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moonlitsmile · 2 months ago

Text

Just for tonight

dbf! Joel miller x f! reader

part 2

꣑୧ — 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | After a fight with your drunk dad, he kicks you out. And you show up at Joels door, his close friend he had grown distant with, But the only one nearby. You planned to stay the night, but when a thunderstorm keeps you awake, you find comfort in him…and maybe something even more. (No apocalypse, Sarah is alive in here and no Ellie.)

୨୧ - age gap, reader is 18, (hes early 40s) , crying, innocent reader, inexperienced reader, slight daddy issues, kinda sad, i dragged this out, kinda implied that the reader lives alone with her father, part two is more juicy don’t worry

You didn’t mean to start anything.

You never did, when it came to him.

Most nights, you kept your head down, kept to yourself, tried not to stir the air when your dad was already drinking. You’d learned how to read his moods like the back of your hand. the too-loud television, the way he’d sit in the recliner just a little too long, how his fingers tapped the side of the glass when he was itching to pour another. You could tell when to stay quiet. When to go hide in your room.

lately your father had been acting different, he had been drinking more due to stress at work. And when he drinks it’s bad cause he’s so mean. He dosent know how to handle his alcohol and it irks you. He’s so different from before, he’s not the way he was.

And he acted like you weren’t his girl anymore.

But tonight, you were tired. Tired of walking on eggshells in a house that used to feel like home.

You were halfway down the hall, heading to your room, when you noticed the bottle on the coffee table was almost empty. Again.

“You probably shouldn’t have any more,” you said before you could stop yourself. Your voice wasn’t sharp, it wasn’t even loud. Just soft, like a suggestion. Like you were trying to take care of him.

His head turned slow, and you caught the sluggish movement in his eyes. “What did you just say?”

You hesitated, already regretting it. “Just… maybe slow down a little.”

He barked out a laugh, bitter and humorless. “Don’t start with me,. Not tonight.”

You stood there in the hallway, unsure whether to turn back or keep walking.

“I’m not starting anything. I’m just saying—”

“You’re always saying something, aren’t you?” he snapped, slamming the glass down a little too hard. “Always got your damn opinions. Can’t keep your mouth shut for one goddamn night.”

That made your throat tighten.

You looked down, fingers fidgeting at the hem of your shirt. “I’m just worried about you,” you said, voice small.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” he sneered. “Worried about me? You think you know anything about how hard I work? What I’ve been through? You sit around like some delicate little flower and judge me for needing something to take the edge off.”

“I wasn’t judging you—”

“Yes, you were. You always are.” He stood now, swaying slightly. “Walking around like you’re better than me. Like you’ve got the right to lecture me in my own damn house.”

You shrank back a step before you could help it. “That’s not fair.”

“You know what’s not fair?” he said, pointing at you, voice rising. “Me working my ass off every day just to come home to this bullshit. A mouthy little girl who doesn’t appreciate a goddamn thing.”

Your chest hurt. You didn’t know why it always cut so deep, maybe because deep down, some part of you still wanted him to see you. To talk to you like he used to, before things got… bad.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” you said quietly. “I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, you did upset me,” he snapped. “Congratulations.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard. “I’ll just go to my room.”

“No,” he said suddenly, voice sharp.

You paused. “What?”

“I said no. You wanna act like you don’t wanna be here? Like this house is so damn terrible?” He started toward you, clumsy and fast. “Then go. Go on, get out.”

Your stomach dropped.

“You’re drunk,” you said, trying to stay calm, your voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t tell me what I mean.” His hand shot out, grabbed the front door, yanked it open. Cold air spilled into the house.

“Dad, stop—” You moved back instinctively.

“I said get out!” he yelled, and this time, there was no hesitation. He reached for your arm, not hard, but firm enough to make your breath hitch, and pushed you out into the night.

You stumbled down the steps, heart racing, bare arms wrapping around yourself in the chill.

The door slammed shut behind you.

And that was it.

No shoes. No coat. No phone charger. No chance to grab a bag. You just stood there, shivering, your eyes stinging from more than just the wind.

For a moment, you didn’t move. You waited. Half-hoped the door would open again. That he’d realize what he’d done and call you back inside. That he’d remember you were his daughter, not a stranger. Not a mistake.

But nothing came.

Just the sound of the wind picking up, and somewhere in the distance, the first low rumble of thunder. Soon to be rain probably going to come down.

As soon as you realized you had no where to go, that’s when the tears began to fall. Scared and vulnerable, in these dim streets this late at night. You were planning to just go back inside, but he had locked the door. Front and back, and the windows were always locked. You sighed shakily, letting out a soft shaky sob. Trying to stop the flowing tears. Your father had always taught you crying got you nowhere, and sometimes it did. But in this situation it clearly didn’t.

So what else was there to do, besides to just start walking?

But The street was quiet.

Too quiet.

You stood there for a long second on the front steps, staring at the closed door behind you like it might swing back open. Like this might just be one of those awful dreams where everything feels too real until you wake up gasping.

But the door stayed shut. No footsteps. No apology. Nothing.

You didn’t even realize your hands were shaking until you wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, trying to stop the chill that crept into your skin. The night air clung to you in a way that made your stomach twist, cool and damp and biting against your bare legs.

All you had on was that loose light purple shirt, soft and worn-in from too many washes, and a pair of loose black fabric shorts you only ever wore to sleep. Your white fuzzy socks were already picking up dirt as they padded over the pavement, useless against the cool sidewalk. You hadn’t even had time to put on shoes. Or grab your phone. Or anything.

You just walked.

Because what else could you do?

It was nearly 10 o’clock, and most of the neighborhood had already gone dark. Porch lights were off. Curtains were drawn. The only sounds were the soft hush of wind through the trees and the distant hum of cars on the highway a few streets over.

And then there was the thunder.

Low, deep, and far away, but creeping closer.

You looked up, squinting at the sky. Heavy clouds were dragging across the night, their edges tinged with flashes of light too faint to call lightning yet. The kind of sky that pressed down, that felt heavy on your chest even though it hadn’t fully opened up.

A few cold drops landed on your arms, soaking into the thin cotton of your shirt. It was that kind of light rain that didn’t fall, just drifted. Like the air itself had gone damp.

You didn’t know where you were going.

Your feet just carried you forward, block after block, the chill from the sidewalk slowly sinking into your bones. Every now and then, you wiped at your face, not even sure if it was rain or tears anymore. Probably both.

You tried to keep your head down. Tried to focus on the rhythm of walking. One foot, then the other. But your thoughts spun in circles, chasing themselves.

He didn’t mean it.

Yes, he did.

He was drunk.

But he meant every word.

You sniffed hard, your throat burning. The kind of ache that came from too much silence after too many years of holding back. You wanted to feel angry. You really did. But all you felt was small.

Just small and cold and tired.

The rain was picking up now. Not heavy, but enough to make your shirt cling to your shoulders. You pulled your arms tighter around yourself, socks squelching with every step as they grew heavier with water and dirt.

That’s when a familiar street sign caught your eye. You blinked up at it, heart stuttering.

You realized, Joel lived just a few blocks down.

You hadn’t even meant to come this way. Your body must’ve brought you here on its own, searching for something steady. Something that didn’t hurt.

And Joel had always been that, quiet, calm, warm in a way your father never really was. You hadn’t seen him in a while, but you still remembered the way he used to talk to you like you mattered. Like you weren’t just some kid hanging around the edges of someone else’s life.

You hesitated at the corner, your wet socks slipping slightly on the sidewalk. You could turn around. You could keep walking. Maybe find a bus stop. A bench. Some place to hide for the night.

But your body was already moving again, toward him.

Because right now, in this moment, you didn’t need pride. You didn’t need space to figure things out.

You just needed somewhere to feel safe.

Your legs ached, but you kept walking. The houses started to look more familiar now, even in the hazy streetlight and light mist that clung to everything. You knew this route. You used to ride your bike down it when you were little. Back when things were… simpler.

Back when Joel used to come by.

