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76bookworm76 · 19 days ago

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Two Pikes, One Bed {Marcus Pike x Ex-Wife!F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 12.2k

Warnings: Awkward encounters, Marcus is a sweetheart, mentions of breakups, mentions of therapy, there was only one bed, mentions of drunken sex, unresolved feelings, fingering, rough sex, flirting, nipple play, showering together, cream pie, after care, feeeeelings, protective reader, communication

Comments: Send to a conference, your luggage is lost by the airline and you find out that the hotel has cancelled your room reservation because why would there be two Pikes? Leaving Marcus to offer to share his bed with you. After all, your divorce was amicable.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

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|| MasterList || Marcus Pike MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

The hotel is nice but not too fancy, typical government accommodations when the higher ups are trying to get you to comply with their shitty demands i.e going to this stupid training conference. You sigh as you walk up to the desk, tapping your fingers as you give the receptionist your name. "Pike?" She frowns in confusion, "but I just checked in a Pike." You frown, "how - I just got here-?" You ask but then you hear his voice. "I'm so sorry. You didn't write down the room number and-?" Your eyes widen as you turn your head, "Marcus?" You gasp, setting eyes on your ex husband for the first time in years.

Marcus freezes for a split second before he says your name, surprised but not completely upset to run into you. As far as ex’s go, you might have the friendliest relationship, the divorce lawyer amazed at how amicable you both had been in your breakup. Marcus had been heartbroken, but he had understood that you were at different points in your life. He opens his arms for a quick hug, the desk clerk forgotten for a moment. “What are you doing here?” He asks, pulling back to look at you. You look annoyed, the little crease between your eyes is there, a sure sign your day was not going as planned.

“Got sent to this boring conference and I don’t know why. I guess because I’m the only single, childless agent we got.” You snort and admire how he’s aged. He was always devastating handsome, you’d describe him as cute, but now, he’s sexy as fuck. A little broader with a beard that has your stomach twisting. The sex between you was fantastic. Your relationship was perfect…until you decided to go different directions. “You got stuck here too?” You ask, wondering if he’s gotten married again. You haven’t spoken for years, both amicable but not friends. He nods, scratching his jaw, and you turn back to the receptionist who clears her throat. “I’m so sorry. There’s been a mistake. Our system thought the booking got duplicated and, uh, we only have one room under the name Pike.” You nod, annoyed but understanding, “I’ll just get another room.” You say and Marcus frowns, concerned about your accommodation. “I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s - we are fully booked for the conference.” You huff, “then I’ll find another hotel.” She shakes her head, “everything is booked up. I’m sorry.” You close your eyes, stomach twisting at the news that you don’t have a room to sleep in. “Shit.” You murmur, trying to figure out what to do.

Marcus tuts, looking around. “Where is your luggage?” He asks, making you sigh. “The airline lost it.” You sound almost defeated, proving things really hadn’t been going your way. “Shit.” He hisses, knowing how much that sucks when it happens. He has taken to just using a carry on when he could get away with it for just that reason. “Listen…” he shrugs slightly. “Since we don’t hate each other and are probably the friendliest divorced couple ever-“ the clerks' eyes widen, realizing the relationship now. “Why don’t you stay with me?” He offers. “At least until a room opens up.”

You know this isn't ideal but you sigh, knowing you have no choice. "Wouldn't your new wife be mad?" You tease, testing to make sure he's not re-married. He snorts, "single as a pringle." You chuckle, nodding at him, "then yes. Thank you, Marc." You murmur, squeezing his hand. The receptionist nods, making another key for you. "Then that's settled." You let go of Marcus's hand, "good thing I have a pair of panties and a makeup bag on hand." You smile, trying to make light of a stressful situation. You're sharing a room with your ex husband.

He chuckles. “I’ve got some extra boxers and t-shirts.” He offers. “You used to steal them all the time to sleep in when we were married.” Giving you the key had also told Marcus his own room number so he guides you towards the elevator. “What about you? I’m not going to have an angry boyfriend coming for me, am I?” You had said you were single, but he finds it hard to believe you aren’t at least dating someone. You are still just as gorgeous as the last time he had seen you. You always had men falling over you, even when the two of you were together. Marcus hadn’t been jealous, he had been proud you had chosen him.

