#Contractor Connection | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

syoddeye · 6 months ago

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sliding scale

You're in need of a handyman. He has needs of his own. cw: discussion of kids/pregnancy, john price inserting himself into your life, heavily implied breeding kink, unsettling and smutless (my brand)

You win the jackpot. Okay. Not the jackpot, but you're hit by a respectable windfall. It's like a cheesy movie you'd watch around the holidays: A distant relative dies, you receive a very serious letter, and suddenly, your account isn't as sad as it once was.

So, you do the impossible. The unthinkable. You buy a house.

An old, well-loved house from an elderly couple.

The day you close, they tell you about raising their kids in the house and mention the names etched on the door frame. When you arrive home that evening, the empty house feels grand and hollow, but there they are, just where they said. Names climbing upward in uneven increments, faded with time, but legible. You trace your finger along the marks, imagining small hands and the measuring tape, the years slipping by. It makes you smile, despite yourself.

You've never wanted kids, not really, but the thought of this, people leaving bits of themselves behind—it makes you mushy. You figure, once the dust settles, you'll let rooms to friends, maybe friends of friends. Start a fun little commune of sorts, a collective of people coming and going.

The first night, you drink nonalcoholic wine straight from the bottle and lie on your mattress on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. There's no furniture yet, just your overnight bag and the smell of fresh paint from a patch you tested on the living room wall. You fall asleep smiling. The house needs a lot of work, but you're not worried. Some TLC and elbow grease can go a long way.

Over the next few weeks, you move in and start working. Anything is possible with the power of YouTube tutorials and the local tool library.

You start in the primary bedroom and bathroom, learning to tile, install flooring, and connect plumbing for the perfect vanity and sink you found at a thrift store. It feels good to learn how things fit together and see the fruits of your labor. At night, you sleep in one of the old kid's rooms. The wallpaper is covered in rockets and planets. A couple of glow-in-the-dark stars cling to the ceiling.

The bathroom comes together wonderfully, and you feel invincible.

But then you get to the kitchen.

After an outlet zaps you, you decide you may be in over your head. That there really is a limit to what one person can do on their own. You start looking up local contractors, but everything is out of your budget. You've been doing all the work yourself for a reason. Then, after digging for ages, you find a promising lead: John Price - Handyman - Sliding Scale.

On the phone, John seems normal. Charming. Funny. He tells you he's impressed you bought a house on your own. (You've heard that a lot lately, and while it feels patronizing, you let it go. You did jump up a band upon inheriting your chunk of Great Uncle Leroy's money.) He agrees to come by and see what he can do.

You have to admit he makes a good impression when he shows up. He's punctual, polite, and looks the part. Broad chest, thick arms, big hands resting on his hips as he surveys the kitchen. After only a few minutes, he says he'll take the job. No hesitation.

You explain your tight budget and that you'll work alongside him when you're not at your day job. You show him the money you've set aside, expecting him to back out, but he just shakes his head and nudges the folder back across the table.

"Said I'd do it. Don't you fret, darl."

You vet him afterward, just to be sure. His references check out. The reviews are solid. He appears to know a little about everything. You text him to confirm, formally offering the job, and he accepts.

On the first day, you let him in and immediately have to avert your eyes. You didn't realize a toolbelt could look like that on someone. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms, and the way he moves—confident, purposeful—makes you grateful you're heading out to work. You tell him when you'll be back and leave quickly, gripping the steering wheel tighter than usual thinking about the hunk of man in your house.

When you return, the kitchen looks different, unfinished, but vastly improved. John's already fixed things you didn't think could be fixed. Over lunch, he even scoped out other problems around the house: a crack in the basement wall, a loose board on the stairs, and spots where the flooring must be replaced. He gushes about the house, praising its character, the way it's held up over time.

John's face grows serious, and stares down his nose when he finally asks, "You're not gonna ask me to paint over the wood or rip out the built-in hutch, are ya?"

His relief over your answer is palpable: No. That's why you bought the house in the first place. You describe what you love about it: the glass doorknobs, the dining room archway, and transom windows above the doors. He nods. He knows exactly what you mean.

Before he leaves for the day, he stops at the doorframe and points to the tallest name etched into the wood. You explain it belonged to the previous owners, a family with seven kids.

"Seven," he repeats, eyebrows raised.

"Right? Can you believe that? Seven!" You laugh. Frankly, anything more than two sounds insane.

But John doesn't laugh. He stares at the names for a moment, his jaw tight. "Yeah. Difficult to imagine."

After he leaves, you scold yourself. You don't really know John. You've known him for all of a day. What if he came from a big family? Or what if he doesn't speak to his family anymore, if things are complicated with his parents? You feel awful, and the guilt channels itself into stress-baking.

The next morning, when he shows up, there's a platter of breakfast pasties waiting on the counter. He hesitates, looks almost bashful, until you insist. He takes a bite, then another, and looks at you with genuine astonishment. He says if you leave food like this every morning, he'll knock his rate down even further.

It makes sense, financially speaking, so you agree. You start making breakfast for two, and in return, he keeps the repairs affordable. The ritual becomes routine: John shows up every weekday morning, you eat together, he gets to work, and you leave. You look forward to seeing him. Hearing his voice rumble out good mornings and goodnights.

For two weeks, you come home to find steady progress on the kitchen. You help him out for an hour or two in the evenings, and by the time it's nearly finished, you've started discussing other parts of the house.

You mention the two smallest children's rooms aren't really usable for tenants. You show him your plans to knock down the wall between them and create a library or office space.

But this time, John doesn't agree.

"First I'm hearing of this," He leans back in his chair at your table. His arms cross over his chest, legs spreading wide. Even sitting, you see what he's doing. Trying to take a posture that carries authority, to cow you. "Tenants? What about a family?"

You try to steer the conversation back to your plans, to the picture you've sketched. "I'm not planning on having one. So, like I was saying—"

"Why buy a house this big, then? Why spend all this time fixin' it up if you're not planning to honor its legacy?"

The tone of his voice shifts completely, with no trace of the easy, flirty banter that's been your norm for weeks. His words drip with disdain. His brow knits together. Nostrils flaring. He looks genuinely upset. Mystified that you're not going to fill the house with your…your brood.

It's as if your refusal to have children is an affront to him personally.

It sends a chill down your spine. Instantly, your image of him—this dependable, good-humored man—cracks apart. You glance past him, searching for the right words, and focus on the kitchen instead. The cabinets, the fixtures, the paint. All of it bears his mark now, and it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

The realization settles like a stone in your stomach. You can't keep working with him. Not if your plans for the house, your house, are going to be a problem.

You tell him as much, as gently as possible.

His anger bleeds out of him quickly, melting into embarrassment and shame. His shoulders drop, and he folds into himself in a way that seems almost impossible for someone his size. "Don't know what came over me, darl."

He packs up his tools while apologizing again, both for his outburst and for the unfinished work, and gives you the spare key you lent to him for emergencies. Before he leaves, he asks you not to write a review, not even a positive one, and you agree. Things had been good until now. You don't want to ruin him over this. People have bad days.

With the kitchen functional and nothing too big left on your plate, you cut your losses and decide to finish the work alone.

Progress is slow on your own, of course. One pair of hands, only so many hours after work to chip away at the list after work. Still, time moves faster than you expect. You push through exhaustion, head often swimming, and work late into the evenings. One night, you finish patching the floor and tackle the basement's cracked wall. Only when you get down there, it's already done. Smoothed over perfectly.

You tell yourself John must've fixed it before everything went south. But then you notice other things. Several odd jobs from your list are already complete.

Squeaky door hinges turn silent. The dings and nail holes in the walls, spackled over. The second toilet that kept running starts working correctly. It's partly a relief, like the house is taking care of itself, but also deeply unsettling. You don't remember doing it, you've never sleepwalked or slept-repair in your life, even in your overtired state, and you're still too sore over your falling out to text John and ask if he did it all.

Instead, you decide to take a break. A few days off work, a proper rest. Let the house settle, let yourself breathe. Nothing happens. No floating tools. No ghosts. It's like the house is waiting for you to look away.

Paranoia sets in. You order cameras—indoor and outdoor, enough to cover every angle.

The day they arrive, you barely make it through the door before tearing open the box. But something stops you. Your eyes catch on a strange wooden box sitting on the dining table. It's a shadowbox.

