says again. “Do I have the right house?”

“You do if you’re looking for Hazel,” she answers simply but makes no move to open the door. “I’m her mother.”

There’s a pause long enough to pull you to your feet if only to try and catch the confusion on Joe’s face that he’s probably trying to hide. “You’re…Hazel’s mother?” he repeats. “Hazel Donovan?”

“Do you know many other Hazels, Mr. Quinn?”

“Mom,” you sigh and cross the rest of the way to the door. “You can let him in.” You try to disguise the way your heart leaps into your throat as you finally set eyes on him through the screen. You manage a small smile. “Hi, Joe.”

The smile he gives you in return is warm and soft and more than a little nervous. “Hey, Haze.”

“I’m on my way out,” your mother interrupts, looking from you to him and back again. “So no, I cannot let him in.”

You look at her, hardly believing what she is implying. “Mom. I’m almost thirty-five years old.”

“And yet, still living under my roof,” she replies as if she was waiting for you to give her that exact response. She glances toward the backdoor. “Go talk to him out there if you want.”

Willing your face not to burn, you step around her to push the door open. “We can—go out back,” you mutter, stepping aside to let him cross the threshold. He smells way too good as he shuffles awkwardly into the house.

You look back over your shoulder at your mother. She raises her eyebrows and shrugs innocently before she says, “Everyone else should be home soon.”

Oh good, you think, but don’t say out loud. That’s what this situation needs. Four opinionated children and an overprotective stepfather. “Do you want anything to drink—or—?”

“No, thanks,” Joe says quickly after you motion to the refrigerator on your way through the kitchen. “I’m good.”

You’ve always loved the backyard of your parent’s house. Spacious and welcoming with a tall privacy fence, somehow managing to still look inviting even by late August when everything had browned from the heat and the drought. Only now, you stare at it like an alien on a new planet, trying to figure out where to go and what to do once you’re there. The table on the patio feels too big and too formal. The Adirondack chairs are too relaxed. You’ll sink to the back, and your feet won’t even touch the ground anymore, and no one will be able to take you seriously. Not even you.

Ultimately, you decide to drift toward the swing set and drop down on one of the three suspended leather seats. After a moment, Joe takes the one beside you.

The silence is outrageously loud. Ear-splitting. You can hear every noise in the yard. Every bug. Every bird. Every leaf rustling through the trees.

“So…your parents are Black,” Joe says finally. The words are just blunt enough to blink you out of your frozen stupor and look over at him. He offers a half-smile. “Honestly didn’t see that coming.”

You look at him for a long moment before you finally let out an unattractive snort and allow a wave of relieved laughter to shatter the rest of the tension. You bring up your hands to loosely grip the ropes and idly push yourself back and forth an inch or two. “You look better,” you say softly.

“So do you.”

You’re not sure if that’s true. You know you look fatter—you’ve gained about twenty pounds since coming back home. The result of someone ensuring you eat all three meals a day and no one in your immediate circle concerned with calories, workouts, or specialized diets and cycles of dehydration. Clothes that used to hang off your frame are now a little snug, and when you see yourself in recent photos, your cheeks have regained their familiar fullness that you can’t contour away.

“I heard you on Maron,” you continue. When Joe doesn’t say anything, you add, “That took a lot of guts.”

“Eh,” he rolls a shoulder, not meeting your eyes. “Wouldn’t have if I hadn’t fucked up so badly to begin with.”

You stretch your foot over to him and nudge his shin. “I’m proud of you.”

He smiles down at the grass. “Thank you.”

And I missed you, you want to say. But you don’t. Maybe you want to hear him say it first. Maybe you need a little more reassurance that this visit isn’t just a friendly stop-in because he’s in the neighborhood.

He’s the next to chase away the quiet. “So, why’d your mum tell you she couldn’t invite me in?” he asks with a sideways glance.

You let out a quiet sigh. “Because I’m not allowed to have boys in the house if no one’s home.”

He chuckles. “S’pose that’s fair.”

“For a seventeen-year-old,” you retort. “But. Ya know. Her house, her rules.” You don’t want him to ask how long you’re planning to stay in her house with her rules. You have no idea, and the thought of what happens once this layover period is over is complicated and stressful enough without wondering if he’s going to be a part of it. So before he can ask anything else about it, you nudge him again. “I heard a rumor you were at the Fan Expo in Denver last month.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I was.”

“And a few others, too.”

“Uh-huh.”

You smile. “Thought you hated those things.”

He shrugs again. “They’re not so bad.”

“Really?”

Finally, he looks up and gives you a real smile. “No, I hate them,” he says firmly. “They’re awful, and it’s like they’re designed specifically to spike my anxiety, but—” he lets out a breath. “They’re important to the people who go to them, aren’t they?”

“They are,” you agree. Something you must have said a million times over the last few years.

“Well, yeah,” he nods once. “So, if I think about it like that, they’re much easier to get through.” He must feel the way you’re looking at him because he looks over again, mildly apprehensive. “What?”

You bite your lip before asking, “Did they give you shock treatments at that rehab facility?”

He snorts. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Let’s have it.”

“No,” you shake your head. “I’m just kidding. Everything you said, everything you’ve been doing, it’s…” you swallow hard. “It’s great. I’m really proud of you.”

“What about you?” he asks, moving his swing back and forth to match your pace. “What’s it like being home again?”

“It’s good,” you answer honestly. “It’s really good. I missed a lot, not being here.” You give the yard and the back of the house an appreciative look. “And the longer I stay, the more things are starting to feel like they make sense again.”

The more that little pieces of your heart start feeling like they are fitting back into place. You almost add that, but something stops you. When you look over again, there’s a slight dip in Joe’s expression. Your bottom lip finds its way between your teeth again.

“It’s a good thing,” you remind him quietly.

“No, I know it is,” he says quickly and looks up with a brief smile. “Of course it is.”

“But…?”

His chest rises and falls with a heavy breath before he stands up and takes a few steps away from the swing set. You have no choice but to follow him as he wanders slowly to the trunk of the big-leaf maple tree. “But…” he says slowly, tucking his hands into his pockets as he turns back to you. “But I guess I was hoping I could talk you into coming back. With me. To London.”

Your mouth opens half an inch and then closes. When you try to speak again, your words are preceded by an uncertain squeak. “Joe, it was sweet of you to come all this way,” you manage to force the words out from where they stuck at the back of your throat. “And it’s not that I’m not happy to see you, but…” you swallow hard. “But I can’t just go back to London and go back to how things were like nothing ever happened. I just—”

“Hazel, I don’t—” he shakes his head. “No, I don’t want that either. I don’t want you to work for me again. I don’t need you to work for me. I’ve got a new assistant—his name is Daniel, and I hate him—” You interrupt him with a snort of laughter, bringing your hand up to cover your mouth as he continues. “He’s completely immovable. The last time I missed a flight? He rebooked me. On Southwest.”

You snort again. “That must have been humbling.”

His lips twitch into a smile. “Look, this isn’t about work, okay? This is about—” he pauses. “This is about you. I just want—” The next pause is long enough to pull your eyebrows up toward your hairline. “I want to be back in your life,” he says finally. “I want to go back to seeing you every day and knowing that you’re…”

“That I’m what?” You wish your voice sounded a little more certain. A little less small.

“That you’re—okay,” he says. “That you’re happy and…and taken care of. And I don’t know what the solution is if you’re here and I’m there—or-or even if you want there to be a solution,” he adds quickly. “I just know that I don’t work right—I don’t like my life without you in it, and I—” his voice goes hoarse for just a second. “More than anything, I just miss my friend.”

You feel yourself melting just a little more with each word, and by the time he gets to that particular confession, you’re more than a little concerned you’re going to start crying. You swallow again. “Me too.”

“And I know there’s nothing I can do or say right now that will convince you that the reason I’m here isn’t—” he shakes his head. “It’s not because I need an assistant or a babysitter or because I want some external moral compass. It’s because I want you.”

You think you open your mouth to say something—or at least squeak out another sound while you try to think of what you want to say—but it’s hard to remember what you were trying to do because before you can say anything, Joe cancels the space between you and covers your lips with his.

Theoretically, you knew Joe was a good kisser before this moment. You’ve seen the movies. You’ve read the anonymous gossip blogs. You’ve consoled enough crying women to have at least some suspicion that this man knew what to do with those beautifully full lips of his.

But the reality of having those lips pressed against yours is something you could not have predicted. You are wholly unprepared for the rush that shoots through your body, weakening your knees while it feels like liquid fire is racing down your throat, pooling all that heat in your belly.

Before you can wrap your spinning head around what is happening, Joe pulls back, leaving you breathless and blinking the world into focus. “I’m sorry,” he says instantly.

“What?” The word is little more than a confused exhale. What kind of lunatic apologizes for a kiss like that?

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says, shaking his head. “Not without asking. I told myself I wasn’t going to do th—”

But you aren’t listening. You push yourself up onto your toes and pull him back down for another kiss. He makes the most delicious sound of surprise that falls easily into something deeper as his hands go to your waist, pulling you in closer before they move lower. The word ‘good’ is not what you’d use to describe the way Joe kisses. He kisses like he’s hungry—like he’s trying to steal back the breath you were holding. When his tongue slips between your lips and strokes slowly but deliberately over yours, you’re pretty sure you’re melting into him, grateful for the grip he has on your hips—you’re not sure you could hold yourself up otherwise.  Your fingers curl at the back of his neck and then slide up into his hair; he pushes you backward until you feel the rough bark of the maple against the back of your legs.

That’s what breaks the spell. That sharp little bite from reality. The one that reminds you where you are and what you’re doing and who could walk out of the house at any moment and see you.

It’s Joe’s turn to look a little dazed when you pull away, breathing hard. “I don’t want to do this right now,” you say while your hands drift down his neck and stop at his shoulders.

“Okay,” he says right away.

“I mean, I want to—” You stop yourself and shake your head. “Actually. No. I don’t know what I want,” you admit, trying to get a hold of your racing heart, your whirling thoughts, and the way your skin feels like he just set you ablaze. “I need to stop talking. This is too much right now.”

He nods and takes a minuscule step back, still holding onto your hips. “Too much, like you…want me to leave?”

“No,” you breathe out the word and curl your fingers around the tops of his shoulders, holding him in place. “Too much, like…I need a minute.” You blink. “Longer than a minute. Many minutes.”

His lips twitch, and it takes everything you have not to pull him back in again. “Take as many minutes as you need,” he says and brings one hand up to brush his thumb along your cheekbone.

Before you can say or do anything else, you hear the sound of tires crunching in the driveway. A minute later, the house is full of the sounds of four children talking excitedly over one another, and you have exactly one more minute to let him go and try to put a little more distance between you before the back door slides open.

“Hazel?” Peter calls, still squinting at his phone the way he does when he should be wearing his glasses. “Your mom wants to know if ‘that man’ is staying for dinner?” He looks up then, and the confusion turns to surprise. “Oh, hi. This man, I guess? Is who she means?”

You pray he’s far enough away not to see the blush staining your cheeks as Joe takes another step away from you like a guilty teenager. “Peter, this is Joe,” you point them out to one another. “Joe, this is my stepfather, Peter.”

Joe raises a hand. “Very nice to meet you,” he coughs once. “Sir.”

Your stepfather looks like he’s fighting his amusement as he mirrors the wave. “You too.” His eyes turn back to you. “So, I’ll tell your mom one more for dinner?”

You look up at Joe. “Wanna…stay for dinner?”

Dinner is the pot roast that’s been slow cooking all day, making the house smell absolutely amazing. If you were worried about your family being shy around Joe, that only lasts for about five minutes before the questions start.

“Are you from England?” Connor asks as he sets the table.

“Yes, I am,” Joe answers from where he’s standing near you in the kitchen, assisting with the mashed potatoes.

“Do you know the king?” Malik follows Connor around the table, swapping the knives and forks to the correct side of the plates like he does every night.

Joe smiles. “Uh, I’ve met him once,” he says. “But I wouldn’t say I know him.”

“Is he nice?” Connor again.

“I—uh—” Joe coughs quietly. “I don’t know that I’d say that either. He’s very polite.”

Maddie: How old are you?

Joe: I’m…thirty-three. How old are you?

Maddie: I’m seven. Almost eight. And Malik is eleven. And—

Connor: I’m ten.

Maddie: And Hugo’s only four.

Hugo: Four-and-a-half!

You look over to see him fighting a wider smile. “Aren’t you so glad you agreed to stay?”

“Yeah,” he says simply. “I am.”

The thirty-second lull in conversation is too long, and Connor starts up again.

Connor: Are you the guy Hazel used to work for? The one who makes movies?

Joe: That’s me.

Malik: What movies are you in?

Joe: Uh, well, there’s—

Maddie: Are you in any superhero movies?

Joe: Yes, actually.

Malik: Which ones?

Joe: Did you see Fantastic Four?

They all nod.

Joe: You know The Human Torch?

Another nod.

Joe: That’s me.

Maddie: Is it really, though?

Joe glances over at you with a look of uncertainty. “Yes,” he says slowly. “Why? Do you not believe me?”

When you look up from the salt and pepper you’re grinding into the bowl, Maddie is shaking her head, studying him with her critical eye. “You just don’t look like a superhero.”

“Mads,” you give her a look with a mild warning.

But Joe only seems amused as he asks, “What do I look like?”

She gives him another once-over. “Just like a…normal guy…who’s kinda tired.”

You have to hide your laugh in a cough before you regain control of your face. “In her defense, her favorite superhero is Captain America, so—”

“Ah,” Joe nods with understanding. “Well. Yeah. Anyone’s a disappointment compared to him.”

The meal itself is relatively painless. Having gotten most of their questions out of the way earlier, the children are happy to talk about their trip to Ukiah, what kind of sneakers they all chose for the first day of school, and who ordered what at the restaurant where they went for lunch.

“How long are you in town, Joe?” Your mother asks once four small mouths are full of vegetables and mashed potatoes.

Translation: When are you leaving?

He blinks and swallows quickly. “Not…really sure,” he says slowly. ��I—um—I start shooting another film in October, but until then, I don’t have anywhere pressing I need to be.”

You look at him. “You don’t?”

He shakes his head with half a small smile. “Remember that time off you were so sure I couldn’t take?”

You smother a smile and look down at your dinner again as your mother clears her throat a second time. “And where are you staying…for this…nebulous time off?”

Translation: You don’t think you’re staying here, do you?

“Oh, I’ve got a room,” Joe motions over his shoulder toward the door. “Little spot off the freeway.”

She nods and spears a soft baby carrot on the end of her fork. “Did Hazel tell you she’s going to law school?”

Translation: If you’re thinking of asking my daughter to come back and work for you, I will kill you myself.

You resist the urge to sigh and roll your eyes. “Mom, I’m just taking the LSAT—”

“Well, nobody takes the LSAT unless they’re planning on going to law school, baby,” she says patiently. “And you didn’t tell him that?”

“We—” you open and close your mouth once before deciding, “hadn’t gotten that far.”

You feel Joe’s eyes on you and glance over to see him smiling beneath a look of surprise. “Law school,” he says quietly. “Really?” You nod, feeling strangely bashful about this particular admission. “That’s wonderful,” he says, sounding genuine enough that you have to fight the bizarre urge to blush. “You’ll make an excellent lawyer.”

“Oh, well,” you reach for your water. “I don’t know about that.”

“No, you’re right,” your mother says, and for just a moment, that severe look she’s been studying him with diminishes. “She will be an excellent lawyer.”

“Since we’re already cross-examining,” Peter speaks up, having cleared his plate. “Joe, you’re from London, right? Originally?”

“Yes,” he says with a nod, looking grateful to be questioned by someone else. “South London.”

“South London,” Peter repeats. “Right. Would you be able to explain what shinty is? The boys and I are trying to figure out how it’s any different than lacrosse.”

“Oh.” Joe blinks. “Um, yeah, it’s—”

He starts explaining the sport and the differences between it, lacrosse and football, fielding more questions from Malik and Connor as he goes. You wait until your mother gets up to refill her glass before you look over at Peter and mouth, Thank you. He responds with one of his quick, conspiratorial winks.

It’s nearly ten when you walk Joe out. After the two of you have done the dishes, witnessed another argument about the boys letting Maddie watch TV shows that give her nightmares, and took part in a cut-throat game of Uno as a compromise. The house is finally quiet, with your parents attending to bedtime rituals upstairs.

“So, you really don’t have anywhere to be until October?” you ask, lingering by the door.

“Nope,” he shakes his head. “Nowhere but here,” he says before he smiles again. “Unless you’re about to tell me to fuck off back to London, I suppose.”

You laugh quietly. “I’m not,” you assure him and then have to clear your throat. “I’m—I’m not saying no,” you say. “To you. To…any of it. I just—” You look down and shake your head. “I just wasn’t expecting you to just show up like this.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. I should have called or—”

“No, it’s fine. I mean, you did call,” you consider. “I just had my phone off.”

“Ah,” he nods. “So that’s what it was.”

“Did you really think I was just ignoring you?”

“Not the first or second time,” he admits. “But the third time, yeah. It seemed like maybe you were sending a message.”

“Sorry,” you say with a wince.

“It’s alright,” he shrugs and then reaches out to entwine his fingers with yours. “And so is the rest of it. You take as much time as you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s a fight not to drag him up to your room and pick up where you’d left off in the backyard. Instead, you ask, “Where are you staying, anyway?”

He squints with recollection. “Place called the…Sandpiper, I think? No—Dollar. The Sand Dollar.”

You blink. “The Sand Dollar?” you echo. “That shithole off the 1?”

“Yes, I believe that’s the slogan they put on the billboards.”

“Why are you staying there?”

He looks momentarily embarrassed, like he’s about to make something up before he shakes his head. “It’s been a really long time since I’ve had to book myself anywhere,” he confesses. “I’d sort of got out of the habit of looking into a place before making a reservation. This was the first one that came up when I did a search.”

You choke on a laugh. “You can’t stay there.”

“No, it’s fine,” he says with a chuckle. “It’s got character.”

“Oh, it’s got about sixty years of character,” you agree. “That probably hasn’t been vacuumed out of the carpets or washed off the bedspreads.”

“Alright, now you’re just being gross.”

You giggle behind your free hand and open the door slowly. “I’m kidding,” you say. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as everyone says it is.”

“Might be,” he acknowledges. “Might even be worse.”

“Well, assuming you survive the night, you can tell me all about it tomorrow.”

He lifts his brow. “You want to see me tomorrow?”

You nod and lean slightly against the door. “I can show you around town,” you suggest quietly. “Take you to all the hotspots. Should make for an exciting ten minutes.”

It’s his turn to laugh. “I’d love that.”

“Okay,” you squeeze his fingers. “Then…I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Joe glances toward the stairs once before he asks, “If I kiss you right now, is your mum going to appear and chase me out of the house?”

You giggle. “Not if you do it fast.”

“Fair enough,” he says under his breath and then leans down, sliding his hand against your cheek so that his thumb brushes the underside of your jaw and presses a soft, sweet kiss to your lips.

It’s too soon when he pulls away and says goodnight. But you let him go and close the door behind him, leaning against it to let out a deep breath.

Peter returns to the living room to straighten up the daily chaos, and you can’t help your smile remembering how he’d pulled Joe aside earlier and quietly asked, “Did she glare at you already?” Joe had looked confused before Peter continued. “Jenny. Hazel’s mom—she already gave you a few good glares, right?”

“Oh,” Joe had nodded, catching on. “Absolutely. Quality glares. Easily in the top ten I’ve ever received.”

“Okay, good,” Peter had mirrored his nod. “Cause if she hadn’t, I was gonna. But if she’s got it under control—”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, I’m very well glared, thank you.”

Now, he sits down in his recliner and reaches for the book he’s been working his way through on the side table. “She’s still awake,” he says, shooting his eyes to the stairs and then back to you. “If you want to go check the weather.”

You inhale steadily. “How is it?”

He smiles. “Not as stormy as she wants you to think.”

Encouraged by this, you head upstairs and stop by your bedroom to grab your hairbrush before you knock on the open door at the end of the hall. She’s sitting in bed, moving her glasses up and down on the bridge of her nose while studying something on her phone. “Busy?” you ask when she looks up.

She shakes her head. “Just trying to find out if that damn monster show gets any scarier as the season goes on.” She sets her phone down and waves you in. “I can make all the rules I want, but when Maddie sets her mind on something…”

“Sorry,” you say with a frown. “I tried to get her to prefer Are You Afraid of the Dark, but—”

“But that’s not what the boys are watching,” she sighs. “She just can’t seem to help herself.” Her dark eyes fall to the brush in your hand. “Is this you asking for a de-tangling?”

You smile and climb onto the bed, folding your legs in front of you like you did when you were little, and pull the elastic band from your low, messy bun. Your mother runs her fingers through your hair first, letting her nails just graze your scalp before she separates it carefully into three sections. She’s only just started to use the brush on the very ends when she asks. “Did you come up here to tell me I’m not allowed to hate him anymore?”

In your lap, your fingers clasp and unclasp while you pretend your stomach isn’t flipping nervously. “You can hate him if you want, Mom,” you say softly and wait another few long moments before you clear your throat. “But there is, uh, something I didn’t tell you,” you say finally. “That might make you hate him a little less.” You cough again and resist the urge to squirm. “Something that happened…right before I moved back home.”

The brush pauses at the crown of your head just for a second. “And what’s that?”

You take a deep breath and haltingly, hesitantly, finally admit what happened that night in Soho. How you were miserable and anxious, and to combat that, you drank too much before idiotically taking a heroic dose of someone else’s medication.

She doesn’t say anything as you relay the ugly details; she just keeps running the brush through your hair in slow, even strokes while you tell her about the two days you spent in the hospital. You can hear the way she inhales when you tell her what the doctors had said—how you could have died if Joe hadn’t called for help when he did.

“Well,” she says when you’re finished after you’ve told her the rest—about how he stayed with you in the hospital and then at your apartment. How he took care of you without being asked and then paid for your plane ticket home when you told him that’s where you wanted to go. “You’re right. That does make me hate him less.” She waits another moment before she asks, “Is there anything else you’ve been keeping from me?”