He was your dad’s friend long before you ever really noticed him. You remembered hearing them laugh together in the backyard, clinking beer bottles over some dumb joke or grilling whatever meat your dad had gotten on sale that week. Joel would toss your dad shit for burning the burgers, and your dad would say something like, “You think you could do better, Miller?”

You always called him Mr. Miller. Never Joel. That was something your dad was strict about, respect your elders, speak politely, don’t be annoying.

But you liked having him around. Even when you were little, maybe eight or nine, you’d find excuses to linger outside longer than you should. Sitting at the edge of the porch steps with your juice box while they talked. Pretending to read a book at the patio table so you could listen to them. He had a deep, calm voice that made the whole world seem quieter when he spoke.

Then, somewhere around thirteen, it shifted.

You couldn’t remember the exact moment it happened. You just knew one day you looked up and realized Joel was… handsome. Not like the teenage boys at school, all sharp elbows and too much cologne. He was something else. Broad, steady, sun-warmed skin and a strong jaw covered in just the right amount of stubble. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, he meant it. He listened, too. That alone set him apart.

That was when the little crush started.

You’d try to hang around more when you knew he was coming over. Sit at the edge of the conversation. Ask him about his work or how his truck was running. Nothing major, just tiny ways to get him to notice you.

Sometimes he’d smile at you, real soft. Ruffle your hair or nudge your shoulder as he passed, and your heart would flutter so hard it made you dizzy. You’d duck your head, cheeks hot, pretending it didn’t mean anything. But it did. It always did.

You remembered trying to act more mature as you got older, wearing makeup that wasn’t quite right, putting on clothes that made you feel older than you were. Not in a weird way, not to get attention exactly… you just wanted to be seen. By him. Not as your dad’s kid. Not as a tagalong.

Just… as you.

But Joel had never looked at you that way. Not once. He was always kind, but distant. Like he saw you as something sweet and harmless. A little girl with big eyes and bigger dreams, someone he probably thought was too soft for the world.

And then time passed.

He stopped coming around as much. Your dad got moodier. The cookouts got fewer and farther between. You hadn’t seen Joel in almost 3 years. Not since your 15th birthday.

You were eighteen now.

Not that it mattered. You weren’t expecting anything. You just wondered… would he still see you the same? That shy, awkward kid trailing behind her dad?

Or would he notice how much had changed?

You pulled your arms tighter around yourself, breathing out into the damp night air. Your hair stuck to your skin in places, and the light drizzle was turning into something steadier, soaking through the thin fabric of your shirt.

Up ahead, past the corner, you saw the soft yellow glow of a familiar porch light.

Your chest tightened.

You were almost there.

You slowed as his house came into full view.

There it was, same as always. The porch light was still on, casting a warm yellow glow over the wooden steps and the faded welcome mat. His truck was in the driveway. Lights off inside, except for the soft flicker of something deeper in the house, maybe the living room lamp left on, maybe the TV. You couldn’t tell from here.

Your feet stopped just short of the first step.

What if he was asleep?

What if he got annoyed you were showing up like this, soaking wet and looking pathetic? What if he didn’t even remember you the way you remembered him, just saw you as that kid who used to trail after her dad like a shadow, begging for scraps of attention?

You shifted your weight, arms still wrapped tightly around yourself as you looked down at your fuzzy socks, now nearly gray from the walk. Your legs were cold. Your shirt clung to your skin. You felt stupid.

This was stupid.

You should’ve gone anywhere else. A bus stop. A gas station. Literally anywhere but here.

But still… you lifted your hand and knocked, just once. Soft. So soft it barely made a sound.

You waited.

Nothing.

The wind rustled the trees nearby, and thunder grumbled low in the distance, like it was trying to remind you that this night wasn’t over yet. You bit your lip and knocked again, two quick taps, a little louder this time.

Still… nothing.

You sighed, shaky and small. Your shoulders slumped. Of course he wasn’t awake. It was late. And who in their right mind would want some girl showing up on their porch in the middle of the night like a stray?

You didn’t want to be a burden.

You didn’t want him to see you like this.

You sniffed quietly and stepped back, turning away from the door, heart sinking. You’d figure something else out. You always did.

But then

click.

The sound made you freeze mid-step.

The door creaked open behind you, warm yellow light spilling out into the cool night air.

“…Hey?” Joel’s voice was rough with sleep, low and a little grumpy. His brows were pulled together as he blinked at you, clearly confused. “What the hell…”

But then his eyes really focused, and he saw you. Standing there on his porch in the rain, shivering in your pajamas, hair damp and clinging to your face.

His expression shifted. Still cautious, but… softer now. Concern crept in under the fatigue.

You opened your mouth, but all that came out was a shaky, barely audible, “Hi.”

Joel stared for a second longer, his voice quieter this time. “What… what are you doing here?”

You opened your mouth again, trying to form the words, trying to explain, but they got stuck. Right there in your throat.

Your lips trembled before you could stop them.

“I—” you started, then clamped your mouth shut as your eyes filled with tears.

God. No. Not now.

You blinked quickly, trying to stop them from spilling over. You didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him. Not in front of the man who used to ruffle your hair like a kid. The man who still probably saw you as the quiet twelve-year-old sneaking glances from behind her dad’s shoulder.

You didn’t want to be her right now. You didn’t want to look soft or helpless. You wanted to seem grown, like you could handle it. Like showing up at his door in your socks and pajamas didn’t mean you were breaking apart inside.

But under Joel’s steady, quiet gaze… you just felt small again.

You looked down at your feet, voice cracking when you finally whispered, “I—I couldn’t stay there.”

That was all you could get out.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. You didn’t look up, afraid of what you’d see in his eyes, pity, maybe. Or worse, that same distant kindness from before.

But then you heard him step aside, his voice lower now, a little more gentle.

“Come on in.”

You stepped in slowly, careful not to let your soaked socks track too much water across the floor. The warmth from the house hit you all at once, soft, dry air and the faint smell of coffee and wood, but your body was still trembling from the cold that had sunk deep into your skin.

You stood there on the rug just past the doorstep , arms wrapped tight around yourself, eyes fixed on the dark hardwood that stretched out into the living room. You didn’t move.

You didn’t want to drip everywhere.

Didn’t want to make a mess.

Didn’t want to be a mess.

Your damp shirt clung to your back, and your fingers were starting to go numb. The rain had only been light, but it was enough to leave you chilled straight through. Your cheeks burned from a different kind of cold, embarrassment, standing there in nothing but your thin pajamas in front of him. Joel. Someone who used to pat your head like a niece or a neighbor kid. Someone who still looked at you like you were something breakable.

He shut the door gently behind you, turning the lock with a soft click. Then he looked at you again, brows pulled together, eyes sharp but not unkind. Still confused, but calmer now.

“Hang on,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw before heading down the hall.

You stayed frozen on the rug, listening to the sound of him rustling through a closet. A moment later he came back with a towel, holding it out to you.

You took it with quiet hands, clutching the soft fabric to your chest before slowly raising it to dab at your damp cheeks, your arms, the rain-wet ends of your hair.

Joel hovered for a second, like he didn’t want to crowd you, then took a small step closer. His voice was quiet, almost like he was talking to a spooked animal.

“You gonna tell me what happened?”

You opened your mouth, but again, nothing came out.

Just that awful lump rising in your throat. Heavy and hot. The sting behind your eyes came back stronger than before.

You bit the inside of your cheek hard, trying to hold it back, but your breath caught in your chest. Your shoulders trembled, not from the cold anymore.

You were going to cry.

You hated that you were going to cry.

Joel’s expression softened again. He didn’t push. Just waited, voice still low, gentler this time.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “It’s alright. Take your time.”

You nodded, pressing the towel against your face, trying to breathe through it. But your voice, when it finally came, was still broken and barely a whisper.

You tried to speak again. The words were there, clogging your throat, pushing at the back of your tongue, but they wouldn’t come out.

Your chest rose in a shallow, shaky breath, and you pressed the towel harder to your mouth like it might hold everything in: the hurt, the tears, the everything.

Joel stood there, watching you, arms crossed loosely over his chest. You could feel the weight of his gaze, steady and quiet, not pushing. Just… waiting.