Inside the box is the slat from the front doorframe, the one with the heights and names of the seven kids who grew up here. It's been cut out, perfectly, and framed like an artifact.

Your stomach drops. You scramble to the doorframe and run your hands over it, frantic. The patchwork is seamless, so clean it's like the names never existed.

Then you notice the boots. Tucked in and lined up next to your own pairs. The extra jacket hanging on the hooks.

A shadow falls over you.

You freeze, heart in your throat, and slowly turn with eyes the size of dinner plates. Towering above you, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fists planted on his hips, is John. Grinning.

"Work alright today?" He bends down and pulls you to your feet by your wrist, wrapping you up in an embrace and welcoming you home. He sways slightly with you, like you're dancing, his chest rising and falling against yours. He looks at you with a clear fondness and affection, but there's something off, like a splintering foundation. Stable until you look too close.

You try to push yourself away, palms flat against his chest, but he doesn't let go. "What are—What are you doing here? What are—Why did you do that?" You glance again toward where the measurements used to be.

He chuckles, soft and unbothered, a wistfulness threaded in his words. "Well, we're gonna need the room for our little ones, yeah? Oh, we'll have seven or more, dependin' on what takes. Sliding scale and all that."

At your stunned, horrified silence, he slots a hand into the back pocket of your jeans. He gives your cheek a little squeeze and starts steering you toward the kitchen. The one he built for you.

"C'mon. Lemme tell you all about my plans for us."

#price x reader #john price x reader #sy writes

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oldsoul007 · 4 months ago

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Collide

joel miller x famous!reader

summary: A famous pop star and a reserved contractor find an unexpected connection when their paths cross at a concert, leading to a complicated and intense relationship despite their vastly different worlds.

a/n: 20 year age gap, suggestive scenes, kissing, fluff, teen Sarah, please request!!

joel miller masterlist

I was still coming down from the high of the show, the pulse of the bass lingering in my veins as I sat in my dressing room. My legs were stretched out over the couch, my body buzzing with exhaustion in the best way. Another sold-out night. Another crowd screaming my lyrics back at me.

Someone knocked, and my manager popped her head in.

“Your meet-and-greet winner is here—Sarah Miller.”

“Send her in,” I said, smiling.

The door swung open, and in walked a teenage girl, clutching a crinkled tour poster with wide, almost disbelieving eyes. I’d seen that look before—pure, unfiltered excitement, the kind that made all the work worth it.

But what I hadn’t seen before—what I wasn’t expecting—was the man following her.

Older. Tall. Broad shoulders filling the doorway, a flannel stretched over his chest, sleeves rolled up his forearms. His hair was dark but streaked with gray, and the scruff along his jaw was salt-and-pepper. He wasn’t moving like he was part of this world—he lingered, arms crossed, scanning the room with wary eyes like he wasn’t sure if he’d just stepped into a trap.

I was used to seeing dads at my shows, usually half-asleep or scrolling on their phones, counting down the minutes until they could leave. But this guy?

Something about him felt different.

Sarah, completely unaware of the shift in my focus, let out a sharp breath. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “I can’t believe I’m here.”

I grinned, forcing myself to drag my attention away from the man hovering behind her.

“Believe it, babe. You made it.” I patted the couch beside me. “Come sit. Let’s take some pictures.”

Sarah practically collapsed onto the seat, still clutching her poster like it might disappear if she let go. “You were amazing. Like, I love your albums, but live? Insane. And the outfits? Oh my God.”

“Thank you!” I laughed, flicking my hair over my shoulder. “Gotta give the people a show.”

I felt it then—that weight of a gaze pressing into me. Not from Sarah.

From him.

I glanced up, catching him watching me. Not in a creepy way. Not in a casual way, either. It was assessing, lingering, like he wasn’t expecting this from me. Like I wasn’t what he thought I’d be.

Sarah rolled her eyes dramatically. “That’s my dad Joel. He insisted on coming. Thought I’d get kidnapped or something.”

“Smart,” I murmured, turning my gaze back to him.

His eyes flicked to mine, and for a second, the room felt smaller.

“You didn’t have to stay back here,” I said, tilting my head. “Most parents just drop their kids off and wait outside.”

His jaw twitched, like he was debating if it was worth answering.

“Didn’t feel right leaving her alone,” he said finally. His voice was deep, rough—like gravel warmed by the sun.

I studied him, smirking a little. “Didn’t seem like you hated the show.”

Something flickered in his eyes—like he hadn’t expected me to notice him in the crowd, let alone call him out on it.

Sarah gasped dramatically. “Wait. Did you actually like it?” She turned to him, eyes wide. “Oh my God, Dad, are you a fan now?”

Joel—Joel. I liked the name—exhaled through his nose, shifting his weight. “Let’s not get carried away.”

I laughed. I liked this. The push and pull of it. He was clearly out of his element, but he wasn’t running from it either.

Sarah turned back to me, still buzzing. “He literally never listens to anything but old music. Like, dad music. So this is, like, a huge deal.”

I arched a brow at him. “Old music, huh? Let me guess—Springsteen? Tom Petty?”

Joel just stared at me. “Nothin’ wrong with Petty.”

I grinned. “Didn’t say there was.”

He held my gaze for a beat too long, something unreadable flickering in his expression before he looked away.

Sarah didn’t seem to notice any of it, too busy gushing about her favorite songs. I signed her poster, took a few selfies, and listened as she told me about how she and her best friend had waited all night to get tickets.

Eventually, my manager cleared her throat—a signal that it was time to wrap things up.

Sarah pouted but nodded, clutching her signed poster like a lifeline. “Thank you so much. This was, like, the best night of my life.”

“Anytime, babe,” I said, giving her a wink.

Then my eyes flickered back to Joel.

He lingered a half-second longer than he needed to, that same unreadable expression on his face. Like he wasn’t sure what the hell just happened here.

I smirked.

“See you around, Joel.”

His throat bobbed. His hands flexed at his sides. But he didn’t say anything—just gave me one last look before following Sarah out the door.

I watched them go, my body still humming—not just from the show, but from him.

Something told me this wasn’t the last time I’d be seeing Joel Miller.

—

I woke up to a pounding headache, the kind that made me instantly regret every single tequila shot from the night before. The afterparty had been a blur—flashing lights, too many hands grabbing mine, bodies pressed close, music so loud I could still feel the bass vibrating in my bones.

I groaned, rolling over in bed, burying my face in the pillows. My mouth was dry. My limbs ached. And judging by the way my phone was blowing up on the nightstand, I’d missed something important.

I squinted at the screen, ignoring the dozens of notifications, and instead focused on the text from my assistant:

“Contractors are at the house today. They need you to sign off on finishes. Be there by noon.”

I groaned again, rubbing my face. Noon? That might as well have been dawn.

But I couldn’t push it off any longer. The house was almost done, and I wanted to make sure every little detail was perfect before I moved in. So I forced myself out of bed, took the longest shower of my life, and threw on a pair of oversized sunglasses to hide the absolute disaster happening on my face.

By the time I pulled up to the house, it was already hot, the kind of Texas heat that made the air shimmer off the pavement. My head was still pounding as I stepped out of the car, tugging my hoodie up over my messy hair.

Then I saw them.

Two men on the porch, deep in conversation. One was younger, dark-haired, grinning as he gestured toward the house. The other…

Oh.

I froze.

It was him.

Joel.

He was standing there, arms crossed, that same unreadable expression on his face as he listened to the other guy talk. He looked just as solid as he had last night, except now he wasn’t in a dimly lit dressing room—he was in daylight, in his element, wearing a dark t-shirt that clung to the broad planes of his chest, work-worn jeans slung low on his hips. His sleeves were pushed up, revealing forearms dusted with hair, veins prominent beneath tanned skin.

Fuck.

I was hungover. I was in no shape for this kind of thing.

But he turned, catching sight of me, and for a second, I swore I saw something flicker in his expression. Recognition. Amusement. Maybe even something else.

The younger guy—who I was now guessing was his brother—looked between us, raising an eyebrow. “Well, damn. You’re the client?”

I pushed my sunglasses up, smirking. “Surprised?”

Joel exhaled through his nose, something like a chuckle under his breath. He shook his head slightly, looking down before glancing back up at me. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

I stepped closer, my headache momentarily forgotten. “Yeah? You’re not exactly my usual demographic either.”