“No, ma’am,” you say with a hard swallow. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I just—I don’t know. I’m still kind of embarrassed that I did something that stupid,” you admit. “And when it happened, I was still in London, and I…I was so far away. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Mission unaccomplished there, baby girl,” she says, not unkindly. “I worry about you when you’re on the other side of the world, and I worry about you when you’re right down the hall. That’s my job.” She finishes brushing out the last section of your hair and weaves it into a long, loose braid before she reaches her arms out and pulls you back against her chest. With her cheek against your temple, she says, “I am a little more confused, though.”

You blink and look up at her. “About what?”

“About why it seems like maybe you’re still thinking about keeping him at arm’s length.” You feel your brow furrow before she goes on. “Hazel, everything you just told me does not sound like the same man you used to work for. And he sounds a lot more like someone who is doing his best to try and tell you that.”

“No, I know,” you say softly. “He is different…in a good way. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

You sit up again and turn to face her. “Just…what if he isn’t? Or what if I’m not any different, and we just backslide into him being a selfish asshole and me being an enabler again?”

She looks at you for a long moment before she shrugs. “And what if you don’t?”

“Mom…”

“I’m just saying,” she holds up her hands. “I think, with everything you just told me, that maybe you should consider giving him a chance. And if it works out, great. If it doesn’t?” Her shoulders move again. “You’ve survived worse things.”

You start to smile as you look down at your lap and shake your head. “Well, if it’s not working out,” you say with consideration. “At least I know a really great couples’ counselor who could help.”

When you look up, her smile is bright and the happiest you’ve seen her all day. She reaches out and wraps you in another tight hug. “I’ll give you a discount,” she whispers in your ear before she presses a sound kiss to your cheek.

You try to sleep, but you keep finding excuses to get out of bed and move around your room. Your mother’s words are ringing in your ears, fighting for space in your mind around the memory of Joe’s lips on yours. The way he held your whole face in his hands and invaded your every sense. That rough tug of your hips to bring you closer.

It’s just after midnight when you finally give up and go downstairs. You leave a note for your parents and grab your keys. You drive with the windows down, breathing in the sweet summer air, trying to decide if you’re going to clear your mind with an aimless trip through town or take the car out to the beach and let the ocean tell you what to do.

But of course, you don’t do either of those things. And when you pull into the unkempt driveway of The Sand Dollar Lodge, you can admit to yourself that you never had any intention of ending up anywhere else.

There are ten rooms in a row, attached to a main office that is little more than a glass case with a blinking sign that says ‘Vacancy’ and a bored teenager, not even pretending he isn’t baked out of his mind behind the desk. There’s only one car in the parking lot—the one Joe got into to drive away from your house a few hours ago—and the last room of the row is the only one with a square of light leaking from the sides of a drawn shade.

Joe is wearing his glasses when he pulls open the door. He’s swapped his jeans for a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants, and he looks somewhere between confused and concerned when he realizes who’s just appeared outside his room. “Hey,” he says, blinking a few times. “What’s up? Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, surprising yourself with how relaxed you sound. With how relaxed you are. You were expecting your anxiety to spike again, to have to talk yourself in and out of getting out of the car, for your heart to be pounding in your ears. But there’s none of that. “Everything’s good. Sorry,” you add, spying the unmade bed behind him. “Did I wake you?” You’re sure you didn’t—Joe has always been a night owl—but it’s polite to ask.

“No, no, I’ve been up. D’you want to come in?” he asks, already stepping to the side to let you pass. He closes the door behind you and gives the room around him a look. “Apologies in advance. It’s—uh—it’s not exactly the Four Seasons.”

You can’t help but giggle as you look at the faded burgundy carpet, the 1970s floral pattern on the bedspread, and the brown glass lamp on the bedside table with matching shade. “It’s cleaner than I thought it’d be,” you admit.

“Small miracles.” There’s a brief moment of quiet while Joe slides the deadbolt back into place before he turns back to you. “Did you come over here just to make sure the room was okay?” he asks with a smile tugging on his lips. You shake your head. “So…you’re here because…”

You move your shoulder in a quick shrug. “Because it’s tomorrow.”

His brow crinkles for a moment until he glances at the clock on the table and catches the time. “It is tomorrow, isn’t it?” he asks, taking a few steps until he’s standing right in front of you. “And those…many minutes you needed?”

Your hands reach out to rest gently on his hips. “I took ‘em,” you say simply. “I don’t need any more.” Your chest rises and falls with a heavy breath. “I want to be with you, Joe,” you say out loud. “And I don’t know what that means long-term or what we’re going to do about…a lot of things,” you admit. “But I missed you. I don’t like my life without you in it, either.”

You weren’t nervous about coming over here. You weren’t even nervous about telling him all this. But the weight that lifts when you finally make yourself say the things you’ve been thinking for much longer than you’re willing to admit is almost enough to make you feel faint.

There’s only a moment to enjoy the slow smile that’s spread over Joe’s face before he’s kissing you again. Kissing you like he did in the backyard—hungry and possessive, pulling you closer until you’re molded against him. Your hands in his hair, his are sliding down to grip your hips and then lower to palm your ass before he starts moving backward, bringing you with him toward the bed.

The mattress gives a mighty squeak when you fall together in a clumsy heap. Joe pulls you on top of him, breaking the kiss long enough for you to catch your breath. His hands move up to push your hair back from your face, and in the yellow lamplight, his eyes look darker than you’ve ever seen them. They move from your eyes to your lips and down your body before he looks up again. He traces his fingers down your back until they can curl beneath the hem of your sweatshirt. “Can I take this off?”

You breathe out a smile and nod, sitting up when he does to lift your arms while he pushes the lightweight fabric up and over your head. It’s only then that he seems to notice the t-shirt you’re wearing underneath and lets his eyes drift down to the flimsy plaid shorts that stop mid-thigh. “Hazel…” he says as his hands slip under your t-shirt and flatten against your back, pulling you in a little closer while he drops his lips to the spot on your neck just below your ear. “Did you drive over here in your jammies?”

He manages to sound just scandalized enough that you can’t control the laugh that bubbles out of you like champagne. “Sorry,” you giggle, tilting your head with an inhale when he moves his kisses beneath your jaw. “I know they’re not exactly the sexiest thing I could have put on—”

“Speak for yourself,” he murmurs into your neck. “There’s almost nothing I find sexier than a woman who…” he pulls back and studies the faded printing of your t-shirt, “participated in the LA Chinatown Firecracker 5K in 2017.”

“Oh my God, shut up,” you say, still laughing when you reach for his face again, already missing the feeling of his lips on yours. You only break away again to push his shirt up his chest until he reaches behind his neck and tugs it the rest of the way off. His glasses go askew in the process, prompting you to reach out and take them gently off his face. “Are you going to be able to see me without these?”

He smiles, taking them from your hand and setting them on the bedside table. “As long as you stay at least this close.”

“I think I can do that.” You make a move to rid yourself of your t-shirt next before you stop with a smirk. “Or do you want me to leave this on?”

“Knowing you participated is turn-on enough,” Joe assures you without skipping a beat. He’s shaking his head when you drop it behind you and turn back around. “Cheeky,” he mutters as he slides his hand into your hair and pulls you back in, crushing your lips to his.

He shifts beneath you, and you can feel how hard he is, pressing insistently between your thighs. And suddenly, you just aren’t close enough. His lips trail again over your cheek until he can clutch your earlobe between his teeth, drawing a sharp inhale from the back of your throat. You can’t help the way your hips want to roll against his, trying to deliver yourself some kind of relief, but the sound he makes against your neck—a low groan that could almost qualify as a purr—only makes you want to do it again.

You reach behind your back and are about to unhook your bra when Joe stops you, pulling your hands away from the clasp and back between your chest and his. “What’s wrong?” you ask breathlessly when he gently slows and then stops the kisses he’d been planting down the slope of your neck.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says, shaking his head, and for a second, he looks almost nervous. “I just—I just want to make sure you know we don’t have to do this right now. That this isn’t the reason I came up here—I mean.”

You blink. “Do you…not want to keep going?” you ask as your brow furrows in confusion. Because it really feels like you want to keep going, you have to stop yourself from saying.

“Oh, I want to,” he assures you with a little half-grin that helps to ease your worry. “I very much want to. But,” his throat bobs as he swallows. “I meant what I said before, Haze. I’m not going anywhere. If you want to slow down or—or, I don’t know—get to know each other better or—”

He likely has more to say, but you can’t help yourself from leaning in to cover his lips with yours again. It’s not the crushing, heated kiss from before. This kiss is gentler. Sweeter. The complement to the soft warmth that you’d felt in your chest at what he was saying. His hands slide to your waist again, and his long fingers draw slow lines down the center of your back. “Joe,” you say softly when you pull away. “Thank you for saying that.” You wrap your arms loosely around his shoulders. “But if you meant what you said before, then we have all the time in the world to go slow.” Your lips twitch with a smile. “And I already know everything about you, remember?”

Joe lets out a quiet little laugh. “Everything, huh?”

You pull back just far enough to raise your eyes to his forehead and bring up one finger to lightly trace the three deepest lines of his brow. The ones no makeup artist or plastic surgeon was allowed to touch. “This one,” you say softly as you point them out. “And this one. And that one.”

His eyes move from yours to your lips and back up again before he kisses you again. A slow, deep kiss that sends warmth and tingling anticipation all the way down to your toes. He undoes the clasp of your bra and slides the straps down your arms, leaving goosebumps everywhere he trails his fingers. You toss it aside into the pile next to the bed and let out a sigh of relief against his mouth, relishing the feeling of his skin against yours.

You press your lips together, stifling a groan when he slides his hand between your legs. He traces teasing little swirls against the sensitive skin beneath the inner hem of your shorts, making you shift impatiently before he finally pushes the thin layers of your pajamas and panties to one side and slips his fingers into the slick heat he’s been building between your thighs.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” you hear him murmur when his kisses have trailed down to your collarbone. You muffle another deep moan as he dips into the arousal pooling at your center and then moves upward to draw slow circles around your swollen clit. “Does this feel good?”

“Mmhmm,” you hum, rolling your hips against his hand. “Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he promises. His other hand slides up your neck and pushes gently at the back of your head until you’re eye-to-eye again. He presses his forehead against yours. “Just look at me, okay?”

You swallow hard, forcing your eyes to stay open as you move faster against his fingers. Your knees shift to spread your legs wider. “Can you—”

Joe nods without you having to finish your request; he keeps his eyes on yours as he moves his hand and pushes two fingers deep inside you. He sets a steady rhythm pushing into you with even thrusts before pressing his thumb back onto your clit.

“Fuck…” you exhale when he starts to move his fingers and thumb together. Your hands grip his shoulders as that familiar tension starts to build with the promise of release. Joe’s eyes are glassy with lust, his lips wet and pink, and as difficult as it is to keep your eyes open, it’s much easier with the way he’s looking at you like a meal he wants to devour. His grip on the back of your neck tightens as your orgasm takes hold and rushes through your body, dragging a sound like a sob from the back of your throat.

You fall forward against him, burying your face in his neck as he slides his hand from between your legs and wraps his arms around you. As your breathing slowly returns to normal, you turn your head to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw and smile when you feel his pulse hammering against your lips. You move your kisses slowly over to his neck, following that irresistible tendon until you can run the tip of your tongue along the edge of his earlobe.

His hold on you tightens the second before he moves, flipping you onto your back and making the bedsprings squeal again. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, shaking his head.

You giggle again. “This bed is loud.”

Joe smiles down at you, letting his fingers trail teasingly between your breasts and down your belly. “Yeah, I think if more than one person at a time had ever stayed here since 1985, we’d be in trouble.”

“Well then, I won’t worry about being quiet,” you say with a grin.

“Mmm, please don’t,” he says as he leans down to kiss you again. You lift your hips, shuffle your shorts and panties down your legs, and toss them aside with the rest of your clothes while Joe is mercifully quick to rid himself of the rest of his clothes and retrieve a condom from his bag. He comes back to bed and cages his arms around you, sliding between your thighs like you were meant to fit together like this. His lips are on yours again, another slow, hungry kiss that has your stomach swooping with excitement before he pulls back, brushing his nose against yours. “Still good, yeah?”

You smile, despite wondering if it’s possible to die from anticipation, and nod your head as you shift your hips eagerly at the feeling of his cock brushing your center. “Still very, very good,” you promise. “I don’t want to stop.”

Joe drops his head, pinning his forehead to yours, keeping his gaze locked on you as he pushes in slowly, inch by inch. The deep groan he makes when your hips are flush is enough to make your mouth water—you wish you could bottle it and listen to it again and again. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, holding him in place. “Just stay,” you ask around a breathy exhale while you try to adjust to this new and deliciously satisfying stretch. “Stay right there. I need a second.”

He gives you what you ask for, kissing you gently and stroking his tongue over yours until you feel like you can breathe again and roll your hips against his. When he starts to move, it’s in long, slow, measured strokes that hit you in just the right place each time. It feels impossibly good—like all the time you spent not knowing what this feels like seems like time well wasted—but when you run your hands down his back, you can feel how tense he is. Like he’s holding back.

And yeah, you want this to last forever, too. Especially with the way Joe moans quietly each time you lift your hips to meet his measured thrusts, with how he’s kissing and nuzzling your throat, keeping his eyes on yours as much as he can to make you feel like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at. But tangled up in the desire to just stay in this bubble of slow-building pleasure is the thrill of the realization that this isn’t the only time you’re going to do this. That, if you’d both meant what you’d said earlier, you could do this whenever you wanted.

You squeeze your thighs harder and clench around his cock the next time he thrusts into you. “Go faster?”

He nods and kisses you again, swallowing the sounds you make as he finally quickens his pace. The fire he’s been stoking beneath your skin builds a little more with each rock of his hips, threatening to catch and consume you entirely when he goes a little harder, too.

He threads his fingers through yours and pulls your hands up over your head, and lets his eyes roam hungrily over your body, watching your tits bounce with each hard thrust he makes. With one hand, he pins your wrists together, holding them both in place on the pillow so that with his other, he can reach down and pull your lip free from where you hadn’t even realized you’d clutched it between your teeth. “Loud as you want,” he huffs with a smirk, not losing his rhythm. “Remember?”

The next sound you make is loud, unmuffled, and ungoverned. Nothing you can help when Joe releases your hands so he can move up onto his knees and spread your legs wide while he keeps moving. He sucks his fingers between his pink, swollen lips and then presses them to your clit, rubbing in time with the snap of his hips until your vision is dimming at the edges and your back is bowing off the mattress, and you’re pretty sure that even the stoned kid in the front office can hear you.   

He falls forward, grabbing your face in a desperate kiss while he keeps moving, keeps pushing hard and fast into you until he comes with a delicious sound you suck right off his tongue. You hold your breath, wanting to keep it deep in your lungs while he throbs and spills into the condom.

His arms straighten, holding himself up as he slows to a stop. His cheeks and chest are flushed and sweaty, and the sound of his hushed breathing is the loudest thing in the room as he stares down at you with wide eyes. “Fuck,” he says finally with an air of disbelief.

You smile up at him, feeling breathless and wrung out with pleasure and like it might be at least a few minutes before you can trust your legs to support you again. “Yeah.”

He leans in, thrusting deep inside of you for one more kiss before he pulls out. “Yeah?” he repeats, a half-smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

“Yeah,” you exhale, nodding for good measure, swiping a hand over your flushed face. You want to be more eloquent, but the only thing that’s coming to mind is, “Yeah.”

Joe gets up first to dispose of the condom before he comes back to bed, flopping down next to you with a kind of ease that calms any concerns you might have had that this was a bad idea—that things could get awkward fast if you’d misread any part of this situation. He props his head up on his elbow and lets his fingers drift lazily over your body, drawing circles around your breasts and little swirls on your stomach. “You feel okay?” he asks softly.

You nod, surprised that he looks just a little nervous, waiting for your answer. “More than okay,” you assure him. And it’s true. You don’t just feel the usual kind of good that comes from a thoroughly good fuck. You feel happy and safe and cared for. “That was fun.” You wait for him to respond, but he doesn’t, and after a moment, you can’t help but feel a little self-conscious at being the focus of such a soft gaze. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. “I just—” he keeps his fingertips skating over your skin in long, gentle touches. “I want to tell you how beautiful you are,” he says. “But I’m afraid it’s going to sound like a line.”

You let out a little hum of amusement and pick up his hand, bringing his palm to your lips for a kiss. “You’ve already told me that you think I’m beautiful,” you remind him.

His brow crinkles. “I did?” You nod, biting back a smile. “When?”

“When we were in Tokyo,” you say. “When you were high off your ass on pain medication.”

His eyes widen. “No, I did not.”

“You absolutely did,” you tell him with a giggle. “You told me that you were in love with me and that I was so so beautiful. You said ‘so’ twice. You were very insistent.”

“You little liar,” his tone is only mildly accusatory, and he tickles your sides when he says it, so you’re pretty sure he’s not actually mad. “I asked you if I said anything embarrassing, and you said no!”

“Technically,” you laugh, squirming when he tickles you again. “You asked if you said anything stupid. And that was open to interpretation.”

“Oh, you are going to be a good lawyer,” he mutters.

The mention of the only thing he and your mother agreed on at dinner brings the reality of your return home to the forefront of your mind. You crane your neck to look at the clock. “I should probably go home,” you say softly.

He frowns. “You won’t stay?”

“I would,” you assure him. “But I don’t really feel like doing a walk of shame past the breakfast table in the morning. And also,” you sit up and take hold of his chin to tug him in for a quick kiss. “These sheets? Feel like printer paper.”

He snorts and moves his arm so you can roll gracelessly out of bed. “I did warn you,” he says as you retrieve your clothes from the pile on the floor.

You make your way into the bathroom and turn on the light, unsurprised to find only one bulb out of the three on the vanity working. It’s not until you’ve flushed the toilet and are washing your hands that you realize what’s out of place. “Joe?” you call before shutting off the water. “Where is your shower curtain?”

He’s back in his sweats and t-shirt when you return to the main room. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he shrugs. “They, uh, they didn’t give me one, I guess.”

“They didn’t give you a shower curtain?” you ask with a choked laugh. “Why didn’t you ask the front desk for one?”

He looks adorably conflicted for a moment. “The woman who checked me in—she seemed very irritated to have to deal with me in the first place. I didn’t want to bother her with needless requests.”

“Needless requests,” you echo in amusement before you shake your head. “Okay, yeah. You can’t stay here.”

“It’s fine—”

“It is not fine,” you counter. “Look, I’m fighting every cell in my body not to just make a new reservation for you somewhere decent.” The urge to fix and take care of everything rears its ugly head less and less frequently these days, but it’s still there, simmering beneath the surface.

“No, don’t do that.”

“I’m not going to,” you say out loud to remind yourself more than him. “But this is wine country, and I can guarantee that there are several spots that would happily provide you with a shower curtain and a place to stay.”

He raises his eyebrows and gets to his feet while you’re slipping back into your sandals. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod as he crosses the room. “And I’m putting my full faith in you that you will be able to find one and navigate the reservation process all on your own.”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “I don’t know…there are a lot of steps involved.”

“I know,” you put your hands on his chest and stretch up on your toes to brush your lips over his. “That’s how much I believe in you.”

“Am I still going to see you later?” he asks while you’re grabbing your purse and keys from where you’d dropped them unceremoniously by the door.

You pause and lift your brow. “Do you want to still see me later?”

He comes over to give you another kiss. A long, slow one that makes you regret putting your clothes on. “I always want to see you, Hazel.”

After everything that’s just happened, it’s absolutely ridiculous that this is what makes you blush, but it is. “Kay,” you say, biting back another smile. “Then call me when you get up. Maybe we can go to the beach.”

You allow yourself one more kiss before pulling away.

The house is still quiet when you slip back inside with your shoes in your hand. You toss out the note you’d left and head upstairs. For a moment, you consider changing your clothes before falling into bed, but you put your nose to the collar of your t-shirt, and it smells too much like Joe to want to take it off.

---

A/N: Joe's "Honestly didn't see that coming" is adapted from a line from Hurley in Lost.

---

Taglist (comment to be added)

@moon1ighteyes @freyaswolf @fluffysmutmnstr @lma1986 @mrsjellymunson @aysheashea @fullstealthwombat @girlwiththerubyslippers @madisonavenuekitten @grimeysociety @sweetparadise-13 @nadixm @famousparadiselight @palomahasenteredthechat @hereforshmut @cheesewritings @munsonburn3r @niallersfreckles @alwaysahiccupandastrid @poofyloofy @eirone-and-cheese @kitkat80 @batcavenick @peculiarwren @sidthedollface2 @bl0ssomanddie

[fluffysmutmnstr]

[fluffysmutmnstr]

I’M A ROLLER COASTER OF EMOTIONS. Okay, but like, one chapter where he doesn’t cook for Hazel please? I don’t know if I can handle more.

LITTLE TOUCHES. I’M DONE IN

NEVER STOP.

Oh Hazel baby. You be with your family, you cry your heart out and drink that tea.

In conclusion: MY HEEEEAAAARRRRRT.

♥️💜💞

(when you've got trouble) i've got trouble too - chapter eight

rating: M

word count: 4.6k

Summary: And on the third day, they finally had to have a real conversation.

Warnings/Tags: slow burn, friends-to-lovers, boss/employee relationship (kind of? not really), bad behavior, fuckboy behavior, fourth-wall breaks, drug use, recreational drug use, casual sex, mentions of gross behavior, Joe is not a nice guy right now, it's called a redemption arc for a reason, overdosing, implied/referenced drug addiction, bed sharing, unresolved sexual tension

A/N: Big thanks to @freyaswolf for reminding me, in so many words, that these idiots have hurt each other enough. 😘

I love you and I keese you all! I hope you like this!

You can’t remember if you dream of anything. You know you drop off to sleep quickly and stay that way for quite a while. Although, at one point, you do wake up and find that you’ve shifted sometime in your sleep and curled to wrap your body around Joe’s, using his chest as a pillow. You know you tried to move, tried to forget that you’d even done that, but his arm was still around your shoulders, and in between his quiet, rhythmic, rattling snores, his hand drifted up and absently pet the back of your head, coaxing you to stay where you were.

But the next time you open your eyes, it’s morning. And you’re alone. The side where Joe had been sleeping is cold; the rumpled sheets and flattened pillow the only evidence that he’d spent the night there and not on the couch.

When you get to your feet, the lingering vertigo feels less oppressive than it’s been the last few days. You take that as a win and make your way to the front of the flat, listening for the sounds of life and cohabitation that you’ve reluctantly come to expect over the last few days.