But when the silence stretched too long, he cleared his throat and spoke, soft and low, like he didn’t want to startle you.

“Well…” he said slowly. “How ‘bout you go freshen up first, alright? Take a shower. See if that helps any. We’ll talk after.”

You gave a small nod, your eyes still locked on the floor. You didn’t trust yourself to say anything, not yet.

Joel didn’t move at first.

You could sense him shifting though, like something in him was working through a thought he wasn’t quite ready to say. His stance was different, less easy than usual. Like he was standing at a strange kind of distance, unsure where the line was now.

Then came his voice again, quieter this time. Different.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Look at me, honey.”

Your breath caught.

That word.

Honey.

He used to call you that all the time when you were younger, when you’d scrape your knee in the yard or fall asleep on the couch during a cookout. Sometimes it was sweetheart, sometimes kiddo, but honey was always the one that stuck with you most. It had curled warm and safe in your chest, made you feel cared for in a way that not many people ever made you feel.

And the truth was… you never liked hearing it from anyone else.

Only Joel.

Only he could say it in that low, steady drawl, like he really meant it. Like it wasn’t just something to say, it was something he felt.

You blinked hard, your vision swimming for a second, and then, slowly, you looked up.

His eyes met yours the second you did.

And he didn’t smile.

He didn’t say anything right away either.

He just looked at you, really looked. Like he was trying to match this version of you, the quiet, trembling girl on his doorstep in too-thin clothes and wet socks, with the one who used to follow him and your dad around, tugging on the hem of his flannel and asking questions about how to grill ribs or fix a flat tire.

You could see it in his face, the shift. That faint crease between his brows. Like he didn’t know what to make of what he was seeing.

You weren’t twelve anymore.

And he knew that.

But the way he was looking at you now… it wasn’t pity. It wasn’t awkwardness. It was something else.

Something that made your skin warm, even as your clothes clung cold to your body.

You held his gaze for just a second longer than you meant to before dropping it again, clutching the towel tighter to your chest.

Joel cleared his throat again, his voice rough but careful.

“Bathroom’s down the hall. I’ll find you somethin’ dry.”

You stepped quietly down the hall, arms still wrapped around the towel like it was the only thing keeping you upright. The house was dim, quiet except for the low hum of the air vent and the soft creak of the floor under your feet. Joel didn’t follow, just let you go, giving you space.

The bathroom door opened with a soft push, and you stepped inside.

It smelled the same as you remembered, clean and faintly like cedar soap. The lights overhead buzzed to life as you flipped the switch, bathing the room in a soft, warm glow.

You stood still for a second. Just breathing.

And then the memories came in like a quiet rush.

You used to come in here when you were little. When your dad would drag you along for a night at Joel’s, usually some weekend game night or beer-and-barbecue thing. You were too young to care about football or whatever else they were watching, so you’d wander the house. Sit cross-legged on the bathroom floor playing with your toys or fiddling with little things around the sink while Sarah played with you.

You used to giggle about Joel’s aftershave, mess with the little cups stacked on the counter, open drawers you probably shouldn’t have.

It was warm then. Safe. Full of noise and life.

You pressed your palm to the edge of the sink now, staring at your reflection.

Same mirror. Same faded green tile. Same soft hand towels folded on the rack.

But everything felt different now.

You weren’t a kid sneaking off from a boring football night anymore. You weren’t playing pretend with Sarah while the dads laughed over beers in the kitchen. You were eighteen. Standing in Joel’s bathroom, damp and trembling, heart still twisted from being pushed out into the night by the only other person who was supposed to make you feel safe.

And Joel…

He wasn’t just “Mr. Miller” anymore.

You looked at your own eyes in the mirror, red-rimmed and glassy. Your skin was pale under the yellow light, hair damp and clinging to your neck. You looked lost. And you hated that you looked that way in his house, in his mirror.

You turned the shower on, letting the steam build. The heat was comforting, but it didn’t make the ache go away.

As you pulled your shirt over your head and let your damp clothes fall to the tiled floor, you wondered if he still saw you the same way he used to.

Sweet little girl. Honey.

Or if maybe, just maybe… that look he gave you earlier meant something else now.

The hot water poured over your shoulders like a blanket, soaking into your skin, easing the chill that had sunk deep into your bones. Steam curled up around you, fogging the glass, softening the world until it felt far away. You let your head fall forward under the spray, eyes closed, lips parted, breathing in the quiet warmth.

It was the first time all night you didn’t feel cold.

But your chest still ached.

Your thoughts wandered, slow and heavy, as the water moved down your back.

Where was Sarah now?

She was older than you by a few years. You remembered when she got her acceptance letter for college, how proud Joel had been, even though he tried not to make a big deal about it. You were only fourteen at the time, still in that awkward, in-between phase where you were too shy to speak around him for long, but you remembered how he lit up when he talked about her. How his eyes softened in a way that was different than usual.

Maybe that’s why the house felt so still now. Why it felt… lonelier.

Without Sarah’s laugh echoing down the hallway. Without her music blaring from her room.

You ran your hands over your arms beneath the stream, squeezing your eyes shut as more memories came.

You used to make Joel little cards around the holidays. Ones with clumsy handwriting and glitter that always fell off. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miller” or “Happy Birthday!” with lopsided hearts and cartoon dogs you’d drawn just for him. He kept them, too, you remembered him pinning one up on the fridge one year. Told you it was his favorite thing he got that Christmas.

You smiled at that. Just barely.

Then the ache returned.

Because you also remembered the other times, when your dad would push you to come over even when you didn’t want to. Not to visit Joel, but to learn. Said you should stop wasting time and do something useful. Like music. Like guitar. Joel had offered to teach you, always patient, always kind… but you were stubborn then. Hated the pressure. Hated the way your dad watched every chord you missed, every note that buzzed.

You didn’t appreciate it back then.

But now?

Now, all you wanted was to sit in Joel’s living room again. To feel that careful way he guided your hands on the strings. To listen to him explain things in that slow, steady voice like nothing could ever go wrong.

You leaned back against the tile, breath trembling, arms hugging yourself under the stream.

Everything had changed so fast.

And it hurt in ways you couldn’t even name.

You tilted your head back beneath the water, eyes closed, letting the past flicker behind your lids like old home videos.

You used to get excited when you heard Joel was coming over.

It didn’t start that way, not when you were younger and thought all your dad’s friends were boring. But something shifted when you hit thirteen, maybe fourteen. When you started noticing the way Joel’s voice got even deeper when he was tired, or the way he’d lean in close to listen, really listen, when you spoke, even if it was about something silly.

You started caring more about what you wore when he came by. Not obvious stuff. Just little things, a different shirt, lip balm with a soft tint, brushing your hair twice instead of once.

You weren’t subtle. Not really.

And Joel noticed.

He’d always been good with people. Quiet, observant. He never teased you, never made you feel small. But he knew. And in his own careful way, he humored it. Just enough to make your stomach flutter.

You could still remember one summer afternoon,

the air thick and hot, your dad out back grilling while Joel leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping a beer. You were fourteen, wearing a pale sundress you didn’t even like that much except for the way it swayed when you walked.

You’d wandered into the kitchen, pretending to be after a drink, but you lingered.

“Whatcha drinkin’, Mr. Miller?” you asked, pretending not to notice how dry your mouth was.

He glanced over, already smirking just a little.

“Somethin’ you’re not old enough to ask about.”

You tried not to squirm under the way his eyes flicked down, just briefly, then right back up. Measured. Careful.

“I’m not that young,” you mumbled, reaching into the fridge for a soda.

He raised a brow. “No? When’d that happen?”

You cracked open the can and leaned on the opposite counter, heart thudding.

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, trying for casual. “Just… figured maybe you’d talk to me like a grown-up sometime.”

Joel had chuckled under his breath at that, deep and warm.

“You tryna convince me, or yourself?”

You felt your face flush but you didn’t back down. Not that day.

“You’re mean,” you said softly, but your lips curved into a shy smile.

He tilted his beer toward you just slightly, something fond in the gesture. “Nah, honey. Just honest.”

Honey.

That word again. That name.