Joel’s jaw ticked. He shifted his weight, hands resting on his hips. “That what you call it?”

I let my eyes flicker over him—just briefly, just enough for him to feel it. “You tell me.”

His throat bobbed, but he didn’t answer.

His brother, though, was eating this up. He let out a low whistle, grinning between us. “Alright, what am I missin’ here?”

I smirked. “Your brother was at my show last night.”

The younger man lit up. “Oh, no shit.” He turned to Joel, grinning. “Man, you didn’t tell me you were a fan.”

Joel exhaled sharply. “Jesus Christ.”

I laughed, biting my lip, watching the way his jaw clenched. He wasn’t flustered, not exactly. But he was… affected. And I liked that.

“Tommy,” Joel muttered, clearly done with this conversation. “Go check the tile in the kitchen.”

Tommy—who now had a name—was still grinning as he backed away. “Oh, I’ll check the tile, alright.”

When he was gone, I turned back to Joel, crossing my arms.

“So. You do this for a living?”

Joel nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Been doin’ contracting work a long time.”

I let my gaze drift around the house, imagining him working here—his hands on the walls, the floors, every little detail touched by him.

“Guess that means you’ll be around for a while.”

Joel met my eyes, something heavy in his gaze. “Looks that way.”

The air felt thick, the heat between us stretching, pulling, tightening.

I smirked. “Good.”

Then I turned and walked inside, knowing full well he was watching me go.

—

I stepped into the house, my heels clicking on the polished floors, the cool air inside a welcome relief from the heat outside. Joel followed me, his footsteps steady and even behind me, but it was his presence that made the room feel smaller. He was still there, lingering just at the edge of my periphery as I looked around the space.

“So, what do you think?” I asked, motioning to the wide open spaces, the unfinished but impressive features—high ceilings, sleek lines, all of it still a work in progress.

Joel took a slow turn, eyes scanning the room. “It’s big,” he said. “I mean, damn. You’re gonna need a lotta furniture to fill this place.”

I chuckled, shrugging. “I’ll figure it out.” I didn’t mind the emptiness. I liked the potential of it. The house was a blank slate, just like the life I’d started to build here.

“Texas sure knows how to do things big,” he muttered under his breath, walking over to inspect the kitchen island.

I caught the slight surprise in his voice, and it made me pause. “You surprised?”

He turned to face me, his brows raised slightly. “Guess I didn’t expect someone like you to be from here.”

I tilted my head, genuinely curious now. “Someone like me?”

He shrugged, his eyes flickering to mine before he looked back down at the stone countertop, his hands moving slowly over the surface. “I dunno. You’re, uh… different. Thought people from Texas were more…” He trailed off, not quite sure how to finish the thought.

“More what?” I prodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips.

He rubbed his jaw, clearly trying to avoid saying something that might come out wrong. “I dunno. More country, maybe. More… traditional.”

I raised an eyebrow, amused. “You think I’m not ‘traditional’?”

Joel shifted uncomfortably. “No, it’s not that.” He looked like he was realizing how much trouble he’d gotten himself into with his words. “I’m just sayin’, Texas is a big place. People think it’s all rodeos and oil rigs and cowboy hats.”

I laughed, walking over to a window that looked out over the land. The sunlight was softer now, casting a warm glow on the fields beyond. The house felt like a fortress here, its high walls keeping out everything I didn’t want. But in Texas, even the wide-open spaces felt like they were mine.

“Well, I grew up here,” I said, looking out at the view, my voice softening a little. “I didn’t think I could build a house anywhere else. Texas is home.”

Joel stayed silent for a moment, the weight of my words hanging in the air. Then, when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “I get that. Texas has a way of sticking with you, doesn’t it?”

I nodded, turning to face him. “Yeah. You can take the girl out of Texas, but…” I let the sentence hang, a half-smile on my lips.

He met my gaze then, something almost reflective in his eyes. “But you can’t take Texas out of the girl.”

I let out a soft laugh, relieved that he understood. That we didn’t need to say everything. I’d always known that about Texas—that it was big, that it was loud, but also that it was home in a way I couldn’t explain to anyone who didn’t feel the same pull.

“So, where are you from?” I asked, stepping closer to him, wanting to shift the conversation away from the weight of what I’d said.

He paused, looking down for a second, like he wasn’t sure if he should say. Finally, he met my eyes, his expression shifting to something more grounded. “Came from a small town outside Austin. Grew up on a farm, learned the trade from my old man.”

I smiled. “Sounds like a different world than this.”

“It was,” he agreed. His gaze drifted toward the large windows, his tone thoughtful. “But Texas has a way of making you feel like you belong, no matter where you come from.”

There was something in his voice, something that made me pause. He wasn’t just talking about the land anymore. He was talking about Texas—and maybe even about himself, too.

For a second, the tension between us shifted. It wasn’t just about the house, or the project we were both now a part of—it was about something deeper. Something about us both finding our places, making a home.

I broke the silence, clearing my throat. “Guess that’s what makes it so special. Doesn’t matter how far you go, you always find your way back.”

Joel looked at me, his expression unreadable, but there was something lingering there. Something unsaid. He cleared his throat. “Guess you’re right.”

I smiled, the weight of the moment fading into something lighter, easier.

But as we stood there, looking at each other in the stillness of that unfinished house, I knew one thing for sure—Texas wasn’t just a place. It was a feeling. And for the first time, I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave it behind. Not now. Not ever.

—

The days passed in a blur of emails, meetings, and decisions about finishes and fixtures, but my mind kept wandering back to that house. The house that was almost finished, but not quite. Every day, I’d get updates from my manager or the construction crew about progress, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the two men working on it.

Joel and his brother, Tommy.

They were good at what they did—no surprise there.

Every time I visited, I saw them in action, meticulously working on the smallest details. Joel was particularly focused, his movements efficient but thoughtful, like he took pride in making everything just right.

I found myself going there more often than I needed to, and I could feel it—something shifting in the air between Joel and me. It wasn’t obvious, but it was there—the lingering glances, the moments where we found ourselves alone, if only for a few seconds, before either Tommy or one of the other workers came around the corner.

I’d always been good at reading people, and Joel didn’t seem like the type to show much of his cards. But there were times when our eyes met across a room, a long, drawn-out moment where neither of us looked away.

Once, I was standing by the kitchen, debating whether the granite countertops I’d chosen would clash with the cabinets. Joel had been in the other room, but when I glanced over, there he was—watching me. Not just looking, but studying me. The way his gaze lingered made my heart skip a beat, even though I was trying to act like I didn’t notice.

I forced myself to focus on the materials. “What do you think about the backsplash?” I asked, knowing I needed to fill the silence.

Joel shifted, scratching the back of his neck before walking over, his boots thudding softly against the floor. “The tile’s fine,” he said, his voice low. “But I’d go with something a little more subdued. You don’t need to compete with the countertops.”

I nodded, stepping back to look at it through his eyes. “Subdued. Got it.”

I could feel him so close now, his body just a breath away, the heat from him lingering in the space between us. But before I could respond, Tommy rounded the corner, grinning. “You two makin’ progress in here, or just talkin’ shop?”

I shot Tommy a playful smile, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Joel was still standing a little too close, like he didn’t want to walk away. I ignored it, focusing on Tommy instead, but there was no denying the tension simmering beneath the surface.

The next few days felt like that—little moments.

I’d walk through the house, discussing where I wanted certain pieces, and Joel would be there, eyes on me just a little too long. I’d catch his gaze in the reflection of a window, or he’d be watching me from across the room when I wasn’t looking, and when I did catch him, he’d quickly look away.

Tommy, oblivious to the energy between us, was always there too, cracking jokes and making the work feel light. It was clear that he and Joel were close, and I appreciated that—his easygoing attitude balanced Joel’s more serious demeanor.

But still, there were those moments when it was just Joel and me, alone.

Like the time I walked into the garage, planning to check on the paint job in the hallway. Joel had been working on some cabinetry, and when he saw me enter, he set down his tools and wiped his hands on a rag. “Hey,” he said, his voice gravelly, like he hadn’t been talking much today.