You shake your head, “single as a Pringle.” You repeat his earlier phrase and he chuckles. “As a man, I gotta say my gender is crazy.” You snort, “well, you divorced me.” You remind him and he sighs, “I filed because you wouldn’t do it, even though you wanted to.” You lean against the wall of the elevator after he presses the button for the right floor. “We both wanted to.” You remind him, tilting your head, “and it was the right decision for both of us. We wanted different things.”

He could argue that, but he doesn’t. “So did you end up where you wanted?” Marcus asks, curious about what you’ve been doing. He knows that several conferences are going on in town, but you had said ‘agent’. What three letter agency did you join? He knows several speakers are from joint tasks forces with other agencies. Even the famed Javier Peña from the DEA is speaking. That’s the only one he’s really interested in.

You nod, “FBI.” You answer, “cyber division.” You reveal and his eyebrows raise, making you smile at how he looks just like the young man you married. “Me too. Uh, art crime.” You aren’t surprised by his job involving art but the FBI agent status surprises you. “Wow. I didn’t know - didn’t think you wanted - I always figured you’d be an art gallery owner or something like that.”

He shuffles as the doors to the elevator open and he motions for you to go in first. “After we- uh, split up, I needed a little more focus.” He admits, rolling his bag inside with you and pressing the button for the tenth floor. “Here I get to appreciate art, pay my bills and make sure others get to appreciate it too.” What he didn't say was that he had originally joined because of all the cases you had talked to him about when you were together. How it had proven a point in his own mind about how you could have stayed together. How he could have been what you needed, even if kids had been off the table at that time. Back then, it had seemed like such a deal breaker, waiting to have children, but he was just as childless now as you had been together back then. “I’ve got a great team.”

You smile, “that’s great. I’m so happy you found what you wanted to do.” You are a little bitter about it to be honest. Marcus was always a dreamer, wanting to have the perfect life, and at the time, the perfect life was you at home raising his kids while he painted and started a gallery. It was an impossible dream and you had to be realistic. It appears he had that reality check but it was too late. “Do you have any kids?” You ask, knowing he said he’s single but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t got a kid or two.

His smile is a little bittersweet and he shakes his head. “No kids. Never made it back down the aisle or had a slip up.” He has thought about that several times in the middle of the night when he’s gone through every mistake he’s ever made. “Funny how things work, isn’t it?” He doesn’t mention being engaged to Teresa.

You snort, unable to help it. You know that he has always wanted kids and to be pushing forty without them has your stomach twisting with the irony that your marriage ended for that particular dealbreaker. “Me neither.” You answer despite your feelings on the issue changing over the years. “Never remarried.” You confess, “ironic, huh?” You say as the doors open and you step out into the hall.

“Yeah.” The room is honestly just a few doors down from the elevator so it’s just a matter of opening the door and waving you inside. “After you.” He insists, knowing that you always enjoyed the first look at a new room, wherever you are staying. “I didn’t ask, but there should be a safe for our weapons, if you brought yours.” He had, but that was because he had left directly from the office to make his flight. Unsure if you carried, being in cyber crimes.

You nod, “always bring it especially when I’m alone in a hotel room.” You confess, “it’s in my purse.” You see his eyebrows raise, “believe it or not, we do a lot of raids in cyber.” You chuckle at his disbelief, pulling your gun out of your purse so you can put it in the safe. “Safety first, Agent Pike.”

He chuckles, leaving his bag near the door and opening the closet to reveal the safe. “Perfect.” He reads the instructions and hums. “It’s a four digit code. What about using our old anniversary?” He suggests. “Or is that weird?”

You wrinkle your nose at the idea, finding it strange, but it’s not a bad thought. You both know the date. “Kinda, but it works.” You nod, watching him hesitate for a second before he punches the code in. Your guns are soon secured and you set your purse down, “one bed.” You observe and there’s no sofa, not even a chair in the corner. Marcus turns to look at you, “you comfortable? I can sleep on the floor.” He offers and you shake your head, “no. No. We are adults. We used to share a bed every night years ago. We can handle it.” You murmur, looking down at the sheets. “God, our anniversary seems like a distant thought. Our wedding day. We were kids really.” You remember how excited you were, dressed in a white wedding dress you’d found at a thrift store, flowers in your hair, and Marcus wearing an ill fitted suit he borrowed from a friend. His hair was longer then, more suited to a bassist in a band. You were young and in love. Nothing seemed impossible. You’re not that person anymore and neither is he, for one, his suits are perfectly fitted to his form.