It always made your chest flutter. And when he said it then, with a little smirk but something real behind it, you knew he wasn’t making fun of you. Just… keeping the line where it needed to be. Even if part of you always wished he’d forget it was there.

Your fingers trailed along the tile wall as the water kept falling, steam curling around you like a blanket. You were warm now, but you didn’t want to step out. You didn’t want to face whatever came next. Not just yet.

Your mind drifted again, this time, not so far back. Not to dress-up days and awkward crushes.

But to the last time you saw Joel.

It had been maybe 3 years ago. Late spring, warm outside but breezy. You’d been sitting on the porch while your dad grilled, and Joel had stopped by out of nowhere. Said he was in the area. Said he thought he’d drop something off.

You remembered how your heart jumped when you saw his truck pulling into the driveway.

You were 14 then, about to be 15. maybe just starting to shed some of that baby-faced softness. You had your legs curled up under you in an oversized tee, and you’d tucked your hair behind your ears three separate times in five minutes, hoping it looked effortless.

He joined your dad out back for a bit. They talked and laughed like always, but it didn’t feel the same.

Joel was quieter. Less at ease. Like something had shifted.

You’d waited for a chance to talk to him. Just you and him.

When it finally came,

he was grabbing a drink from the cooler and you wandered over, slow and shy.

“Hey,” you said, trying not to sound too eager.

He turned, gave you a small nod. “Hey, kid.”

That name stung more than it should’ve.

“I haven’t seen you around much lately,” you said after a pause. “You don’t come by like you used to…”

Joel didn’t look at you right away. He just twisted the cap off his beer and gave a quiet shrug.

“Been busy. Work’s been a lot lately.”

You’d nodded, but your voice was smaller when you asked, “Is it just work?”

That made him glance over at you.

Something flickered across his face then. Something unreadable.

And all he said was, “Nothin’ personal, alright? Just figured it was time I stopped hangin’ around so much.”

You hadn’t known what to say. You just stood there, feeling like maybe you’d done something wrong and didn’t know it.

That was the last time.

After that, no more random visits. No more cookouts. No more evenings where you’d catch his eye across the kitchen while your dad ranted about the game.

He disappeared, just like that.

You thought about it too often, what changed. Why he stopped coming. Why he suddenly felt so far away.

And now here you were, standing naked and dripping in his bathroom, nearly 3 years older, 3 years lonelier… and still wondering what he’d see when you stepped back out into the hallway.

Eventually, the water wasn’t enough to keep you distracted anymore. You’d washed your hair, rinsed your skin clean of the cold and the rain, but that ache in your chest still lingered. Quiet. Heavy. Lingering like steam on the mirror.

You turned the water off with a slow twist of the knob, and the bathroom was instantly quieter. The kind of silence that felt louder than sound.

The air was thick with warmth, soft clouds of steam clinging to the mirror and tiles as you stepped out, careful not to slip. You wrapped the towel around yourself tightly, tucking the edge just above your chest, and stared at your own reflection through the fogged glass.

Still you. Still that same girl underneath it all.

You padded barefoot to the door and cracked it open, a little hesitant. The hallway light was still on, casting a warm glow over the dark hardwood floor.

And there, just outside the door on a small wooden table, was a neatly folded pile of clothes.

Your heart twisted.

One of Joel’s old flannels sat on top, soft and worn, sleeves rolled halfway up like he’d just shrugged out of it. Beneath it, a pair of sweatpants, drawstring pulled loose to make them easier to slip into.

Your fingers reached out slowly, brushing the fabric. Still warm from the dryer.

He must’ve done this while you were in the shower. Quiet, thoughtful. Like always.

You swallowed thickly, lifting the clothes against your chest, holding them like they were something more than just cotton and thread.

They smelled like him. A little bit like soap, like cedarwood, like something comfortingly familiar. Something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a long time.

And somehow… that made it even harder not to cry again.

You slipped back into the bathroom with the clothes pressed to your chest, shutting the door softly behind you. The tile was still warm beneath your feet, the mirror still fogged.

You took your time drying off, trying to steady your breathing. Your hands shook a little as you tugged on the sweatpants, they were far too big, pooling at your ankles, but the drawstring helped. The flannel hung heavy and soft on your shoulders, sleeves nearly swallowing your hands. You rolled them up like he always did, and that made your stomach twist strangely.

You didn’t bother with your damp clothes. You folded them neatly and set them by the sink.

When you finally stepped out again, the hallway light was dimmer, as if Joel had turned it down for your sake.

You padded into the living room quietly, your damp hair clinging to the sides of your face, falling in soft waves down your back. Joel was sitting on the couch, a beer in one hand, the TV playing something low he clearly wasn’t paying attention to.

He looked up when he heard your soft footsteps.

And his eyes landed on you.

There was a flicker in his expression, like a pause in his chest, like something caught in his throat and he didn’t know how to swallow it.

You looked so small in his clothes.

That big flannel hanging loose over your frame. Those sweatpants dragging the floor. Your bare feet quiet against the wood.

And your face…

Still that same softness. Damp lashes, flushed cheeks, lips parted slightly like you wanted to say something but weren’t sure how. You looked young. Not like a child, but vulnerable. Open.

The kind of quiet Joel remembered from a girl who used to make him lopsided cards and ask too many questions. Who’d sit on his porch with a guitar too big for her lap and try to act like she didn’t care when she missed a chord.

Now you stood there, older, but still her.

Still you.

He cleared his throat softly, sitting up a little straighter on the couch.

“Clothes fit alright?” he asked, voice low, rough around the edges from the late hour.

You nodded, eyes dipping for a second.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “They’re warm.”

He watched you for a beat longer. You weren’t just cold anymore. You looked tired. Like you’d been holding it together all night and were starting to unravel in slow pieces.

Joel set the bottle down and motioned gently toward the couch.

“C’mere. Sit with me a minute, alright?”

You hesitated for just a second before your feet carried you forward, slow and quiet, like you were afraid you might break the moment if you moved too fast.

The couch dipped as you sat beside him, your knees curling slightly, the flannel sleeves covering half your hands. You didn’t look at him right away, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor, but you felt his presence close beside you. Solid. Safe.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. He just let the TV flicker in the background, the sound low and meaningless. He was giving you time, something he’d always been good at. Even back then, when you’d get shy around him, stumbling over your words, he never rushed you.

He always waited.

After a moment, his voice broke the quiet, low and gentle, like he was talking to a skittish animal.

“You feelin’ any better?” he asked, glancing over at you. “Shower help at all?”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Yeah… a little.”

He gave a soft hum, then let another pause stretch before speaking again.

“I don’t wanna push,” he said slowly. “But if you feel like talkin’… I’m listenin’. Just tell me what happened, honey.”

That word again, honey, it hit a little different this time. Not like earlier, when it caught you off guard. Now it warmed something in your chest, loosened something tight inside you.

He said it so kindly. Like he still cared. Like he still saw you.

You sat there for another long second, your throat burning, and your eyes started to sting again.

Your voice cracked before you even got the words out.

“He—” You swallowed hard. “My dad… he was drunk.”

Joel didn’t move, didn’t interrupt. His body stayed still and quiet beside you.

“He just started yelling,” you continued, wiping quickly under your eye with the edge of your sleeve. “I don’t even remember about what—stupid stuff, nothing really. I told him to stop, and he just… snapped.”

Joel’s jaw tensed slightly, but he didn’t speak.

You stared at your knees. “He told me to get out. Didn’t let me grab anything. Just… pushed me out the door.”

Your voice shook a little at the end, and you hated it, hated how small it made you feel, how young.

But Joel didn’t make you feel embarrassed. He didn’t make a face or say you were overreacting.

He just let out a low breath, like his chest had been holding onto something tight, and nodded slowly.

“I’m real sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You didn’t deserve that.”

You blinked quickly, trying to stop the tears from coming again, but one slipped free, tracing down your cheek.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” you whispered.

Joel turned toward you then, one arm resting on the back of the couch, eyes fixed soft on your face.

“You did the right thing comin’ here.”

He said it so simply. Like it wasn’t even a question. Like this was home, in some quiet, strange way.