“Hey,” I said, trying to act casual, but the moment stretched longer than it should have. I could feel the distance between us closing. He was so close now that I could smell the faint scent of wood and sawdust on his skin, and I couldn’t help but notice how good he looked. It was the kind of ruggedness that worked on him—like he didn’t have to try, but still somehow looked effortlessly put together.

“I was thinking about the flooring,” I started, trying to steer the conversation to something safe as my heart raced in my chest. But the words felt stupid in my mouth when his eyes were on me like that. Like they were seeing right through me.

“Flooring’s good,” he said, leaning against the workbench. He crossed his arms, and his gaze dipped just slightly before meeting my eyes again. “You just need to decide what you want the most. It’s your house.”

His words felt more like a challenge than advice.

I took a slow breath, swallowing hard. “I know. I just… want it to be perfect.”

Joel’s expression softened. “It will be.” He stepped forward then, closer than he had before. So close I could feel his presence in a way that was more than physical. “You’ve got a good eye. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed with anything you choose.”

I could feel my pulse quicken at the way he was looking at me, the weight of the moment too intense for me to shake off. There was an invisible line between us now, a line I wasn’t sure if I should cross, but I couldn’t look away.

Just as the air thickened, the sound of Tommy’s voice came from the other room. “Yo, Joel! We need your help with these measurements.”

Joel exhaled, breaking the spell. He stepped back, his gaze still lingering on mine for just a moment longer before he turned and walked toward the doorway.

“Guess I better get to work,” he said, his voice quieter than before, like it had been touched by something.

I stood there for a beat, trying to compose myself, but my heart was still pounding in my chest. I couldn’t deny it anymore.

The tension between us was undeniable, and I wasn’t sure how much longer we could ignore it.

—

Joel was kneeling by the baseboards, smoothing out the last coat of sealant with practiced precision. The steady scrape of the tool against the wood filled the quiet space, but his attention kept flicking toward me as I sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, flipping through fabric samples for the living room.

“You know,” he said, finally breaking the silence, “I still don’t get it.”

I looked up. “Get what?”

He rested his forearm on his knee, tool still in hand, and nodded toward me. “All this.” He gestured vaguely around the room, but I knew he didn’t mean the house. “You’ve got people screaming your name, selling out arenas… but here you are, sitting on the floor, stressin’ over couch cushions.”

I laughed softly and set the samples down. “Yeah, well… those arenas don’t exactly help me figure out if sage green’s gonna make me regret all my life choices.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, but his eyes didn’t leave mine. “Still. Must be kinda… wild. All that attention.”

I leaned back on my hands, glancing toward the window where the late afternoon sun poured in, warm and golden. “Yeah. It is. It still doesn’t feel real most days.”

His brow furrowed slightly, like he was trying to understand. “What part?”

“All of it.” I shrugged, feeling the familiar wave of disbelief wash over me. “I mean, I was just a kid with a guitar writing sad songs in my bedroom. And now… there are people who know those songs. Who sing ‘em back to me. Who care enough to show up.” I shook my head with a small, disbelieving smile. “It’s insane.”

Joel was quiet for a moment. “You ever get used to it?”

“Not really.” I met his gaze again. “And honestly, I don’t think I want to. I don’t ever wanna stand on stage and not feel completely floored by the fact that people gave me a night of their lives. You know?”

He nodded slowly, his eyes softening. “Yeah. I get that.”

“Like… I’m just grateful, you know? For all of it. The chaos, the weirdness, the fact that I can make music and it actually… matters to someone. It could all go away tomorrow, and I’d still feel lucky that it happened at all.”

His mouth quirked into a faint smile. “Yeah, well… reckon that attitude’s why they show up in the first place.”

My cheeks warmed, and I ducked my head with a laugh. “Okay, stop, you’re gonna make me weird about it.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he went back to the baseboards. “Just callin’ it like I see it, superstar.”

“Superstar,” I repeated with a groan. “God, don’t let Sarah hear you say that.”

“Oh, too late,” he said, smirking. “She already thinks you hung the moon.”

I smiled at that. “Yeah, well… don’t tell her, but I think she might be cooler than me.”

He didn’t look up, but his voice softened. “Yeah. She’s got pretty good taste, though.”

And just like that, the air shifted—just a little. And I couldn’t help but wonder if he realized he was included in that.

—

The clock on the wall read 9:42 p.m., and Joel Miller was still here. I could hear the faint scrape of a utility knife coming from the other side of the room, followed by a frustrated sigh.

I padded down the hall, leaning against the doorway to find him crouched near the kitchen island, squinting at something on the floor. His flannel sleeves were rolled up, forearms dusted with sawdust, hair slightly disheveled from the long day.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

Joel exhaled through his nose and sat back on his heels, turning to look at me. “Yeah, just… missin’ a piece I need to finish this trim.” He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it even messier than before. “I’ll go grab it from the hardware store real quick. Be outta your hair after that.”

I smiled, crossing my arms. “Yeah, you better. Don’t you have a daughter to get home to?”

He huffed a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah, yeah. Sarah’ll be fine. She’s probably still on the phone with her friend complainin’ about algebra.”

“Smart girl.” I hesitated for a second before straightening. “You mind if I tag along?”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “To the hardware store?”

“Yeah.” I shrugged. “I’ve been cooped up here all day. A quick trip sounds nice. Plus… I’ve never been to a hardware store this late. Kinda curious what kind of characters we’ll run into.”

He chuckled under his breath. “All right, suit yourself. Just don’t blame me when it’s not as exciting as you’re imaginin’.”

The hardware store was exactly as I’d pictured it—rows of tools, pipes, paint cans, and that faint metallic smell that reminded me of childhood. My dad used to drag me to places like this on weekends, letting me pick out paint colors for walls that never actually got painted.

Joel walked ahead of me, eyes scanning the aisles like he’d been born here. I followed, occasionally stopping to run my fingers along unfamiliar tools.

“What’s this?” I held up something that looked like a cross between scissors and a medieval torture devil.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Tin snips.”

“Ah.” I turned them in my hand. “For… snipping tin, I assume?”

“Smart girl.”

I gave him a mock glare. “Watch it, Miller.”

He smirked and kept walking, turning into the next aisle. I followed, catching up just as he crouched down to grab a small package from the bottom shelf.

“There she is,” he muttered, holding it up.

“Thrilling.” I clapped my hands together. “That was… what, a seven out of ten on the adventure scale?”

He chuckled. “More like a two.”

“Well, maybe next time we’ll hit up the plumbing section. Really go wild.”

His eyes met mine, and we both broke into laughter. I felt the warmth of it spread through me, the ease of being around him so simple and effortless. I didn’t notice the kid with the phone a few aisles over, or the faint click of a camera shutter.

Joel’s pov

I had barely managed to get some sleep after the late-night trip to the hardware store with y/n. The drive had been strange, in the best way possible. It was the kind of moment where everything felt familiar and carefree, yet I couldn’t shake the weight of the unspoken tension between us. The way she looked at me last night—so open, so real—made me feel like I was standing on the edge of something I wasn’t sure I was ready for. But I couldn’t ignore the way she made me feel, how easy it was to be around her.

This morning, I had to snap myself out of those thoughts. The quiet of the house was a bit too loud as I stepped into the kitchen, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. Sarah was still asleep in her room, thank God. I had a few hours to get myself together before the day really started.

That’s when I heard her.

“DAD!” Sarah’s voice rang out from the living room, startling me. I rubbed my face and made my way down the hall, already bracing myself for whatever was coming.

When I reached the living room, Sarah was standing there, phone in hand, eyes wide with excitement. She was practically bouncing on her heels, her face flushed with energy. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I knew I wasn’t going to like it.

“Look what I found!” she exclaimed, holding up her phone, the screen pointing directly at me. I squinted at it, immediately regretting the choice.

There was a picture of y/n and me from last night at the hardware store. It was a candid shot—y/n had been laughing, her head thrown back, her eyes sparkling in the dim light. I was standing close to her, my face right beside hers, both of us sharing a moment that, to anyone else, probably looked… well, too intimate. Like we were more than we were.

I could feel my heart rate picking up, my stomach knotting. This wasn’t how I wanted Sarah to see this. I wasn’t ready to explain anything yet, least of all to her. I didn’t want to complicate things between me and Lauren, but now… now it was out in the open, whether I was ready or not.

Sarah’s eyes were wide with excitement, but there was a hint of curiosity too, like she was waiting for me to say something.