But it’s silent there, too. It only takes a few minutes to confirm that you’re definitely alone.

Pretending this doesn’t bother you—it doesn’t—you start making coffee and briefly wonder if you should make enough for two before you decide against it and just fill the pot with enough water for yourself.

There’s no note in the kitchen or anywhere else. Your phone has no unread messages. And his bag is gone from the space beside the armchair.

Coffee for one feels like a pretty safe bet.

While it’s brewing, you unplug your phone and open up your texts—confirming for the second time that there’s nothing new there. You go to scroll down and tap on Joe’s name—you don’t know why, you don’t think you want to ask him where he is—when you remember that you deleted his number.

Right.

Just as you’re about to start making your bed, your phone vibrates with an incoming text. Your traitorous heart leaps without warning and then falls back where it belongs when you see it’s just a text from your mother.

You feel bad for being disappointed as soon as you open it and find a video attached to her message that reads, You win the Favorite Present Prize, big sister. The video starts to play with a quick tap of your thumb, and you forget about being ghosted at the sight of Hugo hugging the Spiderman Squishmallow you had sent to the house a few weeks ago when you were reminded that his fourth birthday was coming up. You can hear Peter out of the frame. “What did you want to say, buddy?”

“Fank you for the squish, Hazel!” he says, not relaxing his tight squeeze. His big, dark eyes look beyond the lens as he asks, “Can she talk back?”

Peter laughs. “Not right now, pal. It’s still early where she is; she’s probably still asleep. We’ll give her a call later, though, okay?”

Hugo nods and gives his Spiderman another hug, bringing a surprising lump to your throat as the video ends. You’re still blinking back that unexpected rush of emotion and blurred vision when you hear the door open from the front of the flat.

Abandoning your phone on your rumpled sheets, you cross to the hallway, where you and Joe spot each other at the same time.

“You’re up,” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised.

“You’re…back,” you reply, not managing to sound much more than suspicious.

His brow lifts as he pushes the door closed behind him. “You’re…surprised?”

You consider lying, but you can’t summon the energy. “Kind of.”

He lets out a dry huff of a laugh. “What—you thought I just fucked off? No note or goodbye or anything?”

You’ve done it to plenty of other women in the past, you could say. You almost do say it, in fact. The words form on your tongue, and you have to clench your jaw for a moment to keep from blurting them out. “Well, your…stuff was gone,” you say after another moment with a vague point to the spot where his bag had been living. “And—y’know—I’ve been telling you to fuck off for the last two days, so I just figured—I don’t know—that you finally had something better to do.”

You look down at the carpet after catching the first glimpse of the way his lips twitch, like he’s fighting a smile. You kind of want to die, actually, because it’s now abundantly clear that you jumped to this wrong conclusion very quickly and that it bothered you so much more than you were trying to pretend.

“I—uh—” he coughs. “I was out of clean clothes,” he says, and when you look up again, he slides his bag from where it was slung over his shoulder and sets it back beside the chair. “And…you’ve been sleeping until about ten or eleven, so I figured I had time to go and come back before you were up.” He clears his throat again. “Sorry,” he adds. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”

“I wasn’t—” you stop (because why lie? Really. Haven’t you done enough of that?) and start again, pointing to the grocery bag in his other hand. “What’s that?”

“Blueberries,” he says and ducks his head, trying to get you to look at him again. “I was going to make you pancakes.”

“Oh.” And yeah, now you really want to die. Not only was he always planning on coming back—despite you taking a flying leap to the worst assumption after about three minutes—but he had only left to procure ingredients to make your favorite meal.

The whiplash of your mental gymnastics is enough to merit a trip to the chiropractor.

His expression crinkled with uncertainty after a moment. “You do—It is blueberry pancakes, isn’t it? I didn’t remember that wrong?”

You swallow hard and shake your head, shoving aside all your embarrassment and managing a smile. “No, you didn’t,” you assure him. “I like—uh—yeah. They’re my favorite.” It’s your turn to cough quietly. “Do you want some help?”

“No,” he says, slipping out of his shoes and setting them by your door. “Turns out you’re a menace in the kitchen.”

You gasp. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” he laughs and heads for the kitchen, the awkwardness of the moment apparently behind you. “Before this week, when’s the last time you made something that wasn’t from a box or a can?”

Your open mouth remains that way for a moment and then closes, your teeth snapping indignantly. “I—sometimes—” Joe leans around the corner, looking expectant. You roll your eyes with a little huff. “Shut up.”

The pancakes are delicious. Even if you wanted to pretend they were subpar just to keep Joe’s ego in check, you can’t stop yourself from inhaling four of them in ridiculously short order like a cartoon character.

“I’m doing the dishes,” you say once you’ve soaked up the last drops of syrup from your plate with a final bite of fluffy cake.

“I’m not going to argue,” he says as he spears a rogue blueberry with his fork. “But you are still supposed to be resting.”

You roll your eyes and swipe his plate on the way to the sink. “Says the man who made me dance with him last night.”

He laughs while you run the water. “I mean, technically, I only asked you to dance,” he counters. “You didn’t have to agree.”

“Oh, right,” you scoff lightly. “Like you would have taken ‘no’ for an answer.”

“No, I would have,” he says. There’s something different in his voice. Something that makes you glad you’re not facing him.

The same thing that assures you that neither of you are thinking about that dance itself anymore, but rather what came after it.

That almost-something-almost-nothing that felt so charged you were surprised you didn’t give him a shock when you’d pushed him away.

You shake your head and make quick work of the few dishes. By the time they’re all in the drying rack, you feel like you can trust yourself to say something without mentioning anything that happened last night. “Would you—” You press your lips together as you turn from the sink and try again. “I think if I stay inside all morning again, I’m going to start vacuuming or something else that would piss off everyone responsible for my convalescence.” Your eyes move from him to the window and back again. “Would you want to go for a walk with me?”

He's slow to smile, but he does and nods. “That’d be nice.”

It is nice.

It’s a little colder than it was yesterday, but the breeze feels refreshing even though you can smell the rain that’s promised for the afternoon. You go to the Common again, following the same path as before.

“Can I ask you something?”

Joe glances over as you step around a puddle. “Sure.”

You curl your hands inside the pockets of your sweatshirt. “Be honest. What are you missing to hang out with me these last few days?”

The white tips of his tennis shoes kick a few loose stones a foot ahead. “Nothing important.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He exhales heavily. “Uh, some workouts,” he says, squinting a little as his eyes roll up and to the right. “Quite a few of those, actually. Gonna have to take my lumps with that one. Tim will not be pleased.” A brief frown of nostalgia pouts your lips at the mention of his personal trainer. You’d liked Tim. You used to sit next to him and work, trying not to laugh while he barked out commands for Joe to follow at the gym. “A…party in Soho I didn’t want to go to anyway. And a meeting.”

Your brow furrows. “What kind of meeting?”

“A—work thing. In LA.”

“A work thing like…with your contract lawyer? Or a work thing like a general?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Does it matter? I’ve already missed it.” He rolls a shoulder. “If they want me that bad, they’ll reschedule.” He looks over again. “Why are you asking?”

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “Maybe because planning and knowing your every move was how I spent most of my waking hours for three years, and this realization that I have no idea what you’re doing is…disorienting.”

You see him nod from the corner of your eye. “But you haven’t known what I’ve been doing for the last three months.”

“Mmm yeah,” you mirror him. “But I was also trying to forget that you existed. So.”

“Ah,” his hands go into his pockets. “S’pose I deserve that.”

“Past tense,” you say quietly.

“Sorry?”

“Past tense,” you repeat. “You deserved that.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, but you catch the little smile he tries to hide as he looks back down at the footpath. It’s not until you’re nearing the first small pond that he clears his throat. “Can I ask you something?”

You swallow and nod. “Sure.”

“It’s about something you said yesterday.” Your stomach twists while you wait for him to ask you to repeat some part of your late-night pep talk because he’d already forgotten it. Or worse, ask you about what you’d almost blurted out.

That’s the guy I fe—

“When were here earlier,” he goes on, surprising you. “You were talking about all the things you were sick of. And you said something like, ‘all that other shit you didn’t want to look at because you didn’t know what to do with it.’”

You cough lightly into your fist before returning your hands to your pockets. “Yeah?”

“What did you mean by that?”

You give yourself a chance to collect your thoughts as you take another deep breath and let it out. “I meant that you’re not the only person whose life feels messy and fucked up and like you don’t know what to do anymore.” You sniff back your nose that’s started to run in the cold air. “I mean, sure, I was killing myself chasing after you and trying to reign in your chaos, but at least it was a plan. It was predictable.”

When you look over, his face has resumed its thoughtful frown. “You think I’m predictable?”

“Your actions? No,” you shake your head. “But the ways in which you fucked up my life—my sleep schedule, my stress levels, my anxiety—that was all pretty predictable.”

When he laughs this time, there’s no humor in it. “You really deserved to be treated so much better than I treated you.”

“Yes,” you nod once. “I really did.” Hearing him say this doesn’t feel like the victory you might have once imagined it to be. Maybe because if he’d realized it earlier, he could have course corrected. Maybe you’d still be working for him if he had.

And that doesn’t feel like what you want, either.

“But,” you clear your throat. “Difficult as you made things for me, I still felt like I knew what I was doing.”

“And now?”

“Now? Now I feel like I keep pulling on some old jacket expecting it to fit, and it just doesn’t.” You shake your head, trying not to think about the last tour you’d been on. How miserable you’d been. How painfully your stomach twists at the thought of going out on another. “Nothing feels right,” you admit as you give the park and the city around it a look. “And I don’t know what to do with all this time I’ve spent here. All this effort I put into stuff I thought was important. This place I loved…this work I used to be so excited about…all these things I took comfort in, that I thought I knew about myself. I don’t know,” you shrug, trying hard not to let your feet dangle too long over this vast chasm of uncertainty you’ve been circling for months. “None of it fits anymore.”

“What about me?”

The question stops you. “What?”

“Am I something that doesn’t fit in your life anymore?”

Before you can figure out how to answer that—because the question has effectively cleared your mind like a splash of water on a chalkboard—he reaches over and pulls something from your hair. “Sorry,” he says quietly, and you don’t think you’re imagining the way his fingers seem to linger a little longer than necessary by the shell of your ear before he pulls back to reveal the crunchy brown leaf that had attached itself to you. “You had a—thing.”

“Joe…what’s going…” Your words fail as you can’t seem to stop yourself from covering his hand with yours; the leaf he’s holding crunches between your fingers and his. It’d be easy enough to push him away—or just take a step back. But you don’t do either of those things. “What are you doing?”

His expression drops just a little with a quiet exhale. “Hazel. Come on,” he says, sounding defeated. “You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed that I—” he stops. “That there’s—”

“What?” you ask. You want to demand it with a little more forceful tone, but you can’t manage it.

He shakes his head. “Never mind. I’m being stupid. I know the last few days haven’t changed anything—”

“I didn’t say that,” you interrupt him and tighten your grip on his hand when he goes to start walking again. “I just don’t…know what you’re asking me.”

Only you do know. Or at least you think you do. But you’ve spent so much time thinking and wondering and second-guessing this man that it feels like asking for trouble if you don’t make him say it.

“Just…” he looks flustered. “Just that. Is there a chance we could—that I could fit back into your life?”

Yes, you almost say without thinking. Of course there is. Always. Because the last few days have changed things. And because you never wanted him out of your life to begin with.  

But you have to think before you speak. And as much as you might want to say otherwise, when you open your mouth, all that comes out is, “I’m not sure.”

“Why not?”

You drop your gaze, unwilling to stay hypnotized under those dangerous eyes of his. The teeth of the zipper of his open sweatshirt drag along your thumb as you run your other hand along the edge. “...You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

When you look up again, Joe has closed his eyes in a long blink. The expression on his face assures you that was not a reference you were going to have to explain.

“You do,” you say, not just for him but as a reminder for yourself. “You always have. I used to think I could keep up, but—” You shake your head. “I can’t. I don’t even want to anymore.”

“I could slow down.”

You let out a single huff of a laugh. Affection and exasperation. Always so perfectly intertwined when it comes to him. “Joe…”

“I could,” he insists, so unexpectedly earnest that it breaks your heart. “I can. If that’s what you want.”

“It’s not about what I want,” you say, looking up at him again. “You have obligations. You have things you’re contracted to do and things that you need to get a handle on, and I don’t—”

“What if I didn’t, though?” he asks, cutting you off with a question you can’t answer. “What if I took time off?”

“You can’t take time off.”

“But if I did,” he goes on like this is a real possibility. Like he’s got any chance of free time between now and September. You may not recall the specifics, but you remember booking things out that far, even back in November. “We could—I don’t know. We could go somewhere. Have a proper holiday, not one where you’re only there to look after me. Just as…I don’t know. Just as us.” He’s turned his hand so he can brush his thumb along the ridge of your knuckles. “Wherever you want—anywhere in the world,” he shrugs. “Where do you want to go?”

Without warning, your eyes well, and a rush of emotion stings your nose and the back of your throat. “I want to go home.” You’ve wanted to go home for so long. Pretending you didn’t. Pretending you were fine and not feeling so dangerously untethered. But as soon as you let yourself say it out loud, all the things you’ve been missing come crashing to the front of your mind.

Joe’s throat moves as he swallows, and his fingertips are warm when he reaches up to push away the tear that escapes and slides down your cheek. “You want to go home? To California?”

You nod. “I want to play with the kids,” you say quietly. “Smell the ocean. Sleep in my old room and let my mom brush my hair.”

“You can go home, Haze,” he says, letting his fingers drift down to lift your chin slightly so you are looking at him again. “If that’s really what you want.”

The tears cling to your eyelashes as you try and blink them back. It is what you want. More than anything.

It’s just not the only thing that you want.

Before you can figure out how to say that in some way that doesn’t sound like But what about you? or But what about this? Joe speaks again. “Don’t suppose there’s an invitation to join you in there somewhere, is there?”

You swallow the lump in your throat with a quiet, wet laugh. “As much as I might want you to come with me,” you say carefully because these words are sharp, and they hurt as they form on your tongue, but you still have to say them. “I think I need you to stay here.” Your teeth press into your bottom lip for a moment, just long enough to sting. “I have to figure out who I am again,” you confess. “And I can’t do that if you’re around.”

He nods slowly with understanding and lets his thumb draw another line over the back of your hand. “Even if I promise to be really, really quiet?”

You laugh again and shake your head. “You’re such an idiot,” you mumble as you wipe under your eyes.

“You didn’t answer me,” he says. “Before. If I could slow down and take time off—”

“Joe—”

“I’m not saying don’t leave,” he says quickly. “I’m just saying don’t leave…forever.” His lips dip in a quick, anxious frown. “I feel like I just got you back,” he says. “I don’t want to let you go again.”

You purse your lips and swallow hard a second time, squeezing his fingers. “I’m not the only one who has a life to un-fuck, my friend,” you remind him gently. “Everything I said last night—I meant it. I know you can get back to that guy I was talking about…or even some—I don’t know—some better version of him. But you’re not there yet.” You don’t want to be cold or hurtful, but the elephant that’s been crunched in the apartment with you—the one who seems to be trotting along behind you even now—isn’t going anywhere until you acknowledge it. “And I don’t think you can get there if you keep going the way you have been.”

He sighs quietly. “I can’t help that my job is—”

“We both know I’m not talking about your job,” you cut him off. Keeping his hand in yours, you pull him over to sit on the closest bench.

“Look,” he says, turning so you’re facing one another. “I know you think that the drugs are—” he stops and starts again. “And I know I party a lot, but it’s not as bad as it was, I swear. I’ve got—”

“Joe,” you reach up with your free hand and press your fingertips against his lips for a moment, shutting him up. “I know that you don’t want to admit that you have a problem,” you begin. Choosing your words with care. Feeling like you’re trying to approach an animal that might bolt at any moment. “And I understand. I do. It’s scary, and it’s embarrassing to have to acknowledge that you’ve lost your grip on something,” You swallow around the sudden dryness in your throat. “Trying to figure out when you started to lose control in the first place…it’s—it’s really hard. But until you can?” You have to duck your chin to make him meet your eyes. “Until you’re ready to be honest about what you’ve been doing and how you got to this point? There’s no…you coming home with me to California. Or me going with you on holiday, or us trying to figure out what might be—” This sentence never wants to finish itself. All you can do is vaguely motion to the space between you. “There’s no you and me at all. We’re no good to each other like this.”

His face is unreadable. An expressionless mask that makes you think he’s about to get up and walk away. But he doesn’t get up and walk away. After what feels like a very long time, he sits back on the bench and looks out at the sprawling green field of the Common. Before you can wonder if you need to explain yourself further, reassure him, or do or say something to make him feel better, he puts an arm around your shoulders and pulls you gently back until you’re tucked in beside him and your cheek has nowhere to land but on his chest.

The material of his sweatshirt is soft and warm against your cheek. You can hear his heart beating steadily beneath your ear as his fingers paint slow stripes up and down your arm. Just as you’re about to accept that he’s just not going to say anything, his voice rumbles softly from where you’re pressed against him. “Do you think we could be?”

“What?”

“Good to each other. For each other.”

You swallow down a million possible responses, not trusting yourself to look up, even though you can feel his chin tilt so he can look at you. “I don’t know,” you say softly. “But I’d like the chance to find out.”

It’s another few long moments before Joe accepts your answer with a quiet exhale and kisses the top of your head.

***

The apartment had come furnished, so next to nothing inside it is yours. It takes no time at all to pack up and arrange for what doesn’t fit in a suitcase to be shipped back to the West Coast.

It feels surreal how little time and effort it takes once you’ve decided to leave.

It's so surreal, in fact, that it’s the perfect time for a montage.

Because almost before you can process what you’re doing, you’re on a plane bound for California.

Cross-fade long stretches of ocean and then flyover country with Peter scooping you up in one of his crushing, wonderful bear hugs at the airport before happily hauling all your bags into the back of his Jeep.

We’ll let that fade into you being home again. Finally. After so long. Back in your old room with the paint still chipped in places from where you’d taped up posters of Fall Out Boy and Jack’s Mannequin when you were in high school and the faded t-shirt quilt on the bed.

And even though it’s the middle of the night, your mom is sitting next to you on the bed with a cup of tea to match the one she made you as soon as you walked in the door. It doesn’t matter what’s being said, (montage, remember?) but there’s lots of laughing and silliness before she finally gives you one last kiss on the forehead and then leaves you alone.

End montage. Resume real-time.

The clock beside your bed says 2:55 AM as you set your empty mug down and pull back the covers. The sheets are deliciously cool and clean when you slip between them, and the pile of your old pillows greets you like an old friend.

You should be exhausted. You should be able to drop right off to sleep without a second thought.

But every time you close your eyes, you’re reminded of Joe and how he’d looked at you while you were saying goodbye.

Promise this isn’t the last time I’m going to see you, he’d said, taking your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

But you couldn’t promise that. So you’d hugged him instead. Stretched onto your tiptoes to kiss his cheek and told him you hoped it wouldn’t be.

But that’s all you have—hope.

Hope that you made the right decision.

Hope that he isn’t going to just spiral right back to his old habits the moment you’re out of sight.

Hope that you mean as much to him as he does to you.

Fragile, delicate, gossamer hope that doesn’t seem like nearly enough to hold onto.

And once you let yourself think about that—about how it might not be enough, about how that might have been the last time you saw Joe—you can’t stop the tears that rise mercilessly to blur your vision.

And once you start crying, it takes a long time to stop.

---

A/N: We all know I'm not the one who wrote the saddest line in Good Omens, but just in case you didn't, and the gif wasn't proof enough, that line is not mine. <3

---

Taglist (comment to be added)

@moon1ighteyes @freyaswolf @fluffysmutmnstr @lma1986 @mrsjellymunson @aysheashea @fullstealthwombat @girlwiththerubyslippers @madisonavenuekitten @grimeysociety @sweetparadise-13 @nadixm @famousparadiselight @palomahasenteredthechat @hereforshmut @cheesewritings @munsonburn3r @niallersfreckles @alwaysahiccupandastrid @poofyloofy @eirone-and-cheese @kitkat80 @batcavenick @peculiarwren

[fluffysmutmnstr]

AJKAJEJDJDKDOFJNRNRKFOFKNR. DOMESTIC NONSENSE *swoon* seriously you’re making me hungry. I want Joe to cook for me. I want an edible hug.

HAZEL AND HER MOM THOUGH. AND HER ADOPTION AND DAD AND DAMN IT WOMAN. SAVE FEELS FOR OTHER THINGS.

I’m reeling.

(when you've got trouble) i've got trouble too - chapter seven

rating: M

word count: 10.5k (don't look at me)

Summary: At home care

Warnings/Tags: slow burn, friends-to-lovers, boss/employee relationship (kind of? not really), bad behavior, fuckboy behavior, fourth-wall breaks, drug use, recreational drug use, casual sex, mentions of gross behavior, Joe is not a nice guy right now, it's called a redemption arc for a reason, overdosing, implied/referenced drug addiction, bed sharing, unresolved sexual tension

A/N: Yeah yeah yeah, I did the thing I said I wasn't going to do and I split this massive chapter into YET ANOTHER (slightly) more manageable piece and increased the chapter count rather than make anyone wait any longer for another update.

Big thanks to @girlwiththerubyslippers, @freyaswolf, and @fluffysmutmnstr for all their enabling encouragment.

I love you and I keese you all! I hope you like this!

You don’t know what day or what time it is when you finally do wake up. Your eyes are still too heavy to open more than a crack. The room is a collection of blurry shapes that make no sense with the last things you can recollect. There’s rhythmic beeping in two different tones and the sound of a familiar footfall shuffling back and forth.

It's an effort to open your mouth and croak out, “Joe?” Even in your hazy state, you kind of hate that you can recognize him just by his footsteps.

“Hey,” you hear his voice attached to a dark shape that crosses to your left side. “Yeah, it’s—it’s me.” His hand curls carefully around your fingers.

“Why do you smell so bad?” It’s probably not the question you should be asking first—there are, after all, more pressing matters like where are you and are you okay and what the hell happened—but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. With your eyes not quite working yet, your sense of smell is picking up the slack.

You hear Joe cough out a sound of surprise. “I—uh—I went for a—” he stops and starts over. “They sent me home this morning—I was supposed to sleep but I went for a run instead.”

Your face wrinkles slightly. “You smell like you ran far.”