And for the first time in a long time, you started to believe that maybe it could be.

Joel stayed quiet for a moment, watching the way your fingers tugged at the edge of the flannel sleeve, twisting the fabric, nervous and uncertain. You always used to fidget like that when you were a kid, especially when you were trying not to cry.

His eyes softened.

“I know it’s hard,” he said quietly. “But can you tell me more? About what he said?”

You didn’t answer right away. The words sat heavy on your tongue.

“I just—” You paused, jaw tightening slightly. “He gets mean when he drinks. You know that. But tonight was… different.”

Joel didn’t speak, just nodded for you to keep going.

“He said I was ungrateful. That I acted like I was better than him. Like I thought I didn’t need anyone,” you said, your voice starting to tighten again. “I told him that wasn’t true. I was just trying to calm him down, but he wouldn’t listen. He shoved a chair over. Said if I thought I was so grown, then I could go be grown somewhere else.”

Your hands trembled again, and Joel felt his own fingers curl slightly where they rested on his leg.

You didn’t notice the way his jaw clenched. The quiet way his gaze sharpened, hardening under the softness as the picture of what had happened grew clearer.

“He didn’t let me grab my phone,” you said. “Or my shoes. Nothing. Just opened the door and told me to get the hell out.”

Joel’s chest rose and fell with a slow breath, controlled, but you could feel something shift in the air beside you.

You didn’t recognize it. But he did.

It was anger.

It started as a flicker in his stomach the moment you said he pushed you out. But now it was burning, low and steady. Not just anger, but something deeper. Protective. Dangerous in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

You’d always been his buddy’s kid. The sweet girl who made him smile without even trying. But hearing you now… sitting there beside him in his clothes, hair damp and eyes rimmed pink, trying so hard not to fall apart—it made something hard and cold settle in his chest.

He should’ve been there.

He should’ve known.

You sniffled softly, not even realizing how quiet he’d gone.

“I just kept walking,” you whispered. “Didn’t even think. I guess I just… ended up here.

Joel looked at you then, really looked at you.

And something in his expression shifted. his voice low, but laced with something sharp, bitter at the edges.

“That son of a bitch…” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly.

You blinked, startled by the words, but he wasn’t done. His voice stayed quiet, but it was firmer now, heavier.

“He put his hands on you? Kicked you out in the damn rain?” His jaw worked as he sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What the hell was he thinkin’?”

You didn’t know how to respond. You just sat there, small in his clothes, your hands tugging gently at the sleeves again.

Joel let out a slow breath, then leaned back, trying to steady himself. His voice softened again.

“I should’ve been checkin’ in more,” he added, glancing over at you. “Should’ve known somethin’ was wrong.”

You looked at him quietly, heart aching at the way he said it. Like he blamed himself. Like he cared more than you’d ever let yourself hope he still did.

But instead, You shook your head, biting your lip. You didn’t want to seem like it was his fault, it wasn’t. Was it..?

“I should’ve said somethin’ sooner,” you murmured. “I should’ve told someone.”

Joel shook his head.

“No. This ain’t on you.”

You finally looked up at him then, and for a second, the man who’d always called you sweet names and teased you gently over burnt Christmas cards was gone.

This Joel was still gentle. Still calm.

But there was steel in his eyes now. A quiet fury, buried deep, but real.

And you weren’t sure if it was meant for your dad, or for himself.

Joel leaned forward again, his forearms resting heavy on his knees, calloused hands clasped tight together. The TV still flickered on in the background, casting pale light across the living room, but neither of you were paying it any attention.

You glanced over at him, noticing the way his brow was pinched, the way his eyes didn’t move from the floor.

“I… I don’t want you to be upset,” you said quietly, hesitant. “It’s not really your fault, Mr Miller. I probably, should’ve kept my mouth shut. I made it worse.”

He turned his head slowly, eyes meeting yours.

“That ain’t true,” he said, low and rough. But you looked away again, still picking at your sleeve.

“I know how he gets,” you continued, your voice soft and tight. “I should’ve just walked away. Stayed quiet like I usually do…”

Joel’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking. You didn’t see the way his expression twisted, how his guilt sank deeper, heavier.

Because all he could think about was how your dad hadn’t always been this way. He used to be different. Not perfect, but not… cruel. Not violent.

Back then, when you were younger, when Sarah was still around, when there were beers on the porch and a game playing low in the background, everything felt simpler. Lighter.

Joel used to come by all the time. You’d sit nearby and try to join their conversations, and he’d tease you gently, always patient with your little questions and awkward crush. And your dad… he wasn’t great, but he wasn’t this.

Then something shifted.

Your dad got meaner. Shorter tempered. Drinking more. Joel started noticing the way he’d snap at you in passing, the way he brushed you off coldly. How you’d get quiet around him, nervous, like you were walking on eggshells.

And Joel stopped coming around so much.

He told himself it was just life getting in the way. Work. Sarah getting older. But deep down, he knew the truth.

He couldn’t watch it happen. Couldn’t be around your father without wanting to knock some sense into him.

And now here you were, curled up beside him in borrowed clothes, cold and small and hurting.

And he hadn’t been there.

“If I’d stayed around… if I’d checked in”

He swallowed hard, hands still knotted together.

“You didn’t make anything worse,” he said finally, voice thick. “Don’t ever think that. That man’s lucky I wasn’t there tonight.”

You glanced at him, and for the first time, saw the fire behind his words. Not just protectiveness, but something else. That weight in his chest, years in the making.

He still saw you.

And part of him was terrified he hadn’t seen you enough.

You looked at him for a long moment, the room quiet except for the soft murmur of the TV and the faint tap of rain still clinging to the windows.

There was something different in Joel’s eyes now. Still steady. Still warm. But deeper. Like something unspoken had just cracked open between you both.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know- I didn’t mean to wake you, Mr. Miller…”

Joel’s head turned toward you slowly, and for a second, there was the faintest curve to his mouth, small, almost wistful.

Mr. Miller.

God, you used to say it so sweetly, so earnestly. Even when you were barely tall enough to reach the countertop. He remembered the first time you called him that, probably seven years old, a little shy and serious, peeking around your dad’s leg and clutching a juice box. And every time after, no matter how many times he told you to call him Joel, it was always Mr. Miller.

He exhaled softly, something fond flickering in his eyes.

“I remember when you used to say that all the time,” he said, voice gentle now, like warm honey. “Every single visit. Hi Mr. Miller. Bye Mr. Miller. Always so polite.”

You looked down, suddenly feeling sheepish. “My dad made sure I had manners…”

Joel tilted his head just slightly.

“Yeah, well… you can drop the mister now,” he murmured. “You’re not a kid anymore. Just call me Joel.”

There was something quiet in the way he said it. Not sharp or dismissive, just honest. Like he was seeing you clearly for the first time in a long while.

You nodded slowly, still not sure if you could actually say it. It felt too strange in your mouth. Too grown.

But Joel didn’t push you. He just leaned back a little more into the couch, his posture easing, his tone softer.

“And for the record,” he added, eyes back on yours, “I’m glad you came here. You don’t gotta be sorry for that.”

Your breath caught a little, a warm swell pressing behind your ribs. You felt young again. And safe. But not like before. It was different now.

More aware.

More real.

And when Joel looked at you, really looked at you, you wondered if he felt that difference too.

You sat there in the quiet, your fingers toying gently with the hem of the sleeves that were far too big for you. The towel had warmed you up a little, and Joel’s clothes smelled like laundry and faint traces of cedar and something you couldn’t quite name, but remembered.

Your voice came out softer than you expected, barely above the low hum of the television.

“Would it… would it be okay if I stayed here tonight?”

Joel turned to look at you. His brows lifted just slightly, and there was the briefest pause, like the question caught him off guard.

Not because he didn’t want to say yes.

But because of course you should stay. After what happened, after what your father did, how could he not open his home to you? To the little girl he’s known since she was a baby.

But Still, he hesitated. Just for a second.

Not because he didn’t care. But because you weren’t that little girl anymore in a too-big T-shirt following Sarah around the backyard. You were older. Barefoot in his living room. Wrapped in his clothes. And the look in your eyes was something entirely different from the last time he saw you.