“Dad, is that you and… y/n?” she asked, her voice laced with both excitement and surprise. “You guys look like you’re having so much fun. What’s going on? Were you two hanging out last night?”

I felt the heat rising in my face, and I could tell that I was doing my best to hide the anxiety gnawing at me. This was not the conversation I’d planned on having today.

“It’s not what you think, Sarah,” I said, my voice low, trying to keep it casual, trying to keep things under control. “We were just getting somethings for her house. It’s no big deal.”

Her expression didn’t change. She wasn’t buying it. “No big deal?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Dad, you’re literally standing there, like, super close to her. You two look like you’re having the best time. What’s going on? Are you two, like, friends or—”

“Sarah,” I cut her off, trying not to sound too defensive. “I know how it looks, but I swear it’s just a friendly moment. We were just… talking. That’s all.”

But she wasn’t convinced. “Talking? Dad, I’ve never seen you look at someone like that before.”

The weight of her words hit me harder than I expected. I wasn’t sure why it stung so much, but it did. Sarah wasn’t wrong. There was something between me and y/n. I wasn’t blind to it. But this? This was complicated.

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to collect my thoughts. “It’s nothing to worry about,” I said, my voice steady, but the truth was that I wasn’t even sure if I believed myself. “She’s just… she’s a friend, Sarah. That’s it.”

But the way she was looking at me told me she wasn’t buying it, not for a second. “Dad, you’re really bad at lying,” she said with a laugh, but there was a sharpness in her tone. “I’m just saying, you’re looking at her like… like you really like her. You should be honest with me.”

It wasn’t the words, but the tone—the way she said it, like she saw right through me—that made me feel exposed. I had always prided myself on being able to manage my emotions, to keep my thoughts locked up tight. But with Sarah, with y/n… it was becoming harder and harder to hide what I felt.

I sighed, trying to soften the tension. “Look, Sarah… I don’t want to get into this right now, okay? Just trust me when I say that nothing’s going on. I care about you, and that’s my focus right now.”

She seemed to consider my words for a moment before giving me a knowing look. “Fine, but just so you know, Dad…” She smirked. “I think you really like her.”

My stomach twisted at her words, but I tried to push the feeling down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, my voice a little too forceful, but I wasn’t ready to dive deeper into this yet.

Sarah looked at me, her eyes narrowing just slightly. She wasn’t giving up that easily, but thankfully, she dropped the subject. “Whatever, Dad. But if you do start liking her for real, you better tell me first. Got it?”

“Got it,” I said, giving her a reassuring smile, though I wasn’t sure if I was reassuring myself or her.

She shrugged and walked off, heading back to her room with the picture still in her hand. My heart was still pounding in my chest. It wasn’t just the photo that had me rattled—it was the truth that I wasn’t sure how to confront yet.

Was I starting to like y/n? The answer was obvious. And yet, as I stood there in the silence of the house, I couldn’t figure out if I was ready to admit it, especially not to Sarah.

The question lingered, unanswered, in my mind. But one thing was clear: this was just the beginning. And it wasn’t going to be easy to figure out where it would go from here.

—

Joel was different the next time I saw him.

He showed up like usual—punctual, focused, still dressed in that same worn flannel and faded jeans. But the easy warmth that usually hung between us was gone. The quiet jokes, the teasing smiles, the way his eyes would linger just a second longer than necessary—none of it showed up today.

He barely looked at me.

I tried to ignore it at first. Thought maybe he was just tired or preoccupied with work. He and Tommy had been running around nonstop to finish the details on the house. But when I brought him a coffee mid-morning and he mumbled a polite “thanks” without even glancing up, my stomach twisted.

Something was wrong. And whatever it was, it had to do with me.

I hovered in the doorway while he knelt by the fireplace, adjusting the custom mantel we’d argued about for a full twenty minutes last week. “Okay,” I finally said, gripping the edge of the doorframe. “What’s going on?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He kept working like I hadn’t spoken at all. I watched the muscle in his jaw tighten as he used his level to check the alignment.

“Joel.” My voice softened. “Talk to me.”

He sighed through his nose, set down the tool, and wiped his hands on his jeans before finally turning toward me. His face was unreadable. “Did you see the picture?”

The picture.

My chest tightened. “What picture?”

His eyes flicked toward mine like he didn’t believe me. “The one from the hardware store.” His voice was low, careful. “The one that ended up all over the damn internet.”

The words hit me like cold water. “Wait. What?”

“You really didn’t see it?”

“No.” My heart started to race. “Joel, I don’t go looking for that stuff. What—what picture are you talking about?”

He rubbed a hand over his face and pulled out his phone. After a few swipes, he turned the screen toward me.

There it was. The photo. Us, standing in that stupid hardware store aisle, laughing like we didn’t have a care in the world. From this angle, it did look… cozy. Familiar. Like we were something we weren’t.

God.

I felt my stomach drop through the floor. “Shit. I—Joel, I had no idea.”

He lowered the phone, his jaw tight. “Yeah, well… Sarah found it this morning.”

I blinked. “Sarah?”

He gave a short nod, eyes hard. “She came runnin’ downstairs with her phone, askin’ me if I was ‘dating a pop star.’ Thought it was funny.” His mouth twisted like the word tasted bitter. “Didn’t feel so funny to me.”

The guilt hit me hard and fast. I took a step toward him. “Joel, I’m so sorry. I swear, I didn’t know someone took that picture. I didn’t mean for it to—”

“I know you didn’t,” he cut in. His tone was sharp but tired. “But it happened anyway, didn’t it?”

The truth of it settled like a stone in my chest. He was right. Intentions didn’t erase the fact that his life—his daughter’s life—had just been yanked into my world without warning. Without permission.

“Look,” I said, voice cracking slightly. “I can call my manager. Get them to reach out, try to take it down.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Once it’s out there, it’s out there.”

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating.

I wrapped my arms around myself and swallowed against the lump in my throat. “Joel… I’m really, really sorry.”

He stood there for a long moment, eyes dropping to the floor like he was weighing something.

“I know you are,” he said finally. “But I can’t let Sarah get caught up in all this. I just… I can’t.”

His voice was low, almost gentle, but it still hit like a gut punch.

Because “all this” was me.

And no matter how much I cared about him—how much I liked him, admired him, wanted to be around him—this was the part I could never change. The part I hated. The part where my life bled into someone else’s without permission. Where someone like Joel Miller—normal, grounded, fiercely protective of his daughter—would look at me and realize that whatever this had been?

It wasn’t worth it.

I gave a small nod and forced a weak smile. “Yeah. I get it.”

Joel didn’t say anything else. He just gave a tight nod, turned back to the fireplace, and got back to work.

And I stood there for a few more seconds before heading upstairs, heart heavy, throat burning.

I didn’t cry.

But God, I wanted to.

The next few days passed in a blur.

Joel came and went with Tommy to finish the last of the work on the house, but things between us were different now—strained, distant. He didn’t avoid me completely, but he didn’t go out of his way to talk to me either. No more lingering conversations about the best gas station snacks. No more teasing glances when I asked dumb questions about tools. Just quick, professional exchanges about the house.

It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.

I tried to stay busy. Studio calls, interviews, brand meetings—they all demanded my attention, and I gave it to them. I smiled, answered questions about upcoming music, joked about how I was “just a Texas girl at heart.” But the whole time, the memory of that picture, of Sarah’s name on Joel’s lips, sat heavy in my chest.

It was an accident. I hadn’t asked for it. And yet, somehow, I still felt like I’d broken something.

By the fourth day, I’d had enough.

That evening, just after the sun dipped below the horizon, I heard the familiar rumble of Joel’s truck out front. I didn’t overthink it. I walked downstairs, pulled open the front door before he could reach it, and stepped outside.

Joel stopped short on the porch, toolbox in hand. His eyes flicked to mine, guarded as ever. “Evenin’.”

“Hey.” I crossed my arms, ignoring the way my heart jumped just from standing this close to him. “You got a minute?”

He hesitated. “Kinda gotta finish the bathroom grout—”

“It can wait.”

His brows lifted slightly at the sharpness in my voice. He set the toolbox down with a sigh. “All right.”

I leaned against the porch railing and took a breath. “Look… I’m sorry about that picture. I know it put you in a bad spot with Sarah, and I swear I didn’t know it was being taken. But I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine when you’ve barely looked at me all week.”