“I ran all the way here when they called and said you were comin’ round,” he says softly, and you think you can hear a smile in his voice.

“From where? Scotland?”

That choked, almost wet-sounding laugh again. “I’m going to tell your doctor you’re feeling well enough to immediately be takin’ the piss,” he says before you feel a brush of his hand over your forehead. “Should rule out any concerns about brain damage.”

“Brain damage?” you repeat, forcing yourself to blink and then wet your lips with your flypaper tongue. “Why is my brain damaged?”

“Because you did something profoundly stupid,” he says plainly. “And don’t worry, it’s not damaged. I need to get your doctor.”

“You need to take a shower,” you mutter, more because you don’t want to think about your brain potentially being damaged or deal with the sinking realization that you remember going to a club last night and have now found yourself in a hospital.

“Yep,” the dark shape of Joe moves like he’s standing up. “You couldn’t be clearer about that, thank you.”

Your doctor returns as all the rest of your senses begin to check in. She reminds you, without a trace of judgement in her voice, of your abysmally irresponsible decisions the night before and assures you that you owe your still-beating heart and functioning brain to the sweaty, bedraggled man sitting by the window, chewing the edges of his fingernails.

Vaguely, while listening to a list of all the ways your body tried to shut down in the last eighteen hours, you wonder if anyone has recognized Joe. To be fair, you barely recognize him. Not looking so thin or with those dark circles under his eyes or the three-day stubble.

You wait until after you’ve had a glass of water and didn’t immediately throw it up to ask, “If I’m okay, can I go home?”

“Not so fast,” the doctor shakes her head. “We’ve got some scans we need to do, some more tests to run, and likely another twenty-four hours of monitoring here.”

“And then—”

“And then,” she cuts you off before you can feel too hopeful. “Then you can go home so long as someone is around to stay with you for the next three to five days.”

Your face drops. “Oh.” Your brain isn’t quite up to its usual speed and the idea of going through your local contacts and sorting who might be around feels almost too daunting.

“That’s fine,” Joe speaks up before you can even begin to try to figure out who you were going to try and conscript into caregiver service. “Won’t be a problem.”

You thought Joe’s quick response might have meant one of two things: one, he assumed you had someone you could call upon and only said it to keep the doctor moving through her routine. Or two, that he was going to make sure you were alright by doing something ridiculous like offering to pay for an at-home nurse for you for the next week until you were out of this needless monitoring zone.

He had meant neither, as it turned out, but instead, a secret third thing where he drives you home the next morning and follows you into your apartment like he belongs there.

You don’t think too much of it, too wiped out to do more than nod and shuffle back to your bedroom when he tells you to get some rest. It’s not until you wake up a few hours later and find him still there that the confusion sets in. More than that, you find this out by following the sound of the washing machine into the kitchen, where you find him washing the dirty dishes you’d left in the sink.

“What are you doing?”

“Riverdance,” he says without missing beat as he runs a sponge along the inside of one of your cereal bowls. “What does it look like?”

“I mean what are you doing here,” you say squinting at the evidence suggesting he’s been here the whole time, doing your chores. “In my apartment.”

He looks up from the sink and shuts off the water. “You’re not supposed to be alone for the next few days,” he says, reminding you as if you weren’t in the room when that order had been given.

“Yeah, but you don’t have to stay—”

“Well, somebody has to,” he argues before you can finish your thought. “And I told your doctor I would, so,” he moves a shoulder like it’s settled.

“Don’t you have…” the words fail you as you realize for the first time in three years you have no idea what might be on his calendar. “Ya know. Stuff?”

Joe shakes his head. “Nothing that can’t wait.” You look at each other for a beat before he sighs. “Look, if you’ve got someone else you want to call, I’m happy to clear out—”

“I didn’t say that,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Another heavy silence. Joe’s eyes move around the room, landing on anything but you. “I won’t be offended. I know I’m not your favorite person in the world right now.”

“Well,” you pause as your teeth press lightly into your bottom lip. You have to speak over the sound of your clothes hitting the spin cycle. “I guess if I died from passing out in the shower or something, it’d make saving me from an overdose a real waste of time, huh?”

The edge of Joe’s mouth twitches. “It was a right pain in the ass.”

“Fine,” you say after another moment. “You can stay if you really want to,” you add before giving your small kitchen another look around. “I don’t know what I have in the way of groceries or—”

“There’s an order on the way,” Joe says casually as he turns back to the dishes. “You should go relax. Just pretend I’m not here.”

You stare at his back for a moment before you shake your head and retreat to the living room. You contemplate his insane suggestion for three whole seconds before you disregard it and turn on the TV. You can’t pretend Joe isn’t around—even if you tried.

You’ve spent enough time trying to know it’s impossible.

And you’re right. He’s impossible to ignore, but he somehow manages to not get in your way the rest of the afternoon. You fold your clothes when they come out of the laundry—the thought of him touching all your underwear a second time is unappetizing, and you’ve never seen any hard evidence that he knows how to fold anything—and he takes two work calls out on your balcony while you watch an embarrassing number of episodes of Forensic Files.

The groceries arrive and he puts everything away in all the wrong places, so you wait until his phone rings a third time to set everything right. If he notices your reorganization when he returns, he doesn’t say anything.

The whole day is quiet and weird and unnaturally domestic. Like two strangers playing house.

Two strangers who’ve spent nearly every day of the last two and a half years together.

It’s later when you finally call home. You have it all planned out—everything you’re going to say, how you’re going to explain what happened and why, how you’re going to make sure your mother knows it was an accident and that it will never happen again.

But something happens when you connect the call. Your mother answers on the third ring and she sounds so normal and happy. Through the usual introductory small talk, you can hear Peter laughing at something one of the boys is saying and all the pleasant chaos that is always waiting for you when you finally get to come home.

“Hazel?” your mother’s voice pulls you out of your head and you feel a little of the pressure in your chest release. “Baby, are you alright?”

“Um, yeah,” you cough lightly. “I’m fine.”

“How’d that meeting go,” she asks. “The one about the US tour?”

“It was okay,” you shrug even though she can’t see you. That’s technically true. The meeting itself was okay—it was just the aftermath that almost killed you. “Not sure it’s the right fit for me.”

Also true.

“It wasn’t a Christian rock band, was it?”

“Oh, God no,” you laugh at the brief dip of disdain in her voice. “No, it wasn’t the band, just…” You trail off and absently twirl a lock of your hair between your fingers. “I don’t know. I didn’t love the terms.”

“Well, I’m sure something will come up,” she says pleasantly, but with that note of concern you can still hear. “Do you need anything in the meantime?” she asks. “Groceries or—”

“I’m good, Mom,” you cut her off with a smile. “I, uh, I just got groceries today, actually.” Another tally in the truth column, you think wryly. Although the amount of food Joe ordered to fill your fridge and cabinets is about twice what you would have ordered for yourself, but you’re not complaining. And judging by the savory aromas filling your apartment, he’s clearly putting whatever he bought to good use.

“Okay,” she agrees. There’s another moment of quiet before she speaks again. “Honey, is there something—” Before she can finish the question, she’s cut off by a crash on her end, followed by a shriek and then the sound of someone—probably Hugo—bursting into tears. “Oh, Jesus,” she mutters, turning away from the phone. “Peter! What happened? Is everyone okay?”

You can’t hear what your stepfather says, but you’re almost certain everyone is okay, because he’d never let anything happen to anyone if he can help it. Still, whatever low-level calamity has befallen your foster siblings has served up the perfect excuse to get off the phone and regroup your thoughts. “I think I should probably let you go,” you say. “Sounds like you’re needed.”

“Okay,” she says again, speaking over the wailing. “But will you call me this week, please?”

“Of course,” you promise. And you will. You just don’t know what you’re going to say when you do. Again, the memory of your hospital visit, and thoughts of what almost happened rise too quickly in your mind and it’s hard to breathe. “I love you, Mom,” you tell her. “Give everyone a hug and kiss for me.”

“You know I will,” she says, and you can hear her getting up from her chair in the living room. “We love you so much,” she reminds you before you hang up.

You’re staring at the TV that you still have muted when Joe leans in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. You’re watching a talking head DNA specialist silently spout a bunch of jargon. It’s probably really impressive, you decide, not moving to unmute. She looks like she knows what she’s talking about. You blink to break your own trance and move your eyes over to him. “What’s up?”

“I—uh—” he crosses his arms and then uncrosses them. “Should I have called your mum?” he asks. “When you were in hospital, I mean? I didn’t even think about it.”

“Oh,” you pause with a thoughtful frown. “Uh, no,” you decide after a moment, shaking your head. “No, that—that’s probably better that you didn’t. She wouldn’t have been able to do anything, anyway, and that would have made her crazy, and anyway, I don’t…”

He lifts his brow as you trail off. “You don’t want her to know what happened?”

“It’s not that,” you shake your head again. “I just don’t want to tell her over the phone. If she can’t see me and touch me and make sure I’m okay, there’d be nothing stopping her from getting on a plane and coming here without thinking.”

His lips slide slightly to the right. “And that’s bad?”

“That’s inconvenient,” you correct. “She has too much going on at home to be worrying about me all the way over here.” Joe’s response is just a look of deeper curiosity, and you sigh quietly. “She has a full load of counseling clients and four foster kids to keep track of,” you say with a roll of your shoulder. “She’s busy. And it was a stupid accident that’s never going to happen again, and it’ll go better if I can tell her the whole story in person.”

You don’t want to think about when that might be. You don’t want to think about how not knowing when you’re going to see your family again—and how you haven’t known for way too long—makes your heart hurt.

He looks like he wants to say something about your assessment of what your mother probably would and wouldn’t consider convenient when it comes to caring for her daughter, but as he crosses the room and perches on the edge of the armchair, all he says is, “Foster kids?”

You nod. “Just like me.” He raises his brow in surprise a second time. “Technically, I was a foster fail,” you say with a grin.

He smiles back. “I didn’t know you were adopted,” he says quietly.

What you don’t know about me could fill a library, you consider saying in response to that. But that feels mean and underserved, given the last few days.

“Yeah,” you say instead. “I was in a few different foster homes until I was five. I don’t really remember too much of that. But then I went to live with Jenny and Chris and all of a sudden, I had parents.” Parents who didn’t care that your skin was a different color than theirs. Parents who seemed to have been waiting for you to arrive for much longer than you could have imagined at the age of five. Parents that gave you your own room and told you that they would paint the walls whatever color you wanted, and made sure you ended every day with a full belly and a kiss goodnight.

You shrug, not wanting to give away the memory you can still easily conjure of the two of them taking you out for a banana split and how they seemed almost nervous when they asked you if you’d like to stay with them forever. How you’d set down your spoon and asked, ‘You mean I wouldn’t have to leave? I’d be a Donovan too?’ Before that, you’d been Hazel Andrews—named only for the color of your eyes by the nurse at St. Andrews hospital in Lynwood before she handed you over to social services. “They were the first people who ever loved me on purpose.”

Joe’s eyes drop to the carpet and his smile softens thoughtfully. “On purpose,” he repeats.

“I mean, I’m sure my biological mother—whoever she was—felt some kind of hormonal attachment to me,” you go on with a shrug. You’ve thought of this plenty of times in your life—about this woman you’ll never know. No real name, no records of any kind, no trace of where she went after you were born. How she must have cared about you a little bit to leave you in the hospital rather than somewhere unsafe. “And I guess there’s something to be said for blood relations being the ties that bind or whatever, but…I don’t know. I always felt extra special knowing that they chose to love me.”

“Are you still close with your dad?” he asks, sliding from the arm into the seat of the chair. “I’ve heard you mention your stepdad, but—”

“Oh,” you shake your head slightly. “No, he—uh—he died when I was ten.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you roll a shoulder. “It was a car accident,” you add because that’s what everyone is always secretly wondering when they hear someone’s passed, isn’t it? “Everyone said it was quick.” You don’t know if that’s true, but you have to believe it. It was certainly quick for you. One minute you had a dad, and in the span of a single phone call, you didn’t.

You can still remember the night after the accident, too, wide awake in bed thinking that the bubble had finally popped. That your mother was going to come in any moment and tell you that this had been a mistake—that without her husband around, there was no way she was going to be able to take care of you.

And she had come in and whispered your name in the doorway while you pretended to be asleep. But it was only to crawl into bed with you so she could wrap her arms around you and press kisses to your hair, and tell you everything was going to be okay, even if she didn’t know how.

“Really, though,” you lift your tone to make it clear that you’re not going to be wallowing in a retelling of the sadder chapters of your life, “I hit the parental jackpot twice. Once with my parents and then again with my stepdad.”

“Yeah?” Joe asks. “He’s a good guy?”

“Oh, he’s the best,” you assure him. “Total dweeb. He was everyone’s favorite history teacher at my high school.”

He smiles again and suddenly it feels weird to be telling him all this. He’s never asked, and you’ve never offered any details about your family in all the time you worked for him. Talking about it now feels too intimate. Too revealing. Like you’re talking too much on a first date.

You shake your head, pushing that thought to the bottom of the bin, and clear your throat. “Okay, so I can’t pretend I’m not noticing this anymore,” you say abruptly. “What are you cooking? It smells amazing.”

Joe’s grin widens and, not for the first time, you think those dimples oughtta come with a warning label. “It’s chicken and leek pie,” he says as he gets up. “Are you hungry?”

You haven’t been hungry since you left the hospital. Your doctors had told you that you’d likely feel pretty awful for the next few days, but that your appetite returning would be a good sign.

And after smelling roasted chicken and vegetables for the last hour, you’re starving.

The dinner Joe cooked is impossibly good. Rich and savory, warm and filling—like a hug in every bite. It’s perfect comfort food.

You spend the rest of the evening trying to keep your eyes open while you sit on one side of the couch and Joe sits on the other. He reads a book lousy with Post-It note bookmarks, and you try to follow the plot of an older Guillermo del Toro film that you know you’ve seen before.

At one point, Joe looks up at the screen and glances over with a smile. “Do you speak Spanish?”

You move your hand back and forth. “Not like…speak it, speak it.”

“Do you…‘speak it speak it’ enough to be watching this without subtitles?”

You push your glasses up on your nose again and frown. “I thought I could, but I guess not. Do you know who the creepy kid in the mask was supposed to be?”

He shakes his head. “I haven’t been paying attention,” he admits. “And I wouldn’t be able to understand it if I had been.”

You let out a sigh and reach for the remote. “To start over with subtitles or—”

“Why don’t you go to sleep,” he suggests gently. “You’ve been nodding off like my mum for the last hour.”

“Shut up,” you mumble good-naturedly, although you’re already moving to get up off the couch. “Can you, um—”

“Yeah,” he nods and waves you off. “I’ll clean up.”

You’re more exhausted than you thought you’d be after a day of doing almost nothing. By the time you realize that you’d been about to ask Joe if he could remember to lock the door when he leaves, you’re already asleep.

The thing is, Joe doesn’t lock the door when he leaves. Because he doesn’t leave. You wake up the next morning to sounds coming from your kitchen and the sweet aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

The blanket you usually keep folded over the back of the armchair is in a pile at one end of the couch and you notice something you hadn’t caught yesterday: a black bag tucked between the chair and the little table beside it. It’s open enough to see one of Joe’s sweatshirts and a rolled pair of socks.

You stand in the doorway to the kitchen again, waiting until he’s poured a cup of black coffee before you speak. “You’re…still here.”

He gives a little jump and turns around. “Still having difficulty with this three-to-five days of monitoring directive, aren’t you?”

You open and close your mouth once before trying again. “This seems excessive.”

“Well,” he turns back to the counter and opens the cabinet where you keep your coffee mugs. “Some might consider mixing a mouthful of Xanax with stomach full of vodka for someone who rarely does either excessive too.” He pours you a cup of coffee, leaving room for you to add your flavored creamer and hands it to you. “So at least we’re adhering to the theme.”

You take the coffee and open the fridge. You peel the aluminum foil seal from your new bottle of hazelnut creamer and pour in a teaspoon’s worth before you put it back and sit down at your small table. “You must have something you need to do other than babysit me for the next two days.”

“Nope,” he shakes his head once before he sips his coffee, fighting a smile. “You might as well just accept it,” he says. “I can be quite annoying when I want to be.”

“You can be quite annoying even when you don’t want to be,” you mutter.

He waits until you’ve had a few more sips from your mug before he asks, “Really, though, how are you feeling?”

Your first instinct is to say you’re fine, brush off his concern and get him to see that you don’t need this bizarre caregiver routine. But you’ve spent too much of your life lying about how fine you are, and an equal amount of time trying to get Joe to do something he doesn’t want to do. “Um, honestly?” you set down your coffee. “Still pretty awful.”

“Yeah?”

“Not as…fuzzy as yesterday,” you say, absently rubbing your temple. “But the vertigo is still on the coming half of coming and going. It’s basically the hangover from hell.” You push your hands through your hair and feel how greasy it’s become. A nurse supervised your shower at the hospital, but that was three days ago. “And I really want to wash my hair.”

Joe’s head tilts slightly to the left. “Is there some reason you can’t?”

You rub your eyes this time, knocking your glasses askew in the process. “Moderately concerned I might black out in the shower,” you confess. You hadn’t told the hospital staff because you’d just wanted to go home, but the heat and the steam from the ensuite shower had made you lightheaded and woozy. You’d been white knuckling the assistance bar the whole time hoping your chaperone didn’t notice.

When you open your eyes again, Joe still looks confused. “You don’t have to worry,” he says with a roll of his shoulder. “I can—”

“You are not accompanying me to the shower, Joseph,” you cut him off firmly. “My lowest point can only get so low.”

He snorts, trying to stifle a laugh. “I was going to say that I can keep an ear out if you just want to leave the door cracked. Make sure I don’t hear any kind of life-threatening crash while you’re in there.” He sips his coffee again. “Though I can’t say it’s not interesting, knowing that’s where your mind immediately went—”

“Okay, shut up,” you whine as you feel your cheeks turn pink against your will. “I almost scrambled my brains a few nights ago. The jury will disregard.”

“The jury may disregard,” he concedes. “But it can’t be stricken from the record.”

You survive your shower without incident and with the door never opening more than the few inches you’d left it, just in case. Afterwards, you pull your wonderfully clean hair up and into a messy bun before accepting Joe’s invitation for a walk around the closest park, citing fresh air and exercise as a way to feel a little better.

Regrettably, he’s right, and even though you don’t walk very fast, getting your heart pumping and movement and motion back into your muscles feels like the healthiest choice you’ve made in a long time.

“So…are we going to talk about it?” Joe asks after a long stretch of what you had thought was almost companionable silence.

“Talk about what?”

“Hazel…”

You roll your eyes and keep walking, not looking at him. “Look, if you’re about to give me some lecture about the dangers of taking recreational drugs, I’m going to hand you a mirror and tell you to fuck off to the tune of ‘you of all people.’”

“I wasn’t going to lecture you,” he says quietly, cutting his strides in half to keep pace with you. “And I know that whole Xanax thing was an accident.”

“Then what do we need to talk about?”

“I was more worried about the nutrient and vitamin deficiency they saw in your blood work,” he answers. “Or the fact that it seems like you’ve been coasting on a wave of permanent dehydration—”

You sigh. “They shouldn’t have told you any of that.”

“Well, maybe you should have been conscious to tell them that,” he counters. “Doctors tend to share this shit when the person you bring in almost dies.” He clears his throat. “And I’m still your emergency contact.”

Your brow furrows. “You are?”

“According to the records,” he shrugs. “Me and Vic. So…they would have called me anyway.”

“Shit,” you mutter. “Guess I need to change that.”

“Are you going to address any of the other stuff?”

“What do you want me to say, Joe?” you ask, stopping to turn to him. “I was just out on the road with a bunch of teenagers for six weeks. Of course I wasn’t eating right, or drinking enough water, or getting enough sleep. I didn’t expect any of that to land me in a hospital.”

“It’s just…” The corners of his lips dip into a thoughtful frown. “I don’t know. That surprised me. I always thought you took really good care of yourself.”

You look up at him and resist the urge to tilt your head to one side. “Why did you think that?”

He moves a shoulder again. “You never took a sick day.”

You cough up a dry laugh. “I never took a sick day because I never had time to take a sick day. Following you around with a broom and dustpan was a full-time commitment. I’d just load up on Vitamin C and cough drops, and muscle through whatever was wrong.”

He still looks pensive, his dark eyes drawn to the ground between your feet. “I didn’t…notice that,” he says after a moment.

“Yeah, well,” you shake your head and start to walk again. “You didn’t notice much.”

It feels like a long time, but you only manage to pass two park benches on the walking trail before Joe speaks again. “And the Xanax…?”

“What about it?” you ask, pointedly keeping your eyes forward. “I thought you said you knew it was an accident.”

“Yeah, no,” he agrees. “I know that. I just…” he stops again and reaches for your hand to keep you from moving on without him. “I get that you weren’t trying to overdose. But…what were you trying to do?”

You pull your hand back from his slowly and tuck it into the pocket of your sweatshirt. You don’t look at him. “I don’t know.”

“Me of all people,” he says with a scoff.

That gets your attention. “What?”

“You’re going to lie to me, of all people, about this?”

You roll your eyes again. “I just…” your chest rises and falls with a heavy exhale. “I was tired of being me,” you admit. “I wanted a vacation from myself, and I figured,” you shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I figured if everyone else could do it, why couldn’t I?” You let out another mirthless laugh. “Joke’s on me, I guess.”

When you look up, the lines on his brow have deepened. “Any of that because you saw me looking for you?”

“Probably,” you say, not caring that it’s obvious you want to say ‘yes’. “It was a lot of other stuff, too,” you add. “I’d just spent all this time with these kids half my age and I felt like a fucking fossil and then I was just going to turn around and do it all over again with another band and…” you sigh. “Yeah, I was mad at you. And I wanted to get away from you, and from me, and from all that shit I don’t want to look at because I still don’t know what to do with it.” You glance up once and feel a rush of irritation and confusion at everything the concerned look on his face brings up. “Just forget about it,” you say, shaking your head. “I’m tired and I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m going back.”

You aren’t all that tired, but you head for your bedroom anyway and close the door once you’re home. You flop down on your bed and try not to think about how you’d been so sure Joe would follow you to keep picking at the same scab of a conversation you don’t want to have…

…and how disappointed you are that he let you go without a fight.