But Joel cleared his throat quietly, pushing the thought down. You needed a place to feel safe. That was all that mattered.

“‘Course you can,” he said, voice low, but certain. “Sarah’s room’s all cleaned out. She’s off at college now,” he said gently. “You can sleep in there.”

You blinked, your lips parting like you might protest. But Joel was already continuing, his tone patient.

“I’ll be just down the hall in my room, alright?.”

That quiet reassurance settled something in your chest.

You nodded, almost shyly. “Thank you…”

Joel stood, his movements slower, more careful than before. “Don’t gotta thank me, honey,” he said softly, the way he always used to. “Get settled in. I’ll grab you a blanket and some extra pillows”

And just like that, he turned toward the hallway, his broad figure disappearing into the warm, quiet house.

You sat there a moment longer, heart a little steadier now, hands still curled into the soft sleeves of his shirt.

You were really staying here.

In Sarah’s room. In Joel’s house.

And for the first time all night… you didn’t feel like you were in the way.

You stepped quietly into the bedroom, the soft creak of the old door sounding louder in the stillness of the house. It had been years since you’d stood here, years since you and Sarah sprawled across the bed laughing about nothing, painting your nails or talking about people from school like everything in the world was easy and small. You were 15 and she was 17.

Now the room felt… different. Not quite cold, but still. The air had a faint scent of old vanilla candles and laundry detergent, the comforting smell of a space that had been lived in and then carefully packed away.

The bed was made perfectly, with a smooth white comforter tucked into the corners, the kind of tidy only a parent would maintain after their kid left. The desk sat bare except for a ceramic dish holding three stretched-out hair ties and a lone bobby pin, like remnants of a girl who had left in a hurry. A dried-up pen rested in an old mug that once held makeup brushes or pencils or candy, maybe all three. The walls were mostly blank, but you could see the faint outlines where posters had once hung. Her favorite bands, probably. A couple of movie characters. A few pictures of the two of you, maybe, back when things were simple.

Your eyes drifted to the edge of the room where the carpet was slightly darker. That’s where her laundry basket used to sit, full of crumpled t-shirts and inside-out jeans. You remembered how she used to throw stuff around when she got ready, how her music would blast through the walls, loud enough to shake your bedroom when she stayed over.

But now the silence settled like a blanket, thick and a little heavy. You stood near the doorway, damp from the rain, arms folded loosely against your chest, the oversized shirt Joel gave you falling past your shorts. His scent, warm, musky, a little woody, lingered in the cotton, and you couldn’t help but close your eyes for a second and breathe it in.

You hadn’t felt safe all day.

And somehow, standing in this room with its quiet stillness and its faded memories, you started to feel it again.

Down the hall, Joel moved through the linen closet with the kind of tired hands that came from long days and long years. He pulled out a blanket, soft, thick, the one he’d always kept folded up in case Sarah got cold watching movies. Then a pillow. He paused, squeezing it once before tucking it under his arm.

His brow furrowed as he stood there, staring blankly at the shelf for a moment.

He didn’t know what the hell he was feeling.

She was just a girl. The same girl who used to trail after Sarah with stickers all over her arms, asking him questions about his truck or pretending to care about baseball stats just to be part of the conversation.

But that wasn’t who walked through his door tonight.

Tonight it was her, wet, shaking, in his clothes that hung off her frame in a way that made his stomach tighten. Not because of anything he wanted to feel. But because of everything he shouldn’t.

The softness in her face hadn’t changed, not really. But her body had. Her voice. Her presence. It rattled something in him.

“Shit…” he muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped away from the closet.

She’d grown up.

And maybe if he’d stuck around, if he hadn’t distanced himself once her father started turning bitter and mean, maybe he would’ve noticed it sooner. Maybe he could’ve been someone she called before walking the streets alone at night in the rain, wearing nothing but socks and shorts, looking like something fragile and forgotten.

Instead, she’d shown up at his door, eyes wide and wet, shoulders hunched like she expected to be turned away.

Joel clenched his jaw, adjusting the pillow under his arm and walking slowly toward the bedroom.

He didn’t know how this night would end. He didn’t even know how to look at her without feeling like the ground was shifting beneath his boots.

But he knew one thing for sure.

He wouldn’t let her feel unsafe again. Not here.

Not with him.

He nudged the door open gently with his shoulder, the quiet creak just enough to draw your attention. You sat at the edge of the bed, your legs dangling a little above the floor, back slightly hunched, hands folded in your lap. You looked so small like that. Wrapped up in his shirt, damp hair falling down your back in soft, dark strands. Your bare legs curled inward a bit, your socked feet barely brushing the edge of the carpet.

Joel hesitated in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, the pillow and blanket tucked under his arm. His eyes swept over the room, then landed on you, and lingered.

There was a softness in his gaze now, one he didn’t quite mean to show. But he couldn’t help it. You looked up at him slowly, not quite meeting his eyes, like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to.

He swallowed, his voice a little rough when he finally spoke.

“Brought you these,” he said, stepping forward and placing the folded blanket and pillow beside you on the bed. “Should be comfortable enough for the night.”

You gave a quiet nod, your fingers gently smoothing the edge of the blanket even though it didn’t need it.

“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice still soft, still a little shaky.

Joel stood there for a beat longer than necessary. Just watching you. Noticing the way your shoulders curved inward, the way your eyes lingered on the far corner of the room like you were deep in something, something far away from here.

He didn’t want to leave you like that.

He let out a quiet breath, then crouched down slightly in front of you, not close enough to overwhelm you, but enough that you’d have to look at him if you wanted to respond.

“You alright?” he asked gently.

You nodded again. Then, after a pause, you finally looked up.

Joel’s chest tightened.

That look, it was the same one you gave him when you were younger and your dad had yelled too loud at the barbecue. Or when you’d come inside with a scraped-up knee and didn’t want Sarah to see you cry. That look of quiet embarrassment and vulnerability, like you weren’t sure if you were being a burden.

He hated it.

You opened your mouth, maybe to say something, but nothing came out. Your lips just parted, then closed again. You tried to hold eye contact, but it slipped away. You shook your head once, quietly.

Joel’s hand twitched, like he wanted to reach out, put a hand on your shoulder or gently touch your knee the way he would’ve back then, but he didn’t.

Instead, his voice softened even more.

“Alright, alright,” he murmured. “No pressure. Just… take a breath, honey. You’re safe here, okay?”

There it was again. That name. Honey.

It wrapped around your chest, squeezing.

You hadn’t heard it in so long. Not like that. He used to say it all the time when you were little, C’mon, honey, let’s get you inside, or That’s a good drawing, honey. Real good. You never liked hearing it from anyone else. Only him. From Joel, it felt like care. Like being seen.

You blinked quickly, looking down at your hands so he wouldn’t see the emotion tugging at your lashes.

“I’ll… I’ll be okay,” you whispered, more to yourself than him.

Joel stood slowly, but before he turned to leave, he paused at the doorway, glancing back at you one last time.

“I’ll be just down the hall. If you need anything, anything at all, you come get me.”

You nodded without looking up, but your lips quirked just barely.

“Okay,” you said softly.

Joel stared at you a beat longer.

Then, quieter, almost to himself, he murmured, “alright then.”

And with that, he stepped out, the door clicking softly shut behind him, leaving you with the blanket, the silence… and a heart just a little steadier than before.

The room was dark now, save for the faint glow of a streetlamp leaking in through the half-closed blinds. You laid curled on your side, Joel’s blanket pulled up to your chin, the scent of clean linen and his detergent wrapped all around you. The pillow was soft, too soft, almost. The kind that let your thoughts wander too easily.

You’d been staring at the same shadow on the ceiling for what felt like an hour.

Sleep just wouldn’t come.

Maybe it was the unfamiliar bed, maybe the echo of the day still buzzing under your skin, but more then anything it was the weather.

The rain had started as a gentle tapping against the window, barely noticeable at first. But slowly, it picked up, growing steadier, heavier, drops rolling down the glass in quick patterns. Then came the low, rumbling thunder. Distant at first, a slow growl behind the clouds.