Joel shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. “I ain’t been avoidin’ you.”

“Yeah, you have.” I tilted my head. “You’ve been avoiding me since the picture thing. And I get it—it sucks. You didn’t ask to get dragged into all that. But I thought we were at least friends.”

He exhaled heavily and looked down at the porch. “We are.”

“Then act like it.” I gestured toward the front door. “I feel like you’ve been treating me like I’m radioactive or something.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Ain’t you, like, a global sensation or whatever? Radioactive sounds about right.”

I let out a sharp laugh. “Seriously?”

He finally met my eyes. There was something softer there now, something that chipped away at the tension. “I dunno, y/n,” he said after a moment. “I guess I just… got caught off guard by all of it.”

“The picture?”

He shook his head slowly. “Nah. More like… what it stirred up.”

I froze. “What does that mean?”

He dragged a hand down his face, clearly frustrated. “I mean… I spend most of my time tryin’ to keep life simple. Easy. Predictable. And then I meet you, and suddenly there’s a picture of us floatin’ around the internet, and Sarah’s gigglin’ about it, and Tommy’s givin’ me shit every day about how I ‘can’t handle all that.’” He let out a humorless laugh. “And the worst part is, he’s probably right.”

My heart stuttered. “Why?”

Joel’s eyes caught mine, steady and unguarded for the first time in days. “Because I’ve been in denial about this whole thing since the minute I saw you onstage.”

My breath caught.

There it was. No dancing around it this time. No quiet looks or lingering glances. He’d said it out loud.

“You’ve been… what?” I asked, voice unsteady.

He gave a small shake of his head and ran a hand through his hair. “Pretendin’ it don’t mean anything,” he said softly. “That you’re just some client and I’m just here to finish a job. But I’m lyin’ to myself.”

The air between us thickened. I gripped the railing so tightly my knuckles ached. “Joel…”

“I know,” he said, cutting me off. His voice was rough. “It’s complicated. Sarah, my job… your life, your whole… world.” He huffed out a breath and glanced at me. “I just… needed you to know I ain’t avoidin’ you because I don’t care. I’m avoidin’ you ‘cause I care more than I should.”

The confession knocked the air out of me.

I could’ve kissed him then. Could’ve stepped forward and closed the gap, erased every last inch of distance. But instead, I smiled softly and reached out, brushing my fingers lightly over his forearm. “You think too much, Miller.”

Joel let out a low chuckle and shook his head. “You don’t think enough.”

“Maybe.” I squeezed his arm once before dropping my hand. “But I’m not scared of complicated.”

It was one of those rare moments-those fleeting ones where everything felt like it was shifting into place.

The house was still a mess, not completely finished, but it felt intimate, in its own way. The lights were dimmed, casting a soft glow over the room, and for some reason, everything else seemed to fade away.

The music playing softly from a Bluetooth speaker in the corner was barely audible. It was just us, in this moment, and the world outside didn't matter.

Joel's eyes were on me, steady and intense, like he was studying every inch of my face. There was something in the way he looked at me-something that had been building for weeks, simmering beneath the surface.

I stepped closer, drawn to him. Every part of me wanted to bridge the distance between us, to finally give in to whatever this was, this magnetic pull that had been growing since the moment we met.

"You know," I started, my voice softer than usual,"I'm really glad you're working on my house. It feels... different when you're here."

His gaze flickered down to my lips for a fraction of a second, and that was enough. My heart skipped a beat.

"Yeah?" he said, his voice low, his usual confidence faltering slightly. "I'm glad to be here, too."

I could feel the tension in the air, thick and tangible now. We were standing close, too close, but neither of us was stepping away. I could hear my own breathing, shallow and quick, as if my body was already betraying me, telling me what I already knew.

I could feel the heat from his body, the warmth of his breath, and I knew-we both knew-that something was about to happen.

I took another step forward, my fingers brushing lightly against his arm. He didn't pull away. Instead, he reached up, his hand hovering near my face, like he wasn't sure if he should touch me.

"You're so..." he started, but his words trailed off.

I didn't need him to finish. I could feel it-the pull, the magnetism. I leaned in just a little bit more, my lips barely brushing against his ear as I whispered, "I've wanted this for a while Joel."

The words hung in the air between us, thick and heavy. For a second, I thought I saw his resolve crack. His eyes softened, the sharpness from before blurring into something warmer, something more vulnerable.

He stepped in closer, his breath on my neck sending a shiver through me. His lips were inches away from mine, and I could feel the moment hanging on a thread.

Then, just as our lips were about to meet, the door slammed open.

"Hey, Joel! I need your-" Tommy's voice came booming from the hallway, interrupting everything.

I froze, and so did Joel. His eyes darted away from me, that familiar guarded expression slipping back into place.

He stepped back, like he was trying to pull himself together, but I could see the way his hands were trembling slightly, betraying the tension that had been building between us.

Tommy appeared in the doorway, blissfully unaware of the moment he'd just interrupted. "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to... well, yeah, just—" He cleared his throat, clearly sensing the awkward energy. "I need your help with something in the garage."

Joel let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping.

He looked at me, and for a split second, I could have sworn I saw regret in his eyes-like he was frustrated, too.

"Alright, Tommy. Just give me a minute," Joel muttered, walking past me without another word.

I stayed where I was, my body still buzzing from what had almost happened. The connection between us hadn't dissipated-it lingered, humming between us like an electric current.

Tommy was already halfway down the hall before Joel caught up with him, offering me a brief, almost apologetic glance.

I stood there in the dim light of the living room, my heart racing. I didn't know if I was more frustrated or relieved.

But deep down, I knew one thing for sure: this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

—

The next day, the air felt thick with tension, like something had shifted between us and I wasn't sure how to navigate it. I hadn't heard from Joel since last night, but I couldn't stop thinking about that almost-kiss. The way everything felt in that moment-like we were so close to crossing a line that neither of us fully understood. It lingered in my mind, that charged silence, the unspoken words that seemed to hover in the air between us.

I'd tried to go about my day, tried to keep myself busy with meetings and interviews, but all I could think about was Joel. The warmth of his touch, the way his eyes had looked at me as he'd almost kissed me-like he wanted to but couldn't let himself. It was maddening.

Finally, after hours of pretending like everything was normal, Joel showed up at the house. He was here to do some more work with Tommy, but I could tell from the moment he walked through the door that something was different between us.

There was a heaviness to his steps, a tightness in his jaw that made the air feel suffocating.

I was in the living room when he came in, and I knew this was it-the moment where we would either pretend it hadn't happened or face the truth of what had been building between us for so long.

He cleared his throat, a little awkwardly, as he stopped just inside the door.

"Hey," he said, his voice lower than usual, like he wasn't sure how to start. "I... I wanted to talk about last night."

I glanced up from where l'd been sitting, my heart instantly picking up pace. "Yeah?" | tried to keep my voice casual, but there was no hiding the fact that I was still processing everything that had happened.

Joel ran a hand through his hair, clearly uneasy.

"Look, I... I just want to say that what happened-what almost happened-was a mistake. I don't want you to think I'm some kind of... I don't know, some guy who takes advantage of situations like that."

My chest tightened, and I stood up from the couch, crossing the room to face him. "Joel, it wasn't a mistake," I said softly, but firmly. "You don't have to apologize for it."

He looked at me, his brows furrowing, like he was trying to figure out if I was being serious. "Y/n, it was a mistake," he repeated, his voice a little more strained now. "I mean. you're... you're so young, and I'm-"

I cut him off, not wanting to hear him talk down to himself like that. "I'm not a kid, Joel," I said, the words coming out sharper than I meant. "And I don't need you to protect me from myself."

He looked taken aback, clearly not expecting my response, but there was something else in his eyes-something softening, something that told me he wasn't as sure about his apology as he was trying to make it seem.

"I just didn't want you to think I-" he started again, but I took a step closer, interrupting him once more.

"No, Joel. I've been in this world, l've dealt with a lot more than people think. And you..." I paused, looking up at him, feeling the weight of everything that had been building between us.

"You're not just some guy l've been casually seeing. There's something here. I feel it, and I know you do too."