You didn’t think you were tired, but you end up sleeping away most of the day anyway—your eyes fall closed, and Nancy Drew and the Sign of the Twisted Candles drops from your hand before you even realize what is happening. When you wake, the light in the room has shifted to that muted blue gray of late afternoon and you can hear the unmistakable sounds of someone moving around the front half of your flat.

Joe might not have followed right on your heels, but he had followed you home eventually. You sit up with a quiet groan and wait for the fuzziness to fade before you try to stand.

The bathroom door is closed when you walk past, and you can hear the sound of the shower running. There’s music coming from his phone, but you can’t make out the song or the band.

And let’s be honest, you wouldn’t have been a fan of either if you’d been able to identify them.

With your book and a steaming cup of tea, you move out onto the balcony and try to lose yourself in the misty nostalgia of River Heights in the 1930s and what a swell girl detective that Nancy Drew is. You almost succeed until the door slides open and Joe sits down in the other chair.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, not waiting for you to look up from your book.

But you do look up and push your glasses back up your nose. “What?”

“Sorry,” he says again. “About…” his hand waves towards the Common. “Before. It’s none of my business what’s been going on with you,” he says. “Unless you want to tell me. I—uh—” he sniffs once and swipes beneath his nose. “I shouldn’t have pushed like that.”

You place your bookmark between the pages and close the book. “No,” you say finally, wrapping your hands around your mug to warm up. “You shouldn’t have.” You take a sip of your tea and let the steam warm your nose before you set it down atop your book. “But I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful,” you say after another long moment. “For what you did.”

He frowns. “You don’t have to—”

“No,” you repeat yourself. “I do. You saved my life, Joe,” you remind him—and yourself—gently. “Even while I was saying some pretty awful things—”

“True things,” he concedes with a nod. “Anyway, it seemed the least I could do,” he goes on. “Once I found out that I’d stolen your youth.”

When you look up, he’s raised his gaze and offers you a little smile that you can’t help but return. “Yeah,” you move your head to one side and then the other in consideration. “There were probably less dramatic ways I could have made that point.”

“No, no,” he shakes his head. “It was brilliant. And quite effective. Hurling abuse at someone and then going completely unconscious before they can get a word in to defend themselves? Excellent tactic.” You pull your foot up onto the seat with you to wrap your arms around your leg in a little hug. Unable to keep from studying the man sitting across from you, you find yourself fixating a little too much on the line of his jaw—more noticeable with his five o’clock shadow—and the tendon on the side of his neck. After a moment, his brow furrows, and he looks back at you. “What?” he asks with a slightly self-conscious smile.

“Nothing,” you shake your head, snapping out of your daze. “This just might be the first time I’ve heard you apologize,” you say, realizing it as you’re saying it. “For anything. Like, really apologize, not just your constant British contrition.”

“Well,” he rolls a shoulder and looks down again, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “Even a broken clock and all that.”

You let out a little hum of amusement and sip your tea. “Are you going to cook dinner again?”

“I was planning on it,” he says, his tone a little lighter now that you’ve changed the subject. “Why? You want to help this time? Freeloader.”

You snort. “Yeah, I wanna help. What are we making?”

“How about some…pasta?”

“Yes.”

He leans back in the chair and looks up, seeming to think it over. “With some…buttery, garlicky shrimp?”

“Also, yes.”

“Maybe we throw some veg in there? Spinach, red pepper, that kinda thing?”

“Love it.”

“Good,” he nods once and gets to his feet. “Come on; you can peel the garlic.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Why is that my job?”

“Because I’m doing the rest of the jobs,” he says, holding open the door, motioning for you to go back inside first. “And I fuckin’ hate peeling garlic.”

This dinner is just as delicious as last night’s. Joe somehow makes the garlic butter into more than the sum of its parts. It’s thicker, silkier, and more like a sauce than the disappointing puddle at the bottom of the dish that you always end up with.

“You turning the subtitles on this time?” he asks when he finds you on the couch with the remote. The dishes are in the drying rack, and the kitchen is as clean as you usually keep it.

You glance up from your digital navigation with a smile. “Different genre,” you say before pressing play on Raising Arizona. “Hope you’re in the mood for a comedy.”

“Always,” he says easily and drops down onto the opposite end of the sofa, not bothering to pick up the book he’d been reading the night before.

It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve seen this movie—it’s always going to be one of your favorites. You can probably recite it from memory by now, but nothing will ever keep you from cracking up when Holly Hunter bursts into tears while holding her freshly stolen baby boy.

“I love him so muh-huh-huch!”

You’re still giggling when the scene fades into the next; when you glance over to the other side of the couch, Joe is grinning, too. Only he’s not looking at the TV. You resist the urge to feel self-conscious. “Are you laughing at my deeply unattractive cackling?”

“No, I was just—” He shakes his head. “Trying to remember the last time I heard you laugh like that.”

You shrug like that observation didn’t just hit you like a chair to the back. “Hasn’t been that much to laugh about lately,” you say quietly.

“S’pose there hasn’t,” he concedes with a nod.

He doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the movie, and although you can hear him laughing at all the right parts, you don’t look over at him again. It’s not until you’ve set the remote down and returned to the living room with a full glass of water that he says, “I think it was Nashville.”

You stop and tilt your head to one side. “What?”

“Last time I heard you—” Joe stops and seems to reconsider his sentence. “Never mind.”

You press your lips together and wish you were the kind of person who could forget things. Forget anything when it came to him. And especially forget the night he’s talking about. “When we went out after the convention?” you ask because you’re not someone who forgets things. And you’ve tried too many times to purge that particular memory.

Back when Joe had still been doing the occasional comic con appearance with his Stranger Things castmates. When you found yourself behind the wheel of your college roommate’s Outback, driving Joe, Jamie, and Grace to meet up with your friends at a spot downtown. When Jamie had been pawing through Elizabeth’s ancient CD wallet and leaned forward with a disc labeled with  Sharpie. Put this on, love. I just need to feel something.

When the sound of Dashboard Confessional filled the air, and you found yourself joining in as the whole car crooned out the lyrics to ‘Hands Down’ like you were at a middle school dance, and it was still the greatest song in the world.

Which, well, let’s be real, it kinda is, right?

And you stood at your door with your hands on my waist

And you kissed me like you meant it

Back in your living room, Joe smiles. “Yeah. When your friend—” his lips dip in contemplation. “Rachel? Rebecca?”

You snort. “Taylor?”

He snaps his fingers. “I was close.”

“In the sense that you were saying women’s names,” you say, choosing to perch on the arm of the chair rather than reclaim your seat next to him on the couch. “Taylor is the one who taught you how to dance.”

And gosh darn it, we didn’t think there would be time for any more flashbacks in this little saga, but we’ve gotta do it. You can’t be trusted to remember this right. We’ve gotta do a full flashback.

Crossfade back a few years to the country bar in downtown Nashville, where Taylor still works as a dancer and instructor.

You were sitting at a table closer to the back, catching up with your old college friends, keeping one eye on the dance floor. Jamie had been entertaining a revolving door of dance partners almost since he’d walked in. As if he’d been born in a honky-tonk, he had no trouble falling right into step with the rest of the dancers, picking up all the classic steps with alarming ease.

Joe was not quite so light on his feet. You’d watched him try to gracefully bow out after stepping on Taylor’s toes more than once as she tried to teach him a basic two-step. But she was persistent—and very good at her job—and as Shania faded into Reba McEntire, you couldn’t help but notice that he was starting to get the hang of it.

“I can’t believe this is your job now,” Elizabeth said, shaking her head as she motioned to your charge and his friends in the center of the room. “You just follow him around all day doing whatever he tells you?”

“That’s an oversimplification,” you say, although it really isn’t. “And if you’re about to lecture me about wasting my education—”

“Oh please,” she interrupted, waving her hand. “None of us are exactly living up to the bright future Cornelius Vanderbilt promised, are we?” she reminded you. “Taylor’s a professional line dancer, Calla’s a trophy wife, and I serve coffee off the back of a truck. You hanging out with some famous guy fulfilling his every need is hardly the biggest disappointment the alumni newsletter could report on.”

“Mmm, but the way you’re saying that,” you said around a maraschino cherry. “Kinda makes me sound like an escort.”

“Depends on what kind of needs you’re meeting,” your friend replied with a wicked grin.

“The entirely professional kind,” you assured her with a look. “Trust me, I’m not his type, even if I didn’t work for him. I mean, he’s not my type,” you corrected yourself quickly before you shook your head. “There’s a type problem somewhere, regardless of my employment status.”

Elizabeth didn’t look convinced as she finished her drink and pushed back her chair. “You want another?” she asked, pointing to your glass. “My treat.”

“No,” you put your hand over the rim of the glass. “Thank you. I’m good.” You were technically working. And if you were getting tripped up on stupid things like who was or wasn’t someone’s type, it was definitely time to stop drinking.

Your former roommate stood and was about to leave when a shadow passed over the table. You looked up, surprised to find Joe standing beside your chair with his hand extended to you. “C’mon.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“Come dance,” he said, beckoning you to stand with a twitch of his fingers. “If I’m out there making an ass of myself, you at least have to join me.”

Your mouth opened and closed again. You shot a quick, guilty glance at Elizabeth. “Joe, I don’t—”

“I’m going for refills,” Elizabeth said abruptly. “But you should dance, Hazy,” she added with another grin. “Keep meeting those entirely professional needs.”

You let out a sigh and took his hand, allowing him to pull you up while he ignored your half-hearted protests. “What if someone recognizes you?”

“Then I shall turn my honey badger of an assistant loose on them so you can tackle them to the ground and demand they delete whatever embarrassing photo or video they took,” he answered smoothly as you reached the dancefloor.

You had laughed at that and let him turn to face you, wrapping one hand around your back while holding the other up like the other pairs of dancers. “I’m not actually very good at this,” you warned, trying not to think about how good he looked, backlit in the colorful lights, a little flushed and happy.

“Well, I’m not actually any good at this,” he countered. “So, it should be a proper mess.”

“Taylor!” you’d called to your friend when you saw her making her way over. “Taylor, tell him how clumsy I am,” you insisted, even as you moved your feet so Joe could slide one between them.

Taylor had stopped and shaken her head. Her springy, auburn curls bounced around her face to the sound of her laughter. “No, ma’am, I will not!” she warned before she put one hand on your shoulder and the other on Joe’s. “Get closer,” she instructed, pushing the two of you into each other’s personal space. “Good,” she’d nodded once. “Now, I’m gonna tell you what I tell everyone else who says they can’t dance,” she’d looked from you to Joe and back again. “And that is that dancin’ is nothing but a conversation between two people. So, go on,” she gave you another gentle shove until your chest bumped against Joe’s. “Talk to each other.”

When you look up from the dark spot you’d never noticed in your carpet, Joe is standing again. “You still remember how?”

You blink. “Remember how to what? Two-step?”

“Yeah,” he smiles.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe?”

“Good,” he holds out his hand. “Come on.”

Your eyes widen. “What? Dance with you? Right now?”

“No, dance with Barry Keoghan next Thursday,” he replies with a little laugh. “Come on,” he says again. “It’ll be good for you.”

You don’t see how it could possibly be good for you, but you find yourself taking his hand again. You nudge the coffee table closer to the couch before you set your water glass down. “Joe,” you let out a breath as he pulls you to the center of the room. “I don’t think I can dance anymore.”

“You didn’t think you could last time, either,” he reminds you before he reaches into his pocket and finds some danceable music on his phone. “But we managed then, didn’t we?”

You bite your bottom lip and nod. “Yeah, I guess we did.”

Go on, Taylor’s voice comes back to ring in your ears. Talk to each other.

“And if it helps feel like you’re doing something professional, you workaholic,” he goes on as he tosses his phone onto the couch and sets his other hand in the middle of your back to pull you closer. “They want me to play a cowboy next year. So this is basically character work.”

You laugh despite the nervous fluttering in your belly at having him stand so close again. “You’re going to be a cowboy?”

“That’s what they tell me,” He moves a shoulder in a shrug.  

“Alright,” you concede even though you’re already up, already standing in his arms, waiting for him to move so you can follow. “In the spirit of professional development.”

Lucky for you—for both of you, really—the two-step is one of the easiest dances in the world to learn. And it’s even easier to remember. Right foot-left foot—quick-quick—slow-slow. Around the room counterclockwise.

“You’re doing fine,” Joe assures you when you’re about to glance down to check your footing. “Don’t look at your feet.”

“You must have done this more than me in recent years,” you say, unable to do much of anything but look up into his face while your feet took care of themselves.

“Maybe once or twice,” he smiles again and surprises you by taking a step away from you to cross your arms overhead and turn your two-stepping into a little promenade with his arm around your shoulder before he spins you back around.

“Okay, now you’re just showing off,” you can’t help but laugh.

“Nah, that wasn’t showing off,” he shakes his head. “If I wanted to show off, I’d do this.” Before you can say another word, Joe drags you in close and keeps his arm around your lower back, holding you tighter so he can drop you into an unexpected dip.

You have no control over the squeal you let out or the giggles that follow when he pulls you back up and spins you out again. Your feet get a little tangled when he goes to bring you back, and instead of smoothly returning to your starting position, you end up crashing directly into his chest.

“Sorry,” you breathe when you realize his arms are still around you, keeping you closer than you need to be. “You’re—uh—you’re better at this than I am.”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” he says, his voice a little lower than it had been a moment ago.

Your hands are still on his chest where they planted when you tried to catch yourself. Your fingers stretch a little farther, sealing more of your palm over the fabric of his t-shirt. You should step back. You know you should step back. Put enough space between you so that you can breathe again and stop thinking what you’re thinking.

About how confusing it is that he smells like he always does—but he smells like you, too. Your soap and shampoo. A mix of familiar and thrilling. About how easy it would be to slide your hands the rest of the way up his chest and lace your fingers at the back of his neck. About how it would feel to pull him down and seal his lips to yours. About the traitorous little voice whispering in your ear, You could. You don’t work for him anymore.

The song fades and is immediately replaced by an unmistakable humming buzz. The sound of an incoming call vibrates Joe’s phone against the couch cushions. You swallow hard and push gently against him. “You should get that,” you say, wishing your voice hadn’t come out quite so hoarse.

“Yeah,” he nods and lets you go completely, stepping back to give you space. “Sorry, I’ll just—” he motions to the balcony.

“No, it’s fine,” you shake your head. “Wherever.”

You wait until he’s turned back to retrieve his device before you make a beeline for the bathroom. The door clicks shut, and you lean your back against it, forcing a deep breath in and out. You could lie to yourself and say that the flush on your cheeks is from dancing—but one look in the mirror assures you that no one would buy that. Not even the side of yourself you lie to.

Under the sound of the running water, you stare at your reflection and whisper out loud to yourself, “We’re not doing this.” You’re not. No matter how good it’s felt to be around Joe these last few days, no matter how different he’s been, no matter how he made your heart race just by pulling you in closer—

No.

Nope.

It’s not happening.

You keep the water running and decide to at least brush your teeth while you’re in here. The clothes you sleep in are still hanging on the back of the door from your shower this morning, so you pull those on, too, and run a brush through your hair before twisting it back up into another bun.

By the time you force yourself to stop hiding and open the door, Joe has finished his conversation. You’re expecting to see that he’s gotten himself a drink or tapping a cigarette from the pack to smoke out on the balcony.

But he’s sitting in the center of the sofa, one hand rubbing his temples and looking very, very tired.

You pause in the doorway and bite your bottom lip. “Everything okay?”

He looks up and gives you the fastest, fakest smile you’ve ever seen. “Fine,” he says quickly. “Just…”

“About to make up a lie to get me to leave you alone?” you guess as you come into the room.

The next twitch of his mouth is sadder but more genuine. “I don’t want you to leave me alone, Hazel,” he says quietly. “That’s part of the problem.”

Your brow furrows with a frown. “Who was on the phone?”

“Vic,” he shrugs, glancing over to where he’d dropped it almost between the couch cushions. “She just wanted to know where I’ve been the last few days. I didn’t tell her,” he says before you can ask. “Nothing about you, I mean.”

You nod. “Thank you,” you say and tentatively hang back, closer to the wall, as you study him. “What am I missing here?”

He shakes his head. “She—uh—she asked if I’d heard from you,” he says after a moment. “Just got me thinking. Sent me down a bit of a spiral, I guess.” He sniffs and clears his throat. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

“Thinking about what?”

Joe is quiet for what feels like a long time before his throat moves as he swallows. “‘Bout how I thought I’d lost you.”

The corners of your mouth dip as you resist the urge to sigh. “But you didn’t,” you remind him. “I’m okay—thanks to you—and—”

“I mean before,” he cuts you off. “When you quit.” You don’t have anything to say to that; Joe waits as your mouth opens once and closes again. “I’ve felt like I’m this close to coming apart at the seams for so long,” he says, looking down to rub his eyes again. “And since that day at Vic’s office, I—I don’t know—it’s all felt like such a fucking mess.”

It feels like someone is standing on your chest the longer you look at him, trying to figure out how someone could look so old and tired and so young and lost all at once. It’s a last-ditch effort to get him to smile when you force your tone to lighten and say, “I sort of naturally assumed you’d be lost without me, but—”

“I am lost without you,” he looks up, too serious to allow you to keep trying to joke your way out of this conversation.

“Joe…”

“I know it’s the wrong thing to say,” he continues, dropping his head again. “But you’ve always sort of been the canary, Haze. You know? Like I couldn’t be that much of a bastard if you still wanted to be around me. But then…” he sighs and runs a hand over his face. “Then I managed to chase you off too, and everything just keeps getting messier and more fucked up because of it, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

You swallow hard around your suddenly dry throat. “I think you just forgot who you are.”

“Then remind me,” he implores, lifting his chin to meet your eyes again.

You’re already shaking your head as you move closer to the sofa. “Oh, no. Even if I still worked for you, that wouldn’t be my job.” You inhale steadily and sit down on the coffee table, letting your knees touch his. “I can tell you who you were, though.”

The edges of his lips ticked upward for just a second. “If you’re about to say Eddie fucking Munson—”

“I’m not talking about Eddie Munson,” you cut him off gently. “I’m talking about my friend Joe. My friend Joe who was so grateful for the opportunities he’d been given. Who remembered what it was like to be nobody and did everything he could to make sure the people who got him where he was knew how much he appreciated and cared about them.” You want more than anything to reach out your hand and run your nails over his cropped hair and pull his attention back up so he can see how much you mean what you’re saying. But saying this out loud, remembering the person he used to be, is harder than you thought—so maybe it’s easier not to have him looking at you. “He was kind,” you say and try to clear away the ragged edge of your voice as you continue. “And sweet. Even when it was difficult. Even when he was exhausted and kind of miserable, and people got too frenzied and demanded too much from him, which was—let’s face it—a not small percent of the time.”

You inhale and let it out slowly, wondering if any of this was sinking in or reaching him at all. But he wasn’t stopping you, so you kept going.

“He had this way of making people feel…I don’t know. Not just special. Any decent liar can do that,” you conceded. “But…cared for. Important. Even if it was just for a minute.” You swallow again, trying not to think about how true that was. How he used to make you feel like you had his full attention every time you spoke to him. “That’s what made him special,” you say softly. “Not his money, or his famous friends, or his resume. He didn’t seem to care about being great, y’know? And that freed him up to be good.” You bite your bottom lip for a moment, forcing down the lump that’s risen in your throat. “And he was, Joe. He was really good. And that’s the guy I f—” You stop yourself abruptly and almost cover your mouth at the words that were about to slip out.

That’s the guy I fell in love with.

Joe looks up slowly. His brow furrowed just enough to assure you that he had heard that treacherous little letter that almost ruined everything.

You cough lightly, a fist to your mouth, and shake your head. “That’s the guy everyone fell in love with.”

He looks at you for a long, charged moment, seeming to dare you to keep talking—to go back and say what you meant.

But you’re not going to. You’ve spent nearly three years not even admitting that to yourself—you’re in no position to blurt it out now.

He breaks first, letting his head drop down again with another heavy sigh. “I don’t think that guy exists anymore,” he says quietly. “If he ever did in the first place.”

“No, he did,” you assure him. “You’re a good actor,” you say, giving his knee a little nudge. “But you can’t fake that kind of authenticity. This persona you’ve been hiding behind? That’s the performance. You can stop that any time you want.”

“How do you know that?” he asks.

You smile. “Did you forget that you happen to be talking to one of the only people who knows just about everything there is to know about you? I know your parent’s anniversaries, and all your measurements, and where you went to primary school, and which lines on your forehead they aren’t allowed Botox because they’re a trademark.” You duck your head and force him to meet your eyes this time. “If I know all that, can’t you trust that I know what I’m talking about here?” He smiles just a little, and your heart swells. “And even if I didn’t know any of that, the fact that I’m still alive to be giving you this little pep talk is a pretty good indication that the guy I knew is still in there somewhere.”

Joe avoids your gaze as he nods and sniffs once before swiping under his nose and blinking quickly. “Surely not…all my measurements,” he says finally.

You lift your brow, grateful for the broken tension. “You want to test that theory?”

He inhales sharply and purses his lips. “No, best not,” he says. “My ego can only take so much.”

You snort as you stand up from the coffee table. “Thought so.”

“You going to bed?” he asks, looking at the clock. It’s nearly eleven, and you can’t figure out where the day went.

“Yeah,” you nod, stretch your arms overhead, and speak before you can talk yourself out of it. “You don’t…have to stay on the couch.”

He shakes his head immediately. “I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow if you want, but I promised your doctor that I’d—”

“I mean, you don’t have to sleep on the couch,” you interrupt him, hoping your tone doesn’t give away the spike of your heartbeat. “It’s…absolute garbage, and more than one night on it is going to really fuck up your back.” You hold out your hand to pull him up. “My bed is more than big enough for two people. Just—” You twitch your fingers. “Come on. I’m trying to be nice.”

He looks at your hand, and you have to wonder if he’s ever taken this long to accept a woman’s request to follow her to bed. But he does accept eventually and lets you pull him up off the couch before he ducks into the bathroom and comes out smelling like your spearmint toothpaste.

Maybe it should feel weird, this settling into bed beside him, rearranging pillows so he has enough, and untangling your blankets from the night before to cover the both of you. Maybe it should be uncomfortable and tense.

But it isn’t.