But now it was louder. Closer. A sudden crack split the sky, followed by a deep, echoing boom that made you flinch under the covers.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your hand tightening slightly around the edge of the blanket.

You’d always hated thunderstorms.

You remembered once, when you were little, seven or maybe eight, and one rolled in while you were at Joel’s with your dad. Joel had noticed you trying to be brave, but he caught the way your shoulders jumped when the thunder hit. Without a word, he’d passed you a blanket and a glass of water and let you curl up on the couch near him and Sarah, the sound of his voice from the other room calming you more than the storm ever could.

You missed that feeling now. That safety.

Another loud boom cracked overhead, and you sucked in a breath, your eyes flicking toward the bedroom door like instinct.

Joel was just down the hall. But you didn’t want to bother him again.

Still… something inside you itched. That little part of you that still felt like a kid in a too-big world. Alone. Unsure.

Down the hall, Joel was dead asleep.

He’d barely made it into bed before he’d knocked out, body heavy with exhaustion. Work had drained him earlier, and the long hours he put in, paired with the sudden rush of concern when you’d shown up on his doorstep, had left him bone-tired.

The steady rhythm of rain outside didn’t stir him. Not yet, anyway.

But it stirred you.

You laid there, curled into a ball beneath the blanket, your knees tucked close, your face half-buried in the pillow. The thunder rolled again, deeper now, rattling the glass just faintly. You flinched, your breath catching, blinking fast.

You weren’t crying. Not really.

But your eyes burned a little.

And as you listened to the sound of the storm, your fingers curled tighter around the blanket.

He was so close. Just down the hall.

But would he mind?

Would it be too much?

You bit your lip and stared at the door, unsure if you’d ever stop feeling small in the quiet.

The clock on the wall ticked softly, its red numbers glowing faintly: 12:03 a.m.

Midnight.

You were still curled on your side, blanket wrapped tight around your legs, eyes wide open and fixed on the glowing sliver of light under the bedroom door. The storm outside had gotten worse, no longer just a gentle background hum, but a full-on downpour. The wind hissed between the trees, rattling leaves and creaking old branches.

Then, another flash of lightning. Bright enough to paint the entire room for a split second in stark, silver light.

You barely had time to brace yourself before the thunder followed, cracking through the air like it had split the sky in two. Loud and sharp, like it was right outside the house. You flinched so hard your legs kicked against the sheets.

Your breath caught, chest rising and falling too fast now. Your hand flew up to press against it, trying to calm the thumping beneath your skin. But it didn’t help.

God, you hated this. You hated storms like this, when they felt too close, too loud, too heavy. Like they could crawl under your skin and shake you apart from the inside.

You turned onto your back, blinking up at the ceiling again. The soft darkness, the quiet of Sarah’s old room, it wasn’t enough anymore. It felt too quiet compared to the chaos outside. And it only reminded you how alone you were in here.

You glanced at the door again.

Joel was just down the hall.

But would it be too much to go to him?

He’d already done so much, took you in, gave you a warm shower, his clothes, his daughter’s bed. You didn’t want to seem childish. You didn’t want to push boundaries. But…

Another flash, crack, this time even louder. Your hand gripped the blanket tightly.

That was it.

With slow, careful movements, you peeled the covers back. The air outside the blanket was cooler now, and goosebumps instantly formed on your legs. You slid your socked feet to the floor quietly, wincing slightly as one creaked against the wood.

Your hair, now dry, hung in soft strands down your back, sticking a little to your skin from the residual warmth of sleep and nerves. You gently pushed it behind your ears as you stood.

Hesitation curled in your stomach, heavy and anxious.

You stepped to the door, standing in front of it with your hand hovering over the knob.

You could go back to bed. You could wait it out. You should wait it out…

But then came another crack of thunder, louder than any before, almost shaking the glass in the window. And that was enough.

Fingers trembling slightly, you turned the knob.

And with a soft breath, you stepped out into the quiet hallway.

The hallway was dark, lit only by the pale wash of moonlight seeping in through the front window and the occasional flicker of lightning flashing through the curtains. You walked slowly, the wood floor cool beneath your socks, your fingers brushing the wall as you passed by old picture frames and familiar corners.

Joel’s door was at the end of the hall, just like you remembered. Just like he said, come to him if you need anything.

It was slightly cracked open.

You swallowed softly, your steps faltering as you reached it. For a moment, you just stood there, the soft rumble of thunder in the distance filling the silence around you. The house smelled faintly of rain and fabric softener and the faint trace of Joel’s cologne still lingering in the air.

You gently reached out, pushing the door just enough to see inside.

The room was dark, but your eyes adjusted quickly. Joel lay on his stomach, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other resting loosely beside his head. His chest rose and fell in steady, even breaths, his brow relaxed in sleep. The blankets were half pulled over him, and his face was turned slightly toward the door, catching a sliver of the lightning’s glow as it flashed outside.

He looked peaceful. Tired, but at ease.

You didn’t want to disturb that.

Your hand lingered on the doorframe, your weight shifting between your feet as you stood there in hesitation. Maybe you should go back. Maybe this was silly, maybe it was childish. The last thing you wanted was to make him think you couldn’t handle being alone in a room anymore.

But another clap of thunder cracked above the house, louder this time, and you jumped slightly, your breath catching in your throat. You felt the sting in your eyes before you could stop it.

You didn’t want to cry again.

Not in front of him. Not like this.

But you didn’t move. You stayed there in the doorway, frozen in the space between needing comfort and being afraid to ask for it.

Joel stirred slightly at the sound of the thunder, his brow twitching before his breathing evened again.

Still asleep.

You took a quiet, shaky breath, your hand slowly sliding down from the doorframe.

What if he didn’t want to be woken up?

What if he was mad?

What if you looked like the same scared little girl he used to tease gently during storms and cookouts?

But what if… he still cared?

Your voice barely made a sound as you whispered, “Mr. Miller…?”

No response.

Your lips parted to try again, quiet, unsure.

But You just stood there, just a little longer, hands curling into the sleeves of your borrowed shirt. His room felt warmer than the rest of the house, full of something familiar. Safer. But… you couldn’t do it.

He looked so peaceful. Tired. And after everything, after taking you in without hesitation, you didn’t want to seem selfish. You didn’t want him to think you were being dramatic over something as silly as thunder.

So, slowly, you stepped back.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you turned, bare feet light on the floor. You exhaled softly, already about to head down the hall in your mind. But then—

Creaaak.

A loud, sharp groan from the floorboard beneath your foot split through the quiet like a gunshot. You froze instantly, lips parting, eyes wide in horror.

Behind you, there was a shift. A rustle of blankets.

A low, gravelly voice, tired and rough from sleep.

“…What the hell…”

You slowly turned around, just enough to see Joel blink blearily in the darkness, his hand rubbing over his face before settling on his chest as he rolled on his back. His brows furrowed as his eyes adjusted, squinting through the low light.

When they landed on you, standing there like a child caught sneaking out, they softened slightly, but only just.

“…You alright?” he asked, his voice hoarse, a little rough with sleep. Then, with a grumble, “Why’re you creepin’ around like that? It’s the middle of the night.”

You opened your mouth, unsure what to say, arms instinctively crossing over your chest.

“I— I was just…” you whispered, eyes flickering down, cheeks warm with embarrassment.

Joel let out a low, tired sigh and shifted to sit up a little, propping himself up on one elbow, still trying to shake off the haze of sleep. His voice was less annoyed now, but still heavy.

“You need somethin’?” he murmured, watching you closely, his voice softer than before. “Or you just gonna haunt my doorway like a damn ghost?”

You stood frozen in the doorway, fingers tugging anxiously at the hem of the oversized shirt he gave you earlier. His shirt. Your voice was barely audible under the hum of the rain and the soft clap of distant thunder.

“I… I got scared,” you admitted, eyes cast low. “The thunder, the lightning… I know it’s dumb.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand across his face. He wasn’t mad at you. Not really. He just hadn’t had much sleep, between work and you showing up at his door soaked through and shaken, and now it was past midnight and your voice sounded like it used to when you were little, all soft and trembling. That’s what got to him.