His eyes softened at my words, and for the first time, I could see the walls he'd been building around himself start to crack. He let out a deep breath, his hands running over his face as if he was trying to come to terms with the fact that he couldn't deny what was happening between us anymore.

"Y/n..." He stopped, the words catching in his throat. "I don't know what this is, but I'm trying to figure it out."

"Me too," I whispered, finally closing the last bit of distance between us. "But maybe we don't need to figure everything out right now. Maybe we just need to stop pretending that this isn't happening."

I reached out, my fingers brushing lightly against his chest, and I felt him freeze under my touch. His eyes were locked on mine, and for a long moment, we both just stood there, both of us breathing a little too quickly, both of us waiting for the other to make a move.

Then, finally, Joel spoke in a low voice that made my heart skip. "Are you sure about this?"

I didn't answer with words. Instead, I leaned up slowly, giving him every chance to pull away if he wanted to, but he didn't. And when our lips met, it was like everything fell into place.

It wasn't a slow, tentative kiss this time. It was desperate, passionate-an unspoken release of all the tension that had been building between us for so long. His hands were at my waist, pulling me against him as if he couldn't get close enough.

I tangled my fingers in his hair, feeling the way his body tensed beneath mine, the way he was finally giving in to something he had been holding back for so long.

I could feel the heat between us, the raw energy that pulsed through every touch, every kiss. It was like nothing else mattered in that moment-no fears, no regrets, no questions about what this would mean. There was only him, only us, caught in the rush of something real.

Our lips moved together, urgent and hungry, as if we were both finally acknowledging the truth we'd been dancing around. The kiss deepened, becoming more frantic, our bodies pressing closer together, craving the connection we'd been denying.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathless, our chests rising and falling as we tried to catch our breath. I could see the same question in his eyes-the same look of wonder and disbelief, like neither of us could believe what had just happened.

But I didn't need words this time. I didn't need him to apologize again, or explain himself. I just needed him to know that it wasn't a mistake, and that I wasn't backing away from this.

I stepped back slightly, my fingers still tracing his jaw, and I looked up at him, my voice low. "It wasn't a mistake, Joel. It never was."

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I saw him smile-genuinely. It wasn't forced, or awkward, or hesitant. It was real.

And in that smile, I knew. This wasn't over. This was only the beginning.

—

We spent hours together in the quiet of my house. The sound of my music barely registering in the background as we talked, laughed, and touched. There were no real words for the way we fit together—how perfectly we seemed to complete each other. And the way we kissed—God, the way he kissed me—it was like he was marking me as his own, like every kiss was a promise.

One night, after a long day of working on my house, Joel and I found ourselves alone in my bedroom, the door cracked open just enough for the light from the hallway to seep in. He was standing by the window, watching the last slivers of sunlight fade behind the trees. I couldn’t help myself—I walked up to him, standing just behind him, letting my hands brush over his shoulders.

Without turning, he murmured, “You’re always so quiet around me.” His voice was low, almost a growl. He tilted his head slightly, just enough for his lips to graze the side of my neck. “What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”

I closed my eyes, leaning into him. “You know what’s going on,” I whispered back. I slid my arms around his waist, my chest pressing against his back. The warmth of his body, the scent of his cologne mixing with the musk of sweat, was intoxicating. He turned around then, his eyes darker than before, as if he were trying to fight back something deeper inside him.

Joel was always so controlled—always careful with his emotions, with what he let slip. But I knew it was different with me.

His hand cupped my face, his thumb tracing the curve of my cheek as if memorizing every inch of me. “You’re makin’ it hard to breathe, darlin’.”

“You make me forget to breathe,” I admitted, my fingers brushing against his chest. I leaned in, the distance between us practically nonexistent. “Don’t fight this. Don’t fight us.”

His lips met mine, urgent and hungry. There was no hesitation this time, no distance between us. The kiss was full of need—years of repressed emotions finally crashing together in one fluid motion. His hands were on me, under me, pulling me closer, as if he couldn’t get enough. My hands found his hair, tangled in the strands as I deepened the kiss, needing to feel him closer. The energy between us was electric, an unspoken connection that neither of us could deny anymore.

We stumbled back toward the bed, not breaking apart for a second. I couldn’t think, couldn’t focus on anything other than the way his lips moved with mine, the way his body pressed against me. The yearning, the hunger—it was all too much and not enough all at once.

He pulled back for a breath, his chest rising and falling in quick succession. “You sure about this, Lauren?” His voice was rough, like he was fighting against a tide pulling him under.

I nodded, pulling him back toward me, my hands gripping his shirt, desperate for him. “I’m sure. God, Joel, I’m so sure.”

And then there was nothing but us, lost in the pull of one another. Nothing else mattered. Not the noise of the world outside, not the worries that had plagued us both. In that moment, all we had was the now, and it felt like the most powerful thing we could ever give each other.

The night blurred by in a haze of soft whispers, heated touches, and frantic kisses. We explored each other like we had all the time in the world, but both of us knew we were racing against something unspoken. The desire was overwhelming, and every inch of his skin against mine made me ache for more.

When we finally lay in bed together, tangled in the sheets, the silence felt heavier than the night before. I turned to him, running my fingers over his chest, tracing the faint outline of a scar near his ribs.

Joel’s eyes were still dark, a fire burning in them, and his hand rested on my back, his thumb rubbing slow circles. He glanced down at me, his lips curling into that familiar lopsided grin. “You were right, darlin’,” he said softly, his voice husky. “We do get better with practice.”

I smiled, my heart still racing from the intensity of what we had shared. “I’ll take your word for it.”

But deep down, I knew one thing: this was just the beginning. There would be more. So much more between us. And even though it was complicated, even though we were still figuring it all out, I wouldn’t change a thing.

We were finally where we were meant to be.

—

Sneaking around with Joel was a dangerous game.

Not because we were doing anything illegal—but because every glance, every brush of his hand against mine when no one was looking, every stolen moment made me want more. And when it came to Joel, more was a slippery slope I was already tumbling down headfirst.

It started small.

The first time, we were in my kitchen. Tommy was in the living room talking on the phone with some supplier, and I was pretending to organize my spice cabinet while Joel installed a new light fixture above the island. I didn’t need to be in there. I could’ve left and let them work. But when Joel was around, leaving didn’t feel like an option.

He was on the ladder, arms raised as he adjusted the fixture, his shirt riding up just enough to show a strip of tan skin. I didn’t realize I was staring until his voice snapped me out of it.

“See somethin’ you like?” he murmured without looking down.

Heat shot through me. “Yeah. My new light fixture.”

Joel’s shoulders shook with a quiet laugh. He climbed down, stepping close enough that I caught that familiar mix of cedar and sawdust clinging to his skin. “Sure it is.”

Tommy’s voice carried from the other room—loud, oblivious.

Joel’s eyes flicked toward the doorway, then back to me. His hand brushed against mine on the counter. He didn’t grab it. Didn’t lace his fingers with mine. Just… touched. A whisper of contact that sent a shiver down my spine.

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “Careful, Miller. Tommy’s right there.”

Joel’s thumb grazed mine. “Don’t tempt me, sweetheart.”

And just like that, the light fixture was the least interesting thing in the kitchen.

The next time, we weren’t quite as subtle.

It was late, and Joel was helping me move some furniture in the upstairs guest room. Sarah had just gone to a sleepover, and Tommy had headed home for the night, leaving us blissfully alone for the first time in days.

We’d started with actual work—really, we had. The guest bed was heavy, and the dresser was wedged at an impossible angle against the wall. But somewhere between Joel teasing me about my lack of upper body strength and me calling him “old man” one too many times, things shifted.

I was standing against the wall, still laughing from some joke he’d made, when he caged me in with his arms.

“Still think I’m old, huh?” he asked, voice low.

I swallowed hard. “Well, you did complain about your back twice today.”

His lips twitched. “You’re pushin’ your luck, darlin’.”

“I like pushing it.”

Joel’s eyes darkened. He leaned down and kissed me—slow, deep, his hand slipping beneath my T-shirt to rest against the small of my back. I melted into him immediately, fingers tangling in his hair as he pressed me harder against the wall.

The kiss turned messy fast. He groaned when I nipped his bottom lip, and I gasped when he responded by gripping my hips and dragging me closer. It was the kind of kiss that promised more, the kind that made me forget that the guest room window was cracked open and that sound carried.

The slam of a car door outside brought us crashing back to reality.