You wonder if that’s because of all the things you just said—because you know this man inside and out, whether he wants to admit it or not. Or if it’s because you’ve been so sleep-deprived for so long that now it feels like you’re always ready to just drop right off to sleep.

But whatever the reason, you shut off the lights without any fanfare, say goodnight, and manage to fall asleep almost immediately.

If you’d stayed awake, you would have seen that Joe is not quite so quick to close his eyes. You would have seen the way he lay awake, staring at the ceiling with one hand under his head, listening to the sound of your slow, deep breathing.

If you’d been awake, you would have seen him roll carefully to his side so that he’s facing you. You would have seen the soft smile play on his face and felt the faintest hint of his touch as he drew his fingertip down the slope of your nose, tracing the route your glasses always slip.

If you’d been awake, you would have seen his lips move in the dark. Barely a whisper. Just three little words.

If you’d been awake, you might have heard him, even as he tried not to make a sound.

But, of course, if you’d been awake, he probably wouldn’t have said anything at all.

---

Credit where credit is due:

"You smell like you ran far" - Lost

"Dancing is just a conversation between two people" - Hope Floats

The entire "you just forgot who you are/remind me" conversation was adapted from an episode of Angel, Season 5.

---

Taglist (comment to be added)

@moon1ighteyes @freyaswolf @fluffysmutmnstr @lma1986 @mrsjellymunson @aysheashea , @fullstealthwombat @girlwiththerubyslippers , @madisonavenuekitten , @grimeysociety @sweetparadise-13 @nadixm , @famousparadiselight , @hereforshmut , @cheesewritings , @munsonburn3r , @niallersfreckles , @alwaysahiccupandastrid , @poofyloofy , @eirone-and-cheese , @kitkat80 , @batcavenick

[fluffysmutmnstr]

THEY’RE TALKING.

THEY’RE TECHNICALLY COMMUNICATING.

KEEP IT UP YOU EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED NERDS.

“The jury may disregard,” he concedes. “But it can’t be stricken from the record.” - I giggled and kicked my feetsies.

Sneak Peek Part 2 - Chapter 7

The thing is, Joe doesn’t lock the door when he leaves. Because he doesn’t leave. You wake up the next morning to sounds coming from your kitchen and the sweet aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

The blanket you usually keep folded over the back of the armchair is in a pile at one end of the couch and you notice something you hadn’t caught yesterday: a black bag tucked between the chair and the little table beside it. It’s open enough to see one of Joe’s sweatshirts and a rolled pair of socks.

You stand in the doorway to the kitchen again, waiting until he’s poured a cup of black coffee before you speak. “You’re…still here.”

He gives a little jump and turns around. “Still having difficulty with this three-to-five days of monitoring directive, aren’t you?”

You open and close your mouth once before trying again. “This seems excessive.”

“Well,” he turns back to the counter and opens the cabinet where you keep your coffee mugs. “Some might consider mixing a mouthful of Xanax with stomach full of vodka for someone who rarely does either excessive too.” He pours you a cup of coffee, leaving room for you to add your flavored creamer and hands it to you. “So at least we’re adhering to the theme.”

You take the coffee and open the fridge. You peel the aluminum foil seal from your new bottle of hazelnut creamer and pour in a teaspoon’s worth before you put it back and sit down at your small table. “You must have something you need to do other than babysit me for the next two days.”

“Nope,” he shakes his head once before he sips his coffee, fighting a smile. “You might as well just accept it,” he says. “I can be quite annoying when I want to be.”

“You can be quite annoying even when you don’t want to be,” you mutter.

He waits until you’ve had a few more sips from your mug before he asks, “Really, though, how are you feeling?”

Your first instinct is to say you’re fine, brush off his concern and get him to see that you don’t need this bizarre caregiver routine. But you’ve spent too much of your life lying about how fine you are, and an equal amount of time trying to get Joe to do something he doesn’t want to do. “Um, honestly?” you set down your coffee. “Still pretty awful.”

“Yeah?”

“Not as…fuzzy as yesterday,” you say, absently rubbing your temple. “But the vertigo is still on the coming half of coming and going. It’s basically the hangover from hell.” You push your hands through your hair and feel how greasy it’s become. A nurse supervised your shower at the hospital, but that was three days ago. “And I really want to wash my hair.”

Joe’s head tilts slightly to the left. “Is there some reason you can’t?”

You rub your eyes this time, knocking your glasses askew in the process. “Moderately concerned I might black out in the shower,” you confess. You hadn’t told the hospital staff because you’d just wanted to go home, but the heat and the steam from the ensuite shower had made you lightheaded and woozy. You’d been white knuckling the assistance bar the whole time hoping your chaperone didn’t notice.

When you open your eyes again, Joe still looks confused. “You don’t have to worry,” he says with a roll of his shoulder. “I can—”

“You are not accompanying me to the shower, Joseph,” you cut him off firmly. “My lowest point can only get so low.”

He snorts, trying to stifle a laugh. “I was going to say that I can keep an ear out if you just want to leave the door cracked. Make sure I don’t hear any kind of life-threatening crash while you’re in there.” He sips his coffee again. “Though I can’t say it’s not interesting, knowing that’s where your mind immediately went—”

“Okay, shut up,” you whine as you feel your cheeks turn pink against your will. “I almost scrambled my brains a few nights ago. The jury will disregard.”

“The jury may disregard,” he concedes. “But it can’t be stricken from the record.”

You survive your shower without incident and with the door never opening more than the few inches you’d left it, just in case. Afterwards, you pull your wonderfully clean hair up and into a messy bun before accepting Joe’s invitation for a walk around the closest park, citing fresh air and exercise as a way to feel a little better.

Regrettably, he’s right, and even though you don’t walk very fast, getting your heart pumping and movement and motion back into your muscles feels like the healthiest choice you’ve made in a long time.

“So…are we going to talk about it?” Joe asks after a long stretch of what you had thought was almost companionable silence.

“Talk about what?”

“Hazel…”

You roll your eyes and keep walking, not looking at him. “Look, if you’re about to give me some lecture about the dangers of taking recreational drugs, I’m going to hand you a mirror and tell you to fuck off to the tune of ‘you of all people.’”

“I wasn’t going to lecture you,” he says quietly, cutting his strides in half to keep pace with you. “And I know that whole Xanax thing was an accident.”

“Then what do we need to talk about?”

“I was more worried about the nutrient and vitamin deficiency they saw in your bloodwork,” he answers. “Or the fact that it seems like you’ve been coasting on a wave of permanent dehydration—”

You sigh. “They shouldn’t have told you any of that.”

“Well, maybe you should have been conscious to tell them that,” he counters. “Doctors tend to share this shit when the person you bring in almost dies.” He clears his throat. “And I’m still your emergency contact.”

Your brow furrows. “You are?”

“According to the records,” he shrugs. “Me and Vic. So…they would have called me anyway.”

“Shit,” you mutter. “Guess I need to change that.”

“Are you going to address any of the other stuff?”

“What do you want me to say, Joe?” you ask, stopping to turn to him. “I was just out on the road with a bunch of teenagers for six weeks. Of course I wasn’t eating right, or drinking enough water, or getting enough sleep. I didn’t expect any of that to land me in a hospital.”

“It’s just…” The corners of his lips dip into a thoughtful frown. “I don’t know. That surprised me. I always thought you took really good care of yourself.”

You look up at him and resist the urge to tilt your head to one side. “Why did you think that?”

He moves a shoulder again. “You never took a sick day.”

You cough up a dry laugh. “I never took a sick day because I never had time to take a sick day. Following you around with a broom and dustpan was a full-time commitment. I’d just load up on Vitamin C and cough drops, and muscle through whatever was wrong.”

He still looks pensive, his dark eyes drawn to the ground between your feet. “I didn’t…notice that,” he says after a moment.

“Yeah, well,” you shake your head and start to walk again. “You didn’t notice much.”

It feels like a long time, but you only manage to pass two park benches on the walking trail before Joe speaks again. “And the Xanax…?”

“What about it?” you ask, pointedly keeping your eyes forward. “I thought you said you knew it was an accident.”

“Yeah, no,” he agrees. “I know that. I just…” he stops again and reaches for your hand to keep you from moving on without him. “I get that you weren’t trying to overdose. But…what were you trying to do?”

You pull your hand back from his slowly and tuck it into the pocket of your sweatshirt. You don’t look at him. “I don’t know,” you lie.

[fluffysmutmnstr]

BY GEORGE!!

Hazel, light of my life, girly pop and extraordinaire, I wanna hug you. Seriously, this poor wonderful human has had to put up with literal children for months on end then ODS BY ACCIDENT.

I mean, on one hand, YOU TELL HIM! On the other NO BABE NO.

TALK TO A LICENSED THERAPIST!

(when you've got trouble) i've got trouble too - chapter six

rating: M

word count: 7.5k

Summary: You ever try to get yourself out of a rut and it just makes everything worse?

Warnings/Tags: slow burn, friends-to-lovers, boss/employee relationship (kind of? not really), bad behavior, fuckboy behavior, fourth-wall breaks, drug use, recreational drug use, casual sex, mentions of gross behavior, Joe is not a nice guy right now, it's called a redemption arc for a reason, overdosing, implied/referenced drug addiction

A/N: H'okay this chapter was getting way too long, and I don't want to tax anyone's senses by getting reading fatigue on something I'm writing. SO we have shorter chapters and more of them. Also, this chapter deals with some heavy shit so please take care of yourselves, read the tags, and enjoy responsibly.

Bon appetit!

When you signed on for tour managing again, you thought it would be better than Joe-managing. Or, if not better, then at least different.

Different, you had told yourself as you rolled and squished your clothes into your suitcase, was all you were really after.

And different is what you got.

“I have a serious question to ask you,” you say to Alfie over the phone as you send off the rider to the venue in Dublin.

“What’s up, buttercup?”

“What’s the age range on a MILF?”

There’s a long silence from Texas. “I…don’t think there is one?” he says uncertainly after a moment. “I mean, isn’t the main requirement just to have procreated?”

“I mean, technically, yeah,” you agree and then stop. “But it’s not like you could call a teen mom a MILF, could you? I think MILF, I think…I don’t know. Jennifer Coolidge? Salma Hayek?”

“Gillian Anderson.”

“Yes,” you agree emphatically. “They are MILFs, right? Laura Dern!”

“Laura fucking Dern,” Alfie echoes with reverence.

“But I’m not a Laura Dern. Not that I don’t wish and aspire to be in her league. But someday! That can’t be the vibe I’m giving off now, can it? Is it my hair? Do I have Mom Hair? Is that why someone would say that?”

“Hazel, light of my life, my peach, my world,” Alfie sighs. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

You let out a sound of frustration and push away from the desk in your hotel room. “Ugh. It’s these fucking kids. I can’t understand half of what they’re saying—I swear to Christ, I feel like I’m watching Babylon Berlin without the subtitles.”

“Aw, baby girl—”

“And then the other day I heard one of them say I was ‘giving MILF, ’ which is kinda gross, to begin with, and also—most importantly—scientifically untrue.”

“How old are these children you’re wrangling?” he asks, sounding somewhere between amused and exhausted.

You sigh again. “The oldest is nineteen. The youngest is fifteen.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I know.”

“Look, I’m going to say something, and you’re totally going to hate it.”

“Kay.”

“You are a beautiful woman.”

You frown and tilt your head to one side. “I don’t hate that.”

“I’m not done.”

“Oh.”

“You are beautiful,” Alfie repeats himself. “But, the sad fact of the matter is that in the eyes of these pop-star zygotes—” You interrupt him with a snort. “You probably fall into the category of, ya know, Hot Older Women.”

“I can’t be a Hot Older Woman,” you protest. “I’m only thirty-four!”

“Yeah,” he says. “And they’re seventeen. Don’t you remember how old and mature people in their thirties seemed when you were in high school?”

“No, you’re right.” Your frown deepens. “I hate that.”

He snickers quietly before he asks. “Aside from you probably starring in some completely inappropriate porn-fueled fantasies—”

“No, don’t say that! Why are you putting these thoughts in my head?”

“How is the rest of the job treating you?”

“Um,” you cough once. “It’s—uh—it’s good. It’s fine. It’s—”

“Losing enthusiasm with every descriptor,” he comments evenly. “What’s wrong? I thought you wanted to get back into the music scene?”

“Yeah,” you let out a soft sigh. “I…thought I did too.”

“Except…”

You’re quiet for a long moment, trying to put your ennui into words.

But what is there to say? You used to love this—you used to love traveling around on a bus and keeping free-spirited idiots in line. You used to love the almost-famous talent and their shoestring budgets that afforded you a single room in the cheapest motels and mostly bad food along the way.

And now you find yourself missing things you used to take for granted, like the trays of fresh fruit and vegetables waiting in nearly every dressing and green room.

Like the hotels you’d stay in with their pillowtop mattresses and bathrooms with mini bottles of luxury amenities—even in the plebian rooms you’d book for yourself while Joe got the suites.

Like the ability to understand your client and not have to constantly swat him out of a TikTok hypnosis.

“It’s not the same,” you say out loud. “I guess I kinda thought if I could go back to something I was really good at, then my life would just kind of sort itself out, and I’d feel back on track, ya know?”

“Hazel, this is not the only thing you’re really good at,” Alfie argues gently.

You run a hand over your face. “I don’t know,” you say. “I just feel…old. And tired. And like, maybe this isn’t my scene anymore either.” You chew thoughtfully on your bottom lip. “Y’know, in Captain America: The Winter Soldier—"

“Marvel’s first and last perfect film,” he interjects.

“Yes. Exactly. Well, you know how at the beginning he’s all sad and lonely, and he says something about how he thought if he threw himself back into military service, he’d figure out his place in the world again? But it’s just not the same?”

“Sure,” Alfie agrees. “But then remember how that turned out. He found out that the organization he’d been working for was riddled with Nazis, and he was like, ‘Oh, hey, I remember you guys. I used to kill you all the time!’ And then he’s right back in the sweet spot.”

“Yeah, no, I remember that,” you say. “That’s just not the part of the movie I’m relating to in this metaphor.”

“Well, yeah, but maybe the same thing will happen to you. Not the Nazi thing, obviously, I mean, I hope not. But, you know, something will feel familiar again, and you’ll be blowing up the Triskelion in no time.” There’s a sound from his end of the line. “Hey, I gotta go. But I hope this helped!”

It didn’t help.

But you lie and say that it did and let him go deal with whatever has come up during SXSW.

And you try not to think about what’s really bothering you.

But you miss being at SXSW. You miss the buzzy excitement of a film festival and the times when Joe didn’t need your full attention so you could watch new films and mingle with witty screenwriters and delightfully weird indie actors.

You even miss stupid things like when Joe, paralyzed by choice, would ask you to decide where dinner was going to happen. Or when he’d text and ask where you were and if he could get you to come sit next to him at a screening to keep anyone else from invading his space. You even miss how, predictably, about twenty minutes into whatever you were watching, he’d lean over and whisper, “Have you got snacks?”

You don’t think Vic is in Austin for any of Joe’s projects, though. Likely one of her other clients. You could look at the website and see, but you really shouldn’t. Because if you’re wrong in your recollection about what he’s working on, then you’re going to be smacked in the face with all the things you’ve been trying not to think about since you left his flat a month ago.

With your work done for the afternoon and nowhere to be until a 4 pm soundcheck, you shut your laptop and go to lay down on your bed, feeling fairly confident that you can take a siesta without anyone needing you for at least the next hour.

While you sleep, the camera is going to push in nice and close on your phone screen and transition into a flashback of one of the many memories you’ve been trying so hard to avoid.

Just keep snoozing, darling. We’ll take it from here.

You weren’t in Austin. You were in Utah and buried under two wool blankets and a comforter and still freezing when your phone started ringing.

You didn’t even have to look at the screen. “What’s up?”

“Is MacArthur Park really a whole song about a cake?”

Inside your cocoon of blankets, you frowned. “What?”

“The song, MacArthur Park,” Joe said as if this was the most normal thing in the world to be having a conversation about at—you checked your watch—1:49 in the morning. “Have you ever really listened to the lyrics? I mean, it’s gotta be a metaphor, right?”

You sighed. “Joe, where are you?”

“I’m just sort of…wanderin’ about,” he said. “Couldn’t sleep.”

So, there’s certainly no reason that I should be able to either, you had thought as you sat up and tossed your covers off. “And you’re listening to Donna Summers?”

“No, not on purpose. It was on in the little diner I was just in.”

You nodded slowly. “Are you okay?” you asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said quickly. “Course I am. I just—uh—” he coughed. “Yeah, sorry for calling. That was—”

“Do me a favor,” you said, swinging your legs over the side of your bed. “Wander past the lobby in about ten minutes.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“The only thing worse than waking me up would be standing me up in ten minutes,” you cut him off. “Don’t do it.”

There was a pause. “Yes, ma’am.”

Joe’s cheeks and the tip of his nose were still red from the cold when you spotted him pacing, trying to look nonchalant, near the hotel’s gaudy water feature. He kept his hands tucked into the pockets of his heavy black coat, and his boots were still shedding bits of snow, melting into the carpet every time he moved.

He looked up with a guilty wince when you were close enough to spot. “I didn’t really wake you up, did I?”

“No,” you lied easily. “I had to get up and answer the phone.”

He offered a wry smile. “Sorry…”

“What’s up?” you asked, motioning for him to walk with you to one of the less open areas, a little alcove between conference rooms.

“Nothing,” he said, trading you one lie for another. “I just…couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t turn my brain off. Thought I’d feel better after I walked around, but—”

“You worried about tomorrow?” you asked as you sat down on a tufted bench. Tomorrow, when the film he’d produced and starred in and had been trying to get made for at least as long as you’d known him, probably longer, was finally set to screen for an audience.

“No,” he answered too quickly. “No, I’m sure it’ll be…” He stopped at the sight of your raised eyebrows and let out a sigh. “I’m just being stupid.”

“You’re not being stupid,” you shake your head. “You put a lot into this film—time, money, resources…I’d think you were crazy if you weren’t worrying about how it’s going to be received.”

“I just—” he pursed his lips and let out another deep breath before he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “What if they don’t like it?”

“They’re gonna like it.”

“You don’t know that,” he argued lightly. “You haven’t seen it.”

“Well, technically, neither have you. Not all put together, at least.” He glanced back with a half-smile, prompting you to lean forward to be able to give him a nudge with your shoulder. “They’re going to like it, Joe.”

“Okay, but what if they don’t?”

“Then…they don’t,” you said simply and with a shrug. “Then you figure out why they don’t and do better next time.” You waited another moment before delivering a second cajoling nudge. “But I really don’t think that’s going to be the case.”

His dark eyes shot over to you. “You’re not just saying that ‘cause I pay you?”

“Pfft!” you scoffed. “You don’t pay me enough to lie to you.”

His smile widened, and the whole world felt like it got just a bit warmer. “Thanks, Haze,” he said quietly. “Dunno what I’d do without you.”

“You would perish,” you assured him with a smile. “Feel a little better?”

“I do,” he nodded.

“Going to try and get some sleep?”

He sat up straight again. “I don’t know. I’m kinda wired,” he admitted. “But you should sleep,” he said quickly. “I really am sorry about waking you up.”

The problem was that you were awake now and also kinda wired, and the dream of falling right back to sleep felt thoroughly unreachable. “That diner where you were listening to Donna Summers…”

“Yeah?”

“Was it an all-night kinda thing?” Joe nodded. “Well, if you’re really sorry about waking me up, you can buy my forgiveness in the form of some blueberry pancakes.”

“Deal.” He stood first and offered a hand to help you up. “And I wasn’t listening to Donna Summers,” he insisted defensively. “It was just playing while I happened to be there…”

“Sure, sure,” you nodded with a grin. “I’ll just add it to the list of Joseph Quinn Secrets I have to keep.” 

And maybe it was the company or the fact that Dee’s Diner made a hell of a short stack, or maybe it was just that any breakfast food eaten in the middle of the night tasted better, but those pancakes were delicious.

****

You pretend like you aren’t counting the days until this tour is over, but you are. And by the time they play their last show in London, you’re down to counting the minutes.

The rush of relief you feel at finally being free of this quintet of raging hormones and Gen Z aphorisms is short-lived. It lasts until just after your last check is clear in your bank account, and you remember that you’ve checked back into that ‘in-between gigs’ roach motel where your meals are mostly Cup-a-Soups, and everything smells a little like panic and uncertainty.

That’s the only reason you go to the party in Soho. It’s not your scene, it’s not your group of friends, it’s not even a part of town where you feel particularly comfortable. But it is where a friend of a friend said he’d be if you wanted to be introduced to the manager of a band planning a summer tour in the US.

It was a shot in the dark, but it was better than nothing. You didn’t have the slightest idea how you were going to pay the bills between now and June, but a long-shot lead was better than no lead.

As soon as you arrive, you almost turn around and go home. Everything about this party—from the music to the velvet rope to the mini dresses and lack of panties worn by most of the women there—screams Rich Asshole Cliché.

You’re so out of place that security looks at your name and your ID three times before squinting at your face. “Yeah,” you say with a shrug, trying not to roll your eyes. “I know.” You are on the list, though, and are let inside, where you try for all of thirty seconds to peer through the smoke and dim lighting, looking for a man you’d only spoken to over text.

There are way too many people. Dancing, drinking, bending their faces to low coffee tables adorned with chopped white lines or little piles of pills.

It’s a shock and relief when you finally connect with your contact, although you’re not sure why this meeting couldn’t have happened anywhere else. His name is Noah, and he’s a bit of a low talker, so you have to strain to hear him and the man he introduces you to. Rick, you think he says. But it could be Nick.

You just hope it isn’t Vic—that’d be too much.

But you hear enough. Decent pay—not good pay, but decent—and the option to roll into the next leg if it feels like a good fit. You’d be stupid not to say yes.

Only.

It’s a five-month tour. Five months of motels, bad food, body odor, and petty arguments about who ate the last of the Lucky Charms on the bus. Five months of roadies bitching about mic placement and the tech specs of whatever venue they were loading into. Five months of bartering with venue managers about what was and wasn’t negotiable in the rider.

“Job’s yours if you want it,” the band’s manager says, summoning over one of the servers with a tray full of shots.

Oh God, you don’t want to do a shot right now.

But all of a sudden, one is in your hand, and you’re clinking it against two others as you say, “Yeah, I’ll think about it. Get you an answer by next week.”