He leaned up on one elbow, blinking blearily toward the door.

“Christ,” he muttered, voice gravelly. “You still get spooked by storms, huh?”

You shifted your weight, chewing your lip.

“Didn’t think I still would,” you murmured.

Joel huffed, more to himself than to you, rubbing the back of his neck as he sat up further. But the second he looked at you again, your now soft dry hair falling soft over your shoulders, that hesitant look in your eyes, it all hit him at once.

You weren’t that little girl anymore.

But in that moment, all he could think about was how many times you’d crept out during storms, curling up beside him on the couch while Sarah snored away in the other room. No words, just a quiet, innocent need for comfort. And how natural it always felt to give it.

But this, now, wasn’t so simple.

Not with the way your body filled out that shirt.

Not with the way something deep in his chest stirred just looking at you, a twinge of guilt shadowing the way his thoughts flickered dark for half a second, wondering how your warmth might feel curled beside him again. How small you’d feel in his arms now.

Joel dragged in a breath, low and tired.

“Used to be you’d sneak out to the couch,” he said gruffly, gaze lingering just a beat too long. “Tryna act like you weren’t scared. Like I wouldn’t notice you pressed up against my side like a puppy.”

You blinked, surprised he remembered. Your voice was small. “You never said anything.”

“‘Cause you looked like you’d cry if I did,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Always been soft.”

He let the words settle. Then, after a pause, his jaw worked a little and he sighed, half annoyed with himself, half too tired to care.

“You comin’ in or just gonna stand there all night?”

You hesitated a little longer, still standing in the doorway with your fingers curled in the fabric of the shirt. His shirt.

Your voice came out quieter this time, almost unsure.

“Are you sure it’s okay if I stay? Just… just until it passes?”

Joel looked at you again, eyes bleary but steady. He could see it, how nervous you were. Not just about the storm, but about being here, in his room, asking him for comfort like you used to. But it wasn’t the same now. You weren’t seven anymore. You weren’t some little girl needing to be scooped up and soothed.

You were grown.

And your body, Jesus, your body looked nothing like the last time he’d seen you. You’d filled out in every way, but there was still that wide-eyed softness in you. That part that always looked to him like he could make the world okay again if he just said the right thing.

He shifted on the bed, patting the other side with a quiet sigh.

“Yeah, darlin’. Just ‘til it passes.”

You gave a shy little nod before walking in slowly, the rain outside soft against the windows but thunder cracking again somewhere far off. You were trembling just a little when you got to the bed, and you climbed in carefully, like you didn’t want to disturb anything. Like you were scared of waking a moment that didn’t belong to you.

Joel didn’t move.

You settled on your side, back to him at first, curled slightly beneath the covers he pulled back for you. The warmth of the bed hit you instantly, and it was hard not to sigh in relief. But it wasn’t just the heat from the sheets or the thunder outside easing off, it was him. His presence. Just knowing he was here, that he let you in.

Your heart beat a little faster as it all hit you.

You were lying next to Joel Miller. The man who used to pat your head when you showed him little drawings. The man you used to make Christmas cards for. The man you secretly loved ever since you were thirteen and realized he wasn’t just “Mr. Miller,” your dad’s friend… but someone who made you feel safe. Warm. Special.

And now, here you were, older, softer, scared again. But this time, it felt different.

He was right there. His breath slow behind you. His body warm. And you couldn’t help but wonder…

Did he feel it too?

You lay still at first, curled close to the edge of the bed like a guest who didn’t know the rules. The blankets were warm, and the pillow soft, but your body couldn’t quite settle. Your back was to him, and your fingers were knotted into the sheets like they might keep you anchored.

The storm outside was still rumbling, the thunder not as sharp now but deep and constant, like it was pacing around the house.

You weren’t even sure if Joel was awake. You thought maybe you’d imagined him shifting behind you, until his voice came, low and rough with sleep, but clearly not imagined.

“What’re you doin’ all the way over there?” he muttered, grumbling like it physically pained him to speak in the middle of the night.

You stiffened a little, eyes wide in the dark. “I—” You swallowed, heat creeping into your face. “I didn’t wanna bother you…”

There was a pause. He let out a quiet sigh, one of those Joel sighs you remembered from when he’d get tired of your dad’s nonsense during cookouts. Tired, dry, and somehow still patient.

“Jesus,” he murmured, not harsh. Just tired. “You think I told you to come in here just to let you freeze over there like a damn guest?”

Your face burned. You bit your lip, heart pounding louder than the rain.

Carefully, so slowly it felt like a small journey, you shifted under the covers. Inch by inch, you moved closer. You could feel his body heat before you were even halfway there, and by the time your shoulder was only a breath away from his, you hesitated again. But something in you wanted more than just his warmth. You needed to feel him. To be close.

So you moved the last few inches, gently laying your head near his shoulder. Not on him—at first. Just close enough to breathe easier.

And then you gave in. Your cheek pressed gently against his chest, and your arm curled in toward yourself, fingers brushing his side as you tried not to overthink it.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But God, the way he felt, his chest rising and falling steady beneath your cheek, the familiar scent of him wrapping around you like a second blanket. That old scent. Soap and cedar and worn cotton and Joel.

You hadn’t felt this safe in a long time.

A tiny, involuntary sound left you, a soft, relieved sigh as your body relaxed. You nuzzled in just a little more, eyes fluttering shut as his warmth finally started to melt the cold from your skin.

Joel hadn’t said anything, but you could feel the tension in his chest. Not discomfort. Just… hesitation.

You knew that too. He didn’t know what to do with you now, not like this. Not grown, not curled up in his bed wearing his shirt, looking for comfort only he could give.

He didn’t say anything right away. But his chest shifted beneath you, his breathing slowing. And then, finally, his hand came up, tentative, rough, warm, and hovered near your back. Not touching. Just close. Like he was reminding himself that you were real.

You didn’t know if he’d fall asleep again. But you knew you would.

Because this was all you needed.

Joel stared at the ceiling.

The room was dark, save for the occasional flicker of lightning behind the curtain, and the steady sound of rain tapping on the window filled the quiet space. But even with the storm softening into background noise, sleep wouldn’t come.

He could feel her beside him, soft and warm, her breath slow and even now that she’d finally calmed down. She’d melted against him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her head resting gently on his chest, her hand tucked near her own heart, curled in the way people do when they finally feel safe.

Joel’s arm had settled around her without much thought. His hand now rested lightly at her waist, fingers lax but aware. He hadn’t meant to, at first it was just instinct, like the way he’d comforted Sarah when she was little, or even how he used to drape a blanket over her when she’d fall asleep on his couch during those late visits.

But this was different.

She wasn’t that little girl anymore.

The shape of her, the softness of her body as it pressed into his side, it was impossible not to notice. He hadn’t seen her in so long, and now here she was, grown, hurting, and laying in his bed like this was where she belonged. And Joel didn’t know what to do with that.

He swallowed hard, his jaw clenched as he tried to steady the tide of thoughts rising in his chest. It wasn’t just that she’d changed, it was the way she still made him feel responsible, like her well-being was somehow in his hands. Maybe it always had been.

And dammit, part of him wished he had stayed around. Maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe she wouldn’t have shown up at his door soaked to the skin, eyes full of tears, begging silently for someone to just see her.

He shifted slightly, just enough to look down at her.

She looked peaceful now. Fragile, even. Her damp hair lay across his shirt, and her face, still youthful, but no longer childish, was softened by sleep. He remembered that face years ago, peeking up at him from a guitar she didn’t want to learn, or from behind her dad’s leg at a cookout.

And now here she was.

Joel let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, low and quiet.

She stirred a little but didn’t wake. Just nestled in closer, chasing his warmth in her sleep. And God help him, Joel tightened his arm gently around her, just enough to hold her there, just enough to keep her safe for one more night.

“Jesus,” he murmured under his breath, barely audible. “When the hell did that happen?” Referring to you growing up. Your once small body, developing.

Sleep would come for her.

But for him… maybe not just yet.