We broke apart, breathing hard. Joel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gave me a lopsided, regretful grin. “Guess we should get back to work.”

“Yeah,” I panted. “Totally.”

Spoiler: we didn’t move the dresser for another twenty minutes.

Sneaking around with Joel meant stolen phone calls late at night, when Sarah was asleep and his house was quiet.

It meant me dragging him into my music room one afternoon, away from Tommy’s curious eyes, just to kiss him breathless on the worn-out couch.

It was ridiculous. It was fun. It was dangerous.

And neither of us could stop.

—

One afternoon, Tommy caught us almost-red-handed.

I was sitting on the kitchen counter, legs dangling, Joel standing between my knees with his hands on my thighs. We weren’t kissing—not yet—but we were definitely standing too close to be discussing drywall.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” Joel muttered.

“You love it.”

He grinned and squeezed my leg. “I do not.”

Before I could argue, the front door creaked open.

“Joel? You still here?” Tommy’s voice echoed from the entryway.

Joel jumped back so fast I nearly fell off the counter. I caught myself just in time, schooling my face into what I hoped was an innocent expression.

Tommy stepped into the kitchen, eyes flicking from me to Joel. His brows lifted. “Interrupt somethin’?”

“Nope,” Joel said quickly. “Just—uh—talkin’ about the backsplash.”

I bit my lip to keep from laughing.

Tommy didn’t buy it for a second. He smirked and shook his head. “Yeah, all right. You keep tellin’ yourself that.”

Joel turned bright red. I couldn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

Sneaking around wasn’t sustainable. We knew that.

But every time I caught Joel looking at me across the room when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, every time his hand brushed mine on purpose, every time we kissed like we didn’t care who saw…

I knew one thing for certain.

When we finally stopped sneaking, the fallout was going to be worth it.

It had been a slow, steady build-up—every stolen glance, every touch, every quiet moment. But in the heat of the moment, I didn’t realize how obvious we were being until Tommy walked into the living room and caught us.

We were standing by the couch, Joel’s hands tangled in my hair, his lips pressed against mine with a desperation neither of us was trying to hide anymore. It was like the world outside that room ceased to exist—until it didn’t.

Tommy’s voice broke through the air like a cold slap. “Well, this is… something.”

Joel pulled away instantly, eyes wide, and his hand shot up as if to ward off the inevitable. “Tommy, wait—”

But it was too late. Tommy was already leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smug grin on his face. He raised an eyebrow, looking from Joel to me and back again. “I’m just gonna go ahead and assume this isn’t the first time this has happened.”

I opened my mouth to explain, but Tommy cut me off, his grin widening. “Y’know, I’ve been tryin’ to avoid this. But now that it’s right in front of me—” He looked down at his shoes with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “I gotta admit… I owe Sarah so much money.”

Joel froze, his face going red. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

Tommy uncrossed his arms and looked at Joel with amusement. “Sarah. She bet me you two were already messin’ around.”

Joel’s jaw dropped, and I felt my face burn. “No way,” he muttered. “She—she bet you? Seriously?”

“Yep. She’s been on my case about it for weeks. Figured I owed her that money anyway, so I’m glad to be rid of it.” Tommy’s tone was casual, but there was a hint of something else there—a mix of mischief and, maybe, a little concern.

I looked at Joel, trying to process what was happening. “So, she knew?”

“Of course she knew. She’s not as oblivious as you two seem to think,” Tommy teased, before his expression shifted to something a little more serious. “But… y’all didn’t want her to know, right?”

Joel sighed, running a hand through his hair, looking like he was suddenly about to burst from the pressure. “Not yet,” he said, voice low. “We’re still trying to figure this out. I haven’t even had the chance to take her out on a real date, man. Everything’s… messy.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah? Messy, huh? You two sure look like you’ve got everything figured out.”

“Not exactly,” Joel muttered, rubbing his face in frustration. “But we’re not ready to deal with it. Not yet.” He met Tommy’s gaze, tone more serious now. “Can you keep it quiet? Just until we figure out what the hell this is?”

Tommy paused, then grinned. “I can keep quiet. But this is gonna be fun to watch.” He held up his hands, like he was surrendering. “No promises, though. I’m still Team Sarah on this one.”

Joel shot him a look that could’ve frozen water. “You better not say anything to her, Tommy. I’m serious.”

Tommy held up his hands in mock surrender, laughing. “I won’t. For now, anyway.” He pushed off the doorframe and gave us a knowing smile. “But, you two better figure it out quick, because Sarah’s gonna want to know why her dad is sneaking around with her favorite pop star.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Joel grumbled, clearly still uneasy, but Tommy had already turned and left, muttering something under his breath about needing a beer.

I turned back to Joel, heart still racing from the confrontation. “So… this is really happening, huh?”

Joel ran a hand over his face again. “I guess so. But we gotta take it slow, y/n. We owe it to Sarah… and to ourselves.” He stepped toward me, his expression softening. “Let’s not rush into this. I can’t promise I’ll be perfect, but I can promise I’m not running away.”

I nodded, feeling a wave of relief wash over me. “We’ll figure it out. No pressure.”

Joel’s lips curved into a small, tentative smile. “Good. I don’t want to mess this up.”

“Me neither.”

The tension in the air had shifted, but it wasn’t over. Not yet. We had a lot of questions left unanswered. But for the first time, I felt like maybe we were on the same page.

We still had a long way to go—but at least we were taking the first step together.

—

Being with Joel felt different than I expected—easier in some ways, harder in others. It wasn’t like the whirlwind relationships I’d had before, the ones that burned hot and fast before fizzling out. Joel was steady, deliberate. The kind of man who made sure things were built to last.

Once we stopped pretending we didn’t want this, everything changed. He was still his gruff, no-nonsense self, but now his touch lingered when he brushed past me. Now his eyes softened when they met mine across a room. Now he kissed me slow and deep when no one was watching and sometimes even when they were.

But being with Joel also meant being with Sarah and Tommy.

Sarah, of course, was ecstatic. The morning after we finally made things official, she nearly tackled me in the kitchen, eyes bright with excitement.

“I knew it,” she practically yelled, grinning. “I mean, I bet on it, so I really knew it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Bet on it?”

Sarah’s grin widened, and that’s when Tommy strolled in, smirking.

“Don’t tell her, Sarah,” he said, pouring himself coffee. “I ain’t got the cash yet.”

Joel groaned from where he stood by the fridge. “Y’all gambled on my love life?”

“More like invested,” Tommy shot back, winking at me.

Sarah wiggled her eyebrows. “So, do I win the pot, or…?”

I laughed, but Joel just shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face like he was seriously reconsidering his life choices.

Being with Joel meant stolen moments in between my hectic schedule. It meant late-night dinners when I got home from rehearsals, sitting on the kitchen counter while he cooked something simple, rolling his eyes when I tried to help. It meant quiet mornings, wrapped in his arms, pressing sleepy kisses against his jaw before slipping out of bed to get ready for the day.

It also meant dealing with the outside world.

We had kept things quiet for a while, but people caught on fast. A blurry picture here, a leaked story there, and suddenly, headlines were calling me the pop star dating a Texas contractor, which was ridiculous and not even remotely close to who Joel actually was.

I expected him to hate it, but surprisingly, he handled it well.

“Ignore it,” I told him one night, lying on the couch with my head in his lap as he scrolled through his phone.

“Didn’t say nothin’,” he murmured, but his jaw was tight.

I reached up, running my fingers along his beard. “If it really bothers you—”

“It doesn’t,” he said, looking down at me, expression softening. “Long as we’re good, I don’t give a damn what anyone else says.”

And we were good. Better than good.

One night, after a show, I came backstage to find Joel leaning against the wall, arms crossed, waiting for me.

“Took you long enough,” he said, smirking.

I rolled my eyes. “You’re just mad ‘cause Tommy and Sarah dragged you here early.”

“They did,” he admitted, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. His voice lowered as he murmured, “Worth it, though.”

I smiled, reaching up to fix the collar of his shirt. “Yeah?”

Joel didn’t answer with words. He just pulled me in, his lips brushing against mine—slow, steady, full of promise.

It was still surreal sometimes, having this life—the fame, the lights, the chaos—and him all at once. But as long as I had Joel, I had something real. Something worth holding onto.

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