And then the vodka’s going straight down your throat, barely lingering on your tongue. And before you can say, ‘No thanks, I’m good,’ another has been poured and tossed back like it’s water.

You don’t know what’s wrong with you. Why did you do that? You’ve never had anything even resembling a tolerance for alcohol, and three drinks is usually your max for a night out.

But here you are, two down and one to go before you run the risk of making a terrible impression on your next boss. You need to go home.

Like, twenty minutes ago.

Noah and N/Rick clearly aren’t planning on going anywhere anytime soon, so you’re left with no choice but to start making excuses about early mornings and contracts to sort through. You clear your throat, about to speak again over the bass that’s rattling your fillings, when, through the crowd of milling guests and scantily clad servers, something catches your eye across the lounge.

No, not something, someone.

Someone whose freshly buzzed head you’d be able to pick out of a crowd of a thousand others. Someone who is wearing the shirt you’d had to mend for him in LA. Someone who is looking right at you when you glance over, despite the woman draped over his right side, talking into his ear.

And, look, you could just get up and leave. You should just get up and leave. In fact, when you look back on this, even years later, you still won’t be able to say why you didn’t just get up and leave.

But the fact remains that you don’t just get up and leave. You stay seated, rooted in place, until another shot finds its way to your hand. “Viva la vie boheme,” you mutter, clinking the thick glass with the other two.

Down the hatch.

Oh boy, this is not good.

We can blame that last one on Joe. If you hadn’t been distracted by the weight of his laser focus, you would have remembered that you’d already done this twice and were getting up to leave.

You’re focusing so hard on not looking across the room that you barely hear Noah’s question the first time he asks. You blink and look up. “What?”

He points to the lower level of this hollowed-out warehouse and the sea of writhing dancers partying. “You wanna have some fun?”

And that, gentle reader, is the magic word.

“You know what?” you say as he stands and offers you a hand. “I do.” You can’t even remember the last time you had fun. Real fun. Good fun. Vacation-from-yourself fun.

But by George, you’re going to try to have some tonight.

It’s easier not to think about Joe when you’re not directly in his line of sight, when you’re squished into the crush of people on the dance floor, sweat mixing, skin sticking to that of a stranger. Hands wandering where they shouldn’t. Flashing lights. EDM so loud you can feel it pounding in your chest.

It’s easier not to think about him, but not impossible.

Especially when you catch another glimpse of him at the railing of the upper level, looking down at the crowd like he’s looking for you.

He probably isn’t, the sliver of your brain that’s still sober tells you. He probably wasn’t even looking at you earlier. Maybe it wasn’t even him.

But when you look up again, he’s still looking down at the crowd. And again, his eyes seem to be locked directly on you. And yeah, it’s definitely him.

“I gotta—” you yell to Noah, pointing toward what you think must be the door. He doesn’t hear you, but he nods and gives a thumbs-up. You push through the hot, sticky throng, vaguely wondering if he thought he was going to get laid tonight.

You glance back over your shoulder, noting that the room is swaying more than just a little, and try to squint at the crowd. Not that it was ever a consideration, but even if you wanted to fuck Noah—like as a thank you for setting up the meeting with R/Nick, for instance—you’re pretty sure you wouldn’t be able to find him again.

By the time you reach the edge of the sea of people, you are officially no longer steady on your feet. And the door is not where you thought it was going to be. You don’t know why you assumed that there would be an exit down here, but if there is one, you can’t see it. The thought of having to maneuver back all the way through all those people spikes your anxiety in a way you couldn’t have predicted.

Oh no. This isn’t good at all.

Your palms are sweating, and you’re too hot and feeling kind of sick, and how the fuck is there no exit down here? How did this building pass an inspection without multiple illuminated exits on each level? How the fuck are you even supposed to get out of here?

What if there was a fire? This whole place is a death trap.

There’s a hand under your elbow, and you nearly fall off your shoes, whirling around to see who it is, fearing the worst.

But it’s not Joe. It’s a young woman with big dark eyes and a pile of box braids in varying shades of pink and blue pulled atop her head. “You okay, babe?” she asks, yelling over the music. You shake your head, unable to bring yourself to raise your voice. She nods anyway and points over your shoulder. “There’s a sofa in the loo!” she shouts. “Go sit. Put your head between your knees.”

You mirror her nod, trying not to think about how your mouth is sweating like you’re about to puke. You are not going to puke, you tell yourself. Not here, anyway. If nothing else, you’re going to go home and puke in your own bathroom where you can cry all you want in between heaving.

Ya know, like a grown-up.

It’s cooler in the restroom. Quieter too. And nowhere near as crowded. There’s a burgundy velvet fainting couch in one corner, and you drop down easily onto it and do as your guardian angel suggested.

The wave of nausea ebbs after a few deep breaths, and you slowly lift your head and sit up straight.

“It’s Hazel, right?”

You blink and feel your face contort in a frown. From the stalls to your right, an unfortunately familiar figure emerges. Legs for days, sheet of glossy black hair, big blue eyes that—the last time you’d seen them—had been ringed with cried-off mascara and giving a glare that could have cut glass.

“Jacks,” you hear yourself say, not bothering to fake a smile. You don’t have to do that anymore, you remind yourself. You don’t have to play the role of social bomb squad technician and be nice to people who treat you like shit just to keep them from making a scene.

“Are you okay?” she asks, surprising you with the note of concern in her voice. “You look kinda pale.”

“Just…” you shake your head. “Trying to ward off a panic attack.”

“Oh shit,” she drops down next to you. “Do you need me to call someone for you? Is Joe—”

At the sound of his name, you feel your stomach churn like two hands of anxiety have a grip on your guts and are wringing them out. “No,” you shake your head again. “I don’t work for him anymore.”

“Oh,” Jacks is quiet for a moment before she nods thoughtfully. “Good for you. I always kinda thought you were too good to be working for him.”

Despite the still sinking feeling of dread and sweat clinging to the back of your neck and hairline, you find the ability to roll your eyes. “Last time I saw you, you called me a lapdog and told me I had Stockholm Syndrome.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Yeeeah…” she says slowly. “I’m sorry about that. And about the whole, smacking you in the face thing—that was an accident.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But for real, I feel bad for how I acted,” she goes on. “I’m not usually that psycho ex who can’t take a hint, ya know?”

“Mmm.”

“What is it about good dick that makes us all so crazy?”

It doesn’t make us all crazy, you want to say. But you can recognize when someone’s making an effort. And that’s better than nothing. You hum again and try to keep up with your yoga breathing. “Well, he has that effect on people.”

“Seriously, are you okay?” Jacks asks again, mercifully abandoning the topic of Joe. She places a hand on your shoulder. “Do you get them often? The panic attacks?”

“Not as much as I used to,” you admit. “But every once in a while, when, y’know,” you motion to the chaos on the other side of the door. “Conditions are favorable.”

She nods once, then slides her slim pocketbook around on its chain from her hip to her lap and pops it open. It’s a few more moments of listening to her shuffle her things around before she retrieves her quarry—a narrow orange cylinder with a white label and matching cap. “Here,” she says, pressing it into your hand. “There’s only, like, four left in there anyway, and that’s usually just enough to turn my day around.”

“I…really think ecstasy is the last thing I need right now,” you say, trying to hand it back.

“Oh my God, you’re so cute,” Jacks snorts. “It’s not ecstasy,” she assures you, turning the bottle so you can read the label for yourself. “Just run-of-the-mill Xanax.”

“Oh,” you frown, feeling stupid. “Uh. Thanks.”

“One would probably be enough to cancel out whatever you’ve got going on right now,” she continues. “But, like I said, if you want a vacation from mind and body for a night,” her narrow shoulder moves. “A few more won’t kill you.”

If you were feeling better, this would be the perfect time to look right into the camera. But you’re not feeling better. And you’re not thinking clearly. And yes, before you can wonder, that’s going to pretty quickly become a problem.

But you don’t know that yet. All you know is that Jacks offered an olive branch in the form of these little happy pills, and you can’t seem to think of one good reason why you shouldn’t take her advice.

Perhaps, you think as you dry swallow the first one, if you’re on vacation from both brain and body, you won’t be aware of Joe anymore. Maybe he’ll even be gone by the time you get out of this bathroom, having given up on his mission to stare at you from across every room in this place.

And then you can relax.

When was the last time you did that? You don’t even know. It’s more difficult than trying to remember when you last had fun, and the combination of that realization is so depressing you pop the other three pills into your mouth at once before you can wonder if it’s a good idea.

Gentle reader, it is not a good idea. It is, in fact, a very, very bad idea.

But. Well.

Enough being stressed and responsible for one night. Enough being the Mom Friend/chaperone. Just one night where you can truly just turn off your brain and ride a little train of chemical bliss all the way home.

Everybody else does it all the damn time. The world isn’t going to end if you join the ranks of the irresponsible for one single night.

And hey! Wow! Xanax works really fast, and it’s a shockingly short amount of time before the predicted euphoria arrives at the door of your consciousness to grab you by the wrist and pull you under.

Admittedly, things get a little fuzzier after this point in the evening. You remember thanking Jacks and her leaving you in the bathroom after planting an entirely unexpected open-mouthed kiss on your lips. You remember needing a few seconds to recover from that (because, goddamn, she might be a little unstable, but that girl knows how to kiss) before you chance going back out into the mess of lights, music, and too many people waiting in the main room of the club.

Oh yeah, you recall thinking as you make your way toward the dance floor again. This is the way to do this. This is already an immensely better experience. All the noise and the flashes and the people are still there, of course, but everything seems so much kinder. So much softer than it had been before. After a few minutes, you can’t even remember why you’d felt so sick earlier.

Quick smash cut to less than an hour ago when you tossed back three shots without blinking like some rockstar. That’s why you felt so sick earlier, sweetie. But you’ve already chosen to forget that, haven’t you?

Back to the party. We can blur this timeline a little more with some artful cross-fades of you dancing and laughing with strangers. Not a full montage, we don’t have time for that, but enough to see that you’re having a good time. Unfortunately, a few carefully framed close-ups of your face are also enough to see that you’re cold but sweating, slurring your words like a sailor, and having more than a little difficulty keeping your eyes open and blinking in sync.

You have no idea what time it is when you see Joe again. You can’t tell if he’s been looking for you or for how long, but when you spot him on the edge of the reveling horde, near another exitless hallway—or maybe it’s the same one where you’d found the women’s room, you honestly have no idea at this point—you no longer want to avoid him.

He must have given up looking for you because he looks surprised when you push your way through the throng and bark out a very ladylike “Hey!” while pointing a finger in his direction.

Surprised and more than a little nervous as you approach. “Hey…”

“Don’t you ‘hey’ me,” you snap as the boost from the Xanax delivers an unfamiliar urge to finally be totally honest with the man you’ve been stressing over for the last three years of your life. “I have stuff to say to you!”

“Okay,” he nods and starts backing up. “Let’s, uh, let’s go have a sit, maybe?” He motions toward the emptier hallway with his head. “Or at least back here?”

“You stole my youth—do you know that?”

Joe blinks. “I’m…sorry?”

“You are not sorry,” you counter, pointing at his face again. “You’re not sorry for anything, ever. You just do whatever the fuck you want, not caring about the emotional and physical and mental toll you inflict on everyone who loves you in the process.”

At least, you’re pretty sure that’s what you say. Your brain isn’t entirely on the same track as your mouth. But whatever words you end up stringing together, they have at least some of the desired impact. Joe’s eyes widen, and he moves further back into the hall, reaching for you to move with him. “Okay,” he holds up his hands in surrender when you yank away from his grasp. “Okay, just—come back here,” he says, talking to you like you’re a spooked horse. “Just calm down a minute—”

“I will not calm down!” you exclaim, but you walk towards him anyway, if only to ensure you’re able to keep yelling at him. “I was the calmest influence in your whole stupid orbit for three years, and now I don’t have to be! So you’re going to listen to me because this is all your fault!”

“What?” he squints down at you in confusion. “What is all my fault?”

“I used to be fun, you know,” you tell him. “I used to be fun and funny and beautiful—”

“You’re…still all those things?”

The way his words go up at the end with uncertainty only pisses you off more. “You see this?” You point to a lock of your hair close to your hairline. “You see this gray hair? Your fault.”

“Hazel, I don’t—”

“And these?” you point to the corners of your eyes where faint lines have started to linger even on a neutral expression. “Your fault. Oh! And my twitching left eye and the ulcer burning a hole in my stomach lining have the same name, you’ll never guess what it is!”

He doesn’t say anything to that, but the confusion that had furrowed his brow deepens, and he ducks his head to look more closely at your face. “Hazel, what are you on right now?”

“What?” you squeak. “You’re going to police my partying? After all the shit you put me through—”

“Hazel!” he grabs your wrist to stop your wild gesticulation. “Look at—look at me—” he demands when you don’t immediately listen to him. “What did you take?”

“It’s none of your damn business what I took,” you insist, trying to pretend like the world isn’t suddenly moving a lot slower than it had been a moment ago. “You’re not the boss of me—you’ve actually neverbeenthebossame.” You hear the way your words are sliding into one another, but you can’t do anything to stop it.

“I saw you drinking earlier,” he says, still trying to get you to make eye contact.

“Oh, sorry, Dad,” you roll your eyes. At least, you think you roll your eyes. You’re starting to feel like your face can’t come to the phone any longer. “I promise I won’t drive home.”

“What did you do after that?” he asks, moving his hand from your wrist to your elbow, holding you in place. “Did someone give you something?”

“Pfft!” you buzz your lips in rejection of that idea. “Like I’m dumb enough to just take something some random person gives me. Like some kind of stupid college kid. Who takes drugs from strangers, anyway?”

Joe is unmoving. “Did you?”

“No, Nancy Reagan!” you exclaim, trying in vain to swat him away from you. “Jacks is not a stranger.”

His expression shifts. “Jacks?” he repeats. “Jacks is here?”

“Yeah,” you nod once. “Over you, by the way. How did you get sick of her?” you ask, and it feels like your decision to tilt your head to one side, but it could be that it lolls there on its own. “She kissed me one time, and I think I might be bi now.”

Joe closes his eyes in a long blink and shakes his head. “Okay, uh, ignoring that last part. Jacks,” he says again. “What did Jacks give you?”

You let out another scoff of disgust. “She saw that I was unhappy—your fault,” you add, poking him in the chest. “So, she gave me some of her happy pills.”

“Happy pills?” he repeats faintly. “What sort of—”

“Ohforfuckssake,” you slur and reach down the front of your shirt into your bra where you’d tucked the pill bottle earlier. “Here,” you say and press it into his open hand.

He shakes it. “Hazel, this is empty.”

“Yeah, well,” you throw up your hands. “I was hungry.”

You have more to say to him, more to get off your chest while the drawbridge of your inhibitions is lowered, but he’s becoming increasingly difficult to focus on. Or maybe it’s the room that’s blurring and fading around him. Either way, it’s a relief that the music has finally quieted, and someone thought to stop the bright, flashing lights that had been in use all evening.

But now that the music is muffled, it’s a little rude for Joe to lower his voice to match. You see his lips moving, but you can’t hear him. Why can’t you hear him? Why can’t he just speak up?

And okay, a little darkness made sense, but now it’s too dark. You can barely see him, and he’s standing right in front of you.

You can feel his hand under your elbow, though, holding you upright. And you can sort of feel his other hand as it grabs your chin and then taps—lightly at first, then not so much—against your cheek.

Is he saying your name? You’re right here. Why is he acting like he can’t find you? Why is—

Now, Hazel darling, you can’t be expected to remember what happens next because, well, look at you. But since the world doesn’t stop spinning every time Blackout Betty climbs behind the wheel, you should probably know what’s going on while you’re off exploring the dark side of the moon.

“Hazel?” Joe smacks your cheek with the tips of his fingers. “Eyes up. How many of these did you take?” he asks, waving the bottle in front of your face. You only manage to groan and slur something unintelligible. “Shit,” he mutters and then gives you another little shake. “Hey, no. No going to sleep. You need to stay awake.”

Again, you whine and try to pull away from him, but no part of your body is listening to the messages your brain is sending anymore. If you’re trying to say something, no one is going to understand it. Not even you.

Joe’s hand slides over your cheek, pressing his palm against your skin. Then he moves it up to your forehead, finding it just as cold and clammy. “Aw, fuck,” he says. “Shit. Shit shit. Hazel,” he tries tapping your cheek again while your eyelids only flutter and slide closed again. “Hazel, wake up. Wake up right now. Keep yelling at me,” he tries holding you up with one hand while the other reaches into his pocket for his phone. “Tell me what a piece of shit I am.” But you slump almost immediately against his chest. “Fuck,” he says again and stares at his phone screen. “How is there no fucking signal down here?” He pockets the phone again and ducks his head, trying to get you to look at him. “Hey, Hazel, we’re going outside, yeah? You’re gonna get some fresh air, and you’re gonna wake the fuck up, alright?”

But of course, you don’t wake the fuck up. Not when Joe—aided by one of the security guards—gets you outside in the cold, early spring air. Not while he calls 999 and tries to keep the panic out of his voice as he tells the dispatcher where you are and what he thinks happened.

You don’t wake up when the ambulance arrives. Or when they load you onto a stretcher and ask Joe a million questions, he can’t answer. Or when they roll you into the emergency room and tell him that he can’t come back with you.

You’re still not awake when the ER doctor takes her gloves off and goes to find Joe in the waiting room. He’s up on his feet as soon as she approaches, painfully ripping off a piece of the cuticle he’s been chewing on while waiting for an update.

“Is she okay?” he asks immediately. “What’s going on? Is she going to be alright?”

The doctor holds up her hands and nods tiredly. “She’s going to be fine,” she says, keeping her voice low. She motions for him to sit again so she can take the seat next to him. “Wasn’t pretty,” she says after she’s relayed the details of your sluggish pulse, tanking blood pressure, and shallow breathing. “And she's probably not going to feel too great for the next few days. But I’ve certainly seen worse.”

“Where is she?” he asks, looking around as though you’re about to be pushed out in a wheelchair like some same-day surgery. “When can I—”

“A nurse will be round to bring you up to see her once she’s settled. We had to ensure she was stable before we could move her.”

“An-and she is?” he asks, even though he heard what the doctor said. “She’s stable?”

A comforting hand lands on his arm. “She’ll be fine,” she assures him quietly. “I’ll want to check her responses and reflexes once she’s awake, of course, but based on the preliminary scans, I don’t think she’s in danger of any permanent damage.”

It should be a relief—and it is—but not the kind he was expecting. He doesn’t feel any less anxious as he waits for his escort up to your room. It’s an effort not to spring straight out of his chair when she finally arrives almost an hour later. Your nurse is called Tulip—Joe doesn’t really believe that, but he’s not going to argue with her about it. She’s young—maybe only in her mid-twenties—with dyed blonde hair and dark roots pulled into a ponytail. She’s friendly and speaks with an unmissable Yorkshire accent as she leads him down one hallway to an elevator and then down two more.

She doesn’t prepare him for seeing you like this, though. Pale and still with dry, chapped lips and wired to the teeth with tubes and monitors. Tulip’s expression dips with sympathy as she pulls a chair to your bedside and taps the back of it. “Have a seat, love,” she suggests quietly, waiting for him to do so before she starts moving around to check the devices you’re wired to. Aside from the beeping of the machines, the room is painfully silent until she speaks again. “She’s your girlfriend?”

Joe blinks and looks up from where he’s been staring at your hand and the IV needle taped to your vein. “Oh, um. No,” he shakes his head. “We’re not—she uh…she’s. She’s my—” he stops his verbal fumbling and purses his lips together. “Hazel.”

Tulip gives him a sympathetic smile. “Well, your Hazel is very lucky she had you looking after her.”

He swallows hard and tries to nod. “Yeah,” he says hollowly. “Real lucky.”

There’s another long moment of quiet before she clears her throat. “We have…resources,” she says finally. “Treatment centers. All very discreet. If you need—”

Joe looks up, his brow furrowed, and shakes his head. “Hazel isn’t…” he looks from the nurse to you and back again. “This—this was an accident. She doesn’t—”

Tulip’s mouth dips again. “Of course,” she says with a tight smile and nods. “Well. The help is available,” she starts to move towards the door. “Regardless of who might need it.”

He nods again and mumbles something that sounds like ‘Thanks’ before she closes the door behind her, leaving the two of you alone.

It doesn’t occur to him until hours later, after he’s noticed that he hasn’t been able to stop his nose from running or keep his leg from bouncing on its own, that the resources and help Tulip was offering might not have been directed at you. Perhaps she could tell the difference between an accident and an addict.

---

A/N: Don't take someone else's prescription meds, my babes. And definitely don't mix them with alcohol. Literally, a single benzo, when combined with alcohol, can be deadly. Please don't do it. There are plenty of other ways to party.

---

Taglist (comment to be added)

@moon1ighteyes @freyaswolf @fluffysmutmnstr @lma1986 @mrsjellymunson @aysheashea , @fullstealthwombat @girlwiththerubyslippers , @madisonavenuekitten , @grimeysociety @sweetparadise-13 @nadixm , @famousparadiselight , @hereforshmut , @cheesewritings , @munsonburn3r , @niallersfreckles , @alwaysahiccupandastrid , @poofyloofy , @eirone-and-cheese , @kitkat80 , @batcavenick

[fluffysmutmnstr]

Loved the Mulaney reference!

Also, poor Hazel Rose. It sucks caring about people, particularly people who won’t help themselves and I’m so proud of her for admitting she has a problem.

Dear Joe,

I was gonna say get fucked, but that’s like, the opposite of what he needs right now.

Man needs a therapist.

Love this so so much.

(when you've got trouble) i've got trouble too - chapter five

rating: M

word count: 5k

Summary: Addiction comes in many forms.

Warnings/Tags: slow burn, friends-to-lovers, boss/employee relationship (kind of? not really), bad behavior, fuckboy behavior, fourth-wall breaks, drug use, recreational drug use, casual sex, mentions of gross behavior, Joe is not a nice guy right now, it's called a redemption arc for a reason

A/N: Can't thank you sweet little sausages enough for all the love and support you're giving little bloodletting of a fic. Keeps me going and makes my heart so so happy. I just love you and am giving you all a squeesh.

My name is Hazel Donovan and it’s been eight days since I checked on my ex-boss on social media.

By the first of the year, you’ve nearly stopped freezing in panic at each text notification. You’re back to sleeping through the night unmedicated, living for the most part without fear that you might have to jump into action to pull Joe out of some sticky situation.

And you try to go as long as you can without checking in on trending topics and scanning his accounts for red-flag comments. So far your longest streak is eleven days.

Idly, as you chat with your mother, you wonder if there’s a support group for people with work-related social media addictions and residual workplace trauma.

You blow on your mug of tea as you sit back on your couch and try to keep the irritation out of your voice. “Mom, I don’t know why you’re upset,” you say, folding your legs beneath you. “You’ve been telling me to quit for like a year.”

“Technically, I’ve been telling you to find a new job for a year. That’s not the same as quitting. And I’m not upset,” she says, and you can tell she’s trying just as hard to keep the exasperation out of her voice. “I’m concerned. Wouldn’t you be concerned if your unemployed daughter was on the other side of the world with no plan?”

You open your mouth and then close it, trying not to sound argumentative. “I’m not unemployed and I have a plan—”

“Honey, ‘looking for another job’ is not a plan,” she reminds you, not unkindly. “And how, exactly, are you not unemployed?”

“I’m just—” You let a heavy exhale buzz through your pursed lips. “I’m between gigs. There’s a difference.”

“Mmhmm.”

“There is! I’ve got leads on like, three different bands who are going out on the road soon—someone’s going to need a manager. Something will come up.”

That’s not entirely true. What you have are old connections from LA who have said they’ll ask around to see if anyone’s looking for a manager for a European leg.

You also have a text from the owner of the record store where you used to work in college saying he might know a guy who knows a guy who’s looking for someone.

But these aren’t the kind of details you share with your already-anxious mother.

“Something could come up closer to home…”

You rub your eyes beneath your glasses tiredly. “Mom, there are no jobs in Mendocino.”

“Well, there are jobs in Fort Bragg,” she answers without missing a beat. “Or Ukiah. And I could be wrong, but I think there might be one or two open positions in San Francisco.” She waits another moment. “I’d happily take an unemployed daughter with no plan three hours away rather than eight time zones.”

You take a sip of your tea and hiss when it predictably burns your tongue. “Remember when I had a job, and you literally never made me feel guilty for living so far away and never being able to take time off to visit?”

“Of course I do,” she replies easily. “I figured you had enough to deal with without adding a nagging mother to your plate.”

“Aha,” you nod with understanding. “But now that I’m without so much to deal with—”

“I’m free to nag to my heart’s content.”

You smile and rest your cheek against the back of the sofa. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, baby girl. That’s why I nag.”

“I know,” you let out a sigh and push your earbud more securely into your ear before you wrap your cold hands around your mug. “Speaking of jobs, how’s yours?”

“Oh, you know,” she graciously accepts your request for a change of subject. “It’s after the holidays—that’s my busy season.”

You try another sip of your tea. Either it’s cooled down or the first sip scorched your ability to feel anything. “Why?” you ask with a grin. “Because everyone shined it on for the most wonderful time of the year and they can’t take it anymore?”

“Something like that. Christmas is a very stressful time,” she says matter-of-factly. “If your marriage is already on the rocks, then adding an expensive holiday that forces proximity to judgmental in-laws, demanding children, and societal pressure to the mix is just flipping a Zippo inside a tinderbox.”

“Mm, I’ll keep that in mind,” you say dryly. “Anyone file for divorce yet?”

“Of course not,” she replies with a smile you can hear. “But it’s only the first week of January, so my impeccable record could end at any time.”

You talk a while longer. She fills you in on what all the kids are doing and what new project Peter has identified as the next thing the house needs. It’s nearly midnight in London by the time she has to start prepping for her next session. You’re just about to let her go when she speaks again. “And sweetheart, I want you to know—I am proud of you, you know. For finally standing up for yourself.”

The pause that follows is heavy; you raise your eyebrows expectantly. “Is there a ‘but’ coming?”

“No ‘but’,” she says. “I just want to make sure you know you’re allowed to be sad even though you did the right thing.”

“I’m not sad, I’m—”

“Hazel Rose,” she interrupts your indignant sputtering. “I know how much you used to love that job. You followed that man’s skinny, white, privileged ass around the whole planet, taking care of him for three years.” Her assessment brings a small smile to your face as you let her continue. “That’s not the kind of care you can just switch off like a light. Not my girl. No matter how things ended.”

“You make it sound like we broke up.”

“Didn’t you?” she asks. “Break-ups happen in all kinds of relationships. And the grief that comes with them isn’t reserved just for the romantic kind.” She pauses again. “You are much better off no longer working for him. But you’re still allowed to grieve the loss of that relationship. That’s all I’m saying.”

You close your eyes and swallow down the sudden lump in your throat. “Thanks, Dr. Mom,” you say lightly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

There’s an exchange of ‘I love yous’ and promises to call next week before she hangs up and you are left with just the still silence of your apartment for company.

When your tea is finished, you’re feeling just groggy enough to try to attempt sleep. There’s no reason for you to check your phone—you have nothing to do and nowhere to be, remember?

But you check your phone anyway. And when you visit Tumblr for your nightly dose of political rage, unhinged takes on television shows you’re never going to watch, and maybe some sweet art posts, a screenshot of a recent tweet catches your eye.

You don’t need to look at it.

Girl. Don’t.

Girl…

You look. Of course you look.

And you don’t just look. You tap. And it’s not just a screenshot, it’s a link that takes you straight to Twitter.

A few tweets down you find a new hashtag that, thankfully, is not trending.

You don’t go looking any further. You don’t want to know anything about the Film Critics’ Awards or see the photos they’re talking about. You don’t want to speculate on how much partying Joe has been doing since you walked out of his life three weeks ago. You don’t want to welcome the guilt that comes every time you think about it.

About him.

Misplaced guilt, you remind yourself.

Inappropriate guilt.

Unmerited guilt.

Instead, you close out of the app and uninstall it from your phone. Then you rub your eyes again and try to go to sleep.

My name is Hazel Donovan and it’s been zero days since I last checked on my ex-boss on social media.

Things might feel bleak in the first half of January, but they start to turn around somewhere around the twelfth. We can speed things up with a little montage. Pick whichever melancholy acoustic song you want. We’ll show you doing normal things like grocery shopping and rearranging the furniture in your apartment six different times. Binge-watching shows you’ve seen a million times before. It’s not a sad montage. It’s just to show that things are fine. Not great. Not even all that good. But fine.

Anyway, montage over. Middle of the month. That’s when you get a call with a real lead—a band going out on tour starting the first of February. Super tight turnaround to get up to speed on everything, but you’d had worse.

And of course, it’s not like a band band so much as it is a boy band. It isn’t the worst thing in the world, but it’s definitely not on your list of preferred acts.

But there’s that whole thing about beggars and choosers and unfortunately, no one else is blowing up your phone these days.

Well. Almost no one.

You have two missed calls in your call log. London number. Familiar. Not someone you want to call back.

And you probably wouldn’t have if she hadn’t called a third time. That time she leaves a message.

Halting. Hesitant. Overly polite.

Hi Hazel. It’s Carmel. … Joe’s mum. I—I know you’ve left your position as his assistant and, of course, I respect that, but. Well. He’s got us all quite concerned. He’s been acting strange and isolating and—

You stop listening and just bite the bullet.

She answers halfway through the second ring. “Hazel?”

You swallow. “Yeah. Hi.”

“Thank you so much for calling me back,” she says sounding a little too relieved for this to be a tiny favor she’s about to ask. “As I said in my message, I know you’re not working for him or Vic any longer, and I completely understand your reasoning.”

You steel yourself with an inhale. “What can I do for you, Carmel?”

“He won’t come to the door.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“Joe. He’ll answer my calls but only to say he’s fine and doesn’t want to see anyone. His father’s had no luck in reaching him. Same with his friends. Apparently, there was some scuffle a few nights ago at a club and I just—”

“Wait-wait. I’m sorry,” you cut her off. “Are you saying you think he’ll talk to me?”

“Talk?” Carmel repeats. “No, not really. But he might listen to you. In fact, I think you might be the only one who stands a chance at getting him to listen at all.”

You open your mouth to respond but all that you manage to produce is an uncertain squeak.

She takes that as an invitation to continue. “I just need to know he’s alright. And I don't want to call the police,” she says with that quiet, love-soaked desperation that only mothers can pull off. “I know you didn’t part on good terms, and I know I’m asking quite a bit from someone who doesn’t owe him—or any of us—a thing. But—”

“Okay.”

You hear yourself say the word before you even realize you’d thought it. If you could jump outside of your body and smack yourself in the back of the head, now would be the perfect time to do that.

“O-okay?” she asks, hesitant enough to assure you this was a Hail Mary on her end, and she had no expectation that you’d be dumb enough to be up for it.

But you are dumb enough, aren’t you?

You didn’t think you were, but hey! At least it’s nice to know you can still surprise yourself.

“Yeah,” you hear yourself say. It still doesn’t sound like you. More like someone is throwing their voice to make you agree to this nonsense. “I’ll…I don’t know. Go and do a wellness check. I don’t think he’ll open the door for me, either, though. So don’t get your hopes up.”

Carmel thanks you a few thousand times before you manage to get her off the phone. You can’t listen to her fraught tone any longer. You need peace, and quiet, and time to stew on the absolute clown shoes decision you just made.

You consider lying to Joe’s mother and telling her you went but were unsuccessful. But then you think of your own mother and how, if she was as desperate to know you were okay that she was calling someone she knew didn’t want anything to do with you…

Well.

You’d want that person to tell her the truth.

His address is still saved in your navigation app as well as in all of your rideshares. Not that you need it—you’re pretty sure you could still get there blindfolded. You take the bus for financial reasons—and also because it adds another half hour to the trip, and you need that time to talk yourself in and out of going through with this.

There are three levels to defeat if you want to get to the Final Boss of this little endeavor.

The first is the call box outside the front door. You buzz once. Twice.

“Piss off, I’m fine,” Joe’s irritated voice cuts off the third buzz halfway through.

You clear your throat. “Joe, it’s Hazel.”

There’s a long pause before he scoffs. “Oh, you can extra piss off.”

You roll your eyes. “Your mom sent me,” you continue. “I just need to see that you’re alright. Then I’ll leave and she can breathe again.”

And shame on you for driving her to this point anyway, you think, but keep your mouth shut.

“You’re just going to have to take my word for it,” he says in a cold, clipped tone. “I’m not letting you in.”

The second level is the locked front door. It can only be opened by a resident triggering it from inside—which you aren’t going to get, or a code to unlock—which you have memorized, presuming Joe hasn't thought to change it since December.

You take a deep breath and enter the code. It clicks open like it has a million times before and you’re free to slip inside.

The last level is the trickiest. Or, rather, it would be if you didn’t know the man like the back of your hand. You may have handed in your keys along with everything else, but you didn’t have your memory wiped. And memory tells you that if you carefully push the heavy potted palm next to the decorative table outside the elevator a few inches to the left, you will find where Joe hides his spare key.

Which is absolutely stupid and risky and just begging someone to do exactly what you’re doing right now. You scoop it up and approach the last door on the left. You could just unlock the door and barge in, but you give him one last chance to let you in on his own.

“Joe,” you call through the door after your first knock goes unanswered. “I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here,” you assure him. “But it’s either this or you let your mom come over, so—”

To your surprise, the deadbolt turns with a series of heavy metallic clunks and the door opens with an impassioned, “Fuck’s sake—”

You feel your jaw drop a fraction of an inch as your eyes widen. Joe looks terrible. Not just sleep-deprived and overly medicated like you’re used to—although he’s still very much leaning into that look—but he looks like whatever sleep he’s managed to get in the last three days has all been in the clothes he’s wearing. And—worst and most glaring of all—his bottom lip is fat and purple and there’s a distinct bruise on his right eye.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you hear yourself say as you stare at each other. “What happened?”

“You’re not paid to care anymore,” he clips and goes to shut the door. “Now piss off.”

You stop the door with your foot and easily push past him into his apartment. It is predictably trashed with dirty dishes all over the place, empty bottles, scripts, and things he needs for work littered on every surface. You turn in a slow circle, taking in all the mess. “Do you think Stasia isn’t working hard enough, or something? Want to really make her earn that paycheck?”

He reluctantly shuts the door and looks at you, his head tilted to the side like a fox. “Who?”

“Your cleaning lady,” you remind him, trying to keep the disbelief out of your voice. “The one who’s been keeping the windows boarded up against Hurricane Joe for the last two years?”

He shakes his head. “She left.”

“Left?”

“She went back to Poland,” he says, turning away from you with a dismissive wave. “To get married or have a baby or something—I don’t know.”

You doubt that very much. If only because Stasia is forty-eight years old and has been married for the last twenty-five of those years. It’s more likely one of her children who is getting married or having a baby, but of course, Joe wasn’t listening when she gave her reasons, so you’ll never know. You don’t mention it as you glance around and step over a leather jacket he’s tossed next to the door. It takes everything you have not to start picking up. “Having trouble finding a replacement, are we?”

“Haven’t got around to it,” he mutters, shaking his head again.

Of course he hasn’t. Because you’re the one who interviewed and hired Stasia to begin with.

“Joe—”

“Why are you still here?” he asks, turning back around as he gets to the couch. “You said you just needed to see me, so Mum knows I’m still upright, and here—” he holds out his arms. “All in one piece. You can go now.”

But you don’t go. You can't. Because something in your chest twinges at the state of his apartment, his clothes, his face. Your mother’s words come back to you. That’s not the kind of care you can just switch off like a light. Not my girl. Three years of fixing everything for one person is a hard habit to break. You purse your lips and motion to his bruises. “What happened there?”

To your surprise, he scoffs as he drops down to sit on the sofa. “Oh, you mean he didn’t tell you?”

It’s your turn to tilt your head in confusion. “Who didn’t tell me what?”

“Your boyfriend Charlie did this.”

Your eyes nearly bug out of your head. “My what?”

“Nice of you to tell me you’ve been fucking my best friend behind my back, by the way,” he adds derisively.

You close your eyes in a long blink and try to gather your thoughts as they race around your head. Questions of what the hell Charlie’s been saying and to whom and why Joe thinks it’s any of his business— “Okay, there are so many things wrong with that sentence, I don’t even know where to start.” You let out a heavy exhale and push your other questions aside to deal with the one that feels most pressing. “Why on Earth were you in a fight with Charlie?!”

“Why do you think?” he demands looking up to hook you with a hard stare.

You stare back. “Joe. What I do and who I do it with in my free time has never had anything to do with you,” you remind him firmly. “It’s none of your business.”

“None of my business,” he scoffs. “Only it is a bit my business when you come to work looking like you got mauled by a tiger thanks to my best friend—”

“Oh, stop it,” you snap, effectively cutting him off. “Spare me this pouty child act. Charlie is not your best friend, first of all. He’s your former flatmate and you barely make time for him or any of your other civilian friends anymore, so stop saying that. And if you’re going to act like one hickey is some mark of the ultimate betrayal,” you can’t keep the contempt from your voice anymore, “then keep in mind that I’d already quit that day I came into the office to drop off my things. And you still haven’t answered my question,” you remind him. “Why the fuck were you fighting with Charlie? I’m not even sleeping with him anymore!”

“Yeah, but you were, weren’t you?”

You watch as he drops his head again and puts his face in his hands. He looks worse than terrible. He looks lost. And sad. And hurt. And even though he has no right to feel any of those things about you, you feel the fire going out of your will to argue. Your shoulders drop with a heavy sigh. “Dude…”

He’s not looking at you as you move a pile of paperwork and sit next to him on the couch. “I don’t even know what happened,” he admits quietly. His palm scrapes against his stubble as he runs a hand over the lower half of his face and shakes his head. “We were out. He took out his phone for something and—I don’t know,” he says again. “He was trying to remember some band you’d told him to listen to or show to watch? I just remember I looked over his shoulder and saw he had all these texts from you and…” he drops his hand, looking defeated. “Next thing I knew I’d punched him in the face like some fucking psychopath.”

You swallow hard. “Is he okay?”

He turns to glare at you. “Is that all you care about?”

“No,” you deflect immediately. “Not all I care about. But I can see that you’re okay, so now I’m asking about him.”

He makes another sound of quiet disgust and rolls his eyes. “He’s fine. He drove me home after we got chucked out.” He briefly swipes his hand through the air like he’s erasing a chalkboard. “All’s forgiven.”

Of course it was.

Fucking boys.

You feel a little better knowing that it was Joe’s snooping that led him to his conclusion rather than Charlie engaging in some out-of-character locker room talk. Not much. But a little bit.

And your feeling a little better does nothing to improve the situation as a whole. You clear your throat quietly before you make yourself ask, “Were you high?”

He blinks and looks over at you. “What—when I—?” he motions to his face, and you nod. You see his throat move as he swallows. “Yeah,” he says after a moment and returns to looking at the warzone he’s made of the coffee table. “Yeah, I was really fuckin’ high. But. But I’ve been that high before,” he goes on before you can comment. “Never lost it like that.”

You close your eyes in another long blink. “Joe, what are you doing?”

“I don’t know, alright?” he snaps. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t know why I did it. I don’t know why I’m doing anything! I just can’t stop and—”

You wait for him to go on, but he doesn’t. In the heavy silence that follows, you rest your elbows on your knees, press your palms together, and let your chin and lips press against the edges of your fingers. “Are we at the point where you can admit that the drugs are becoming a problem?”

He makes a sound of irritation that tells you everything you need to know. “It’s not the bloody drugs, Hazel.”

“Then what is it?” you demand, turning to face him. “What is the catalyst that’s fucked you up so badly that you’re neglecting every aspect of your life and acting like a goddamn lunatic?”

“It’s you!”

You stare at him, eyes wide. “I beg your pardon?”

“You just left, and I don’t—I don’t know what I’m supposed to do and—”

You shake your head. “You are a grown man,” You speak over him before he can disintegrate into senseless babbling. “You do not get to blame me for all your problems when all I have ever done is try to help you—”

“Yes!” he looks up again. “I know. That’s what I’m saying. I need you to help me—to—” he stumbles. “To fix me,” he spits out the words like they’re too sharp. Like they’ve cut the inside of his mouth.

And the thing is, you probably could. Not long-term, of course, not if he’s adamant he doesn’t have a drug problem. But you could fix him today. You could help him clean his place and find him a new cleaning lady. You could place a grocery order and fill his fridge and cabinets with healthy food again. Organize his schedule. Sort through his messages and emails and only pull out what’s important.

You could do all that. You’ve done it all before.

But that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? If you do all that now, if you fall back on those habits like he’s begging you to do, it’s just enabling this learned helplessness. It will just guarantee you’re both right back here in a few months when it all goes to hell again.

Still.

It hurts to see him like this—like someone clenched their fingers around your heart and started to squeeze. If you think about it too much—if you think about anything he’s said today too much—it’s hard to breathe.

You pull in another deep breath and reach tentatively to put a hand on his arm. “Okay,” you say hoarsely.

Joe’s expression softens into something that looks like relief and hope and just about breaks your heart. “Really?”

You nod once. “First,” you make sure he meets your eye. “I need you to admit that you have become a self-absorbed, inconsiderate, ungrateful asshole with the moral backbone of a chocolate éclair, that’s been driven around the planet with your dick behind the wheel and your ego working the pedals.”

He lets out a sigh that could challenge you for the title of Long-Suffering. “Fine, yes. Okay?”

“No,” you shake your head. “Not agree. Say it out loud.”

Another sigh that seems to come from the very depths of his soul. “Yes,” he says again. “Fine. I’m…I’m an asshole. I’m shallow and self-absorbed and I haven’t really cared about anything other than doing whatever I want for a very long time.” His shoulders drop as soon as the words are out of his mouth. “Now please,” he implores. “Help me.”

“I just did,” you tell him. “Admitting you have a problem is the first step in solving it.” You give his arm a quick squeeze and stand up. “I can’t fix you, Joe. Only you can do that.”

He stays seated as you turn and head for the door. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” he asks, sounding genuinely bewildered.

“Clean up your own mess,” you say, turning around only once your hand is on the doorknob. You look around his trashed apartment. “If I were you? I’d start with this room and just keep cleaning until something makes sense again.”

You put his key back under the planter and take the stairs down sixteen flights just to give yourself the time to feel like you’ve gathered your senses again.

It’s unnerving how close you were to giving him what he asked for. How easy it would have been to slip right back into those old familiar roles of Trainwreck and Cleanup Crew. How some traitorous little part of your brain was reminding you that it would make him happy—that whether you wanted to admit it or not, you want him to be happy. You want to make him happy.

It takes until you reach the ground floor and are back on the sidewalk with the cold rain smacking you in the face that you feel that you can draw a full breath again. You call his mother and leave a voicemail telling her that Joe is physically fine but could probably use some help finding a new housekeeper. After a moment’s internal debate, you tell her where he keeps his spare key just in case he still won’t open the door the next time she comes over.

Then you block her number and delete any remaining apps you’ve been using to check up on him in the last month. Joe may not be willing to admit he has a problem, but you can. Your addiction to wanting to help and fix and make things better for him has the potential to be just as destructive as whatever he’s putting into his body.

Best just to go cold turkey.

***

A week later you’re in the office of Callum McCool signing a mountain of paperwork while his assistant makes photocopies of all your IDs and legal documents. His walls are decked with awards from the music industry, signed photos of stars before they were stars, and anything else you might need to assume that this band you’re about to tour with is in good hands.

You had never listened to The Lamplight before hearing about this job and, if their new album is a fair indication of their style, you have big plans to resume your blissful ignorance after the tour concludes.

But that’s fine. You don’t need to like a group to keep them on schedule and out of trouble. It’s actually better if you don’t. Helps keep things nice and professional.

Not that you’re going to have a problem with professionalism when your clients are all, quite literally, half your age. The biggest problem you might anticipate is being able to take them seriously.

“Six weeks,” Callum says, pulling your attention up from your paperwork. “Three to four shows a week. France, Germany, Italy, Amsterdam, and then back to the UK. Any issues with that?”

You shake your head. “No sir.”

“And you’re fine being away from London for that long?”

You nod with a smile that almost doesn’t feel forced. “Honestly, the less time I spend here the better. I need a change of pace.”

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A/N: That "help me/I just did" moment is from Rick&Morty and the "backbone of a chocolate eclair" is from Teddy Roosevelt re: President McKinley as popularized by John Mulaney.

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