“Yeah we were.” He admits, smiling softly at the same memory. “But it’s not something I’ve ever regretted.” Even if you didn’t stay together, he won’t ever say it was a mistake. “We never got to have a honeymoon, unless you could that weekend we had our apartment to ourselves when our roommates were out of town and we ordered take out.” He laughs, remembering how grown up you both had felt. You were broke, living with roommates had been the only way you made it through college, but it had been the best of times in his opinion.

“Sooooooo, what now?” You ask, unsure of what to do with your ex-husband. Normally you would go down to the hotel bar and have a drink, or stay in your room and order room service but you don’t want to infringe on his plans.

“Food and a drink.” He laughs. “I think today you deserve a stiff drink or three.” He knows he needs one, especially if he’s going to be in close proximity to you. Not because you annoy him, not because he doesn’t want to be around you, but because he knows old memories will come up. There were some bitter arguments, but there were also some times that he will never forget, that he cherishes.

You grab your purse, walking towards the door, and open it, feeling him behind you as he grabs the edge. The elevator to the lobby is quiet and you are soon seated at a small table in the bar area, looking over the menu. “Oh they have pork belly tacos. You used to love those ones we’d get from the food truck down the street.” You smile at the memory of getting tacos and heading to the park to eat your tacos on a ratty old blanket.

“Yeah.” He’s surprised that you remember, pleased that you seem pleased with yourself as you stare at him expectantly. “Then why don’t we have a plate to share?” He suggests, tapping his own menu. “They also have poke nachos. Unless you decided you don’t eat sushi?” It was rare that you were able to afford it when you were together, but you used to moan about the cheap ass sushi from the grocery store.

You smirk, “I love sushi. Ever since I could afford it, I go out with my friends and have it.” You reveal and he chuckles, “me too. Feels like such a luxury compared to our broke college days.” You nod and set your menu down, looking at the waiter when he comes over to take your order. He seems to pay extra attention to you, leaning in closer, and you ignore it, not interested in flirting after such an arduous day and with your ex-husband sitting opposite you.

Marcus is aware of the waiter flirting with you, but he doesn’t reach for your hand. Knowing that it’s not his place to claim you, even if you are still as beautiful as the day he had met you. When it’s his turn to order, he shoots the waiter a knowing look. “I’ll take a Michelob Ultra, pint.” You hadn’t ordered food, just your drink, so he tacks on the appetizers. “And we’ll have the pork belly tacos and poke nachos to share please.”

The waiter looks between you for a second and nods, writing down the order. He strides off after offering you a soft smile and you tilt your head, looking at Marcus who chuckles, “you still got it.” You frown, “still got it?” Marcus nods, “your entire - you have this way about you. Makes everyone notice you.” You bite your lip, flustering slightly, “I’m not twenty years old anymore. I’m sure he’s just after a bigger tip.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Guarantee if you didn’t want to share my room, you could go home with him.” He predicts, smirking slightly. “I always knew I was the luckiest son of a bitch in the room when you were beside me.” He glances around the restaurant. “Three other men are looking over here right now, wondering why the hell you are sitting with me.”

You snort, glancing around until you look back at him, “and there’s three women wondering what the hell you’re doing with me when you could be sitting with them. Maybe we can just admit we were a hot married couple back in the day and we still look good together.” You tease, smirking at your ex husband.

��We were.” Marcus winks at you and watches as your smirk widens slightly. “I won’t deny that. Hell, everyone was jealous of us back then.” Until the conflict started, when your visions of the future didn’t align and you didn’t know how you were going to move past it. “So what station are you out of?” He asks, curious to know about your career. You were always so much smarter than he was, driven.

“Seattle.” You confess, “I needed a total change of pace and I like the rain.” You reason and Marcus nods, “I’m in D.C. I’m, uh, I’m a department head.” He reveals and your eyebrows raise, “look at you. Agent Pike, department head.” You declare with an impressed tone.

He flushes slightly, feeling a little foolish for being so pleased to bask in praise from you, but in a way it’s fitting. You had fought mainly about stability, about what direction your lives were going to take and he feels like he’s done that. He’s solid and dependable. A leader. “I have a great team.” He admits. “They bust their asses on our cases.”

You nod, loving how he talks about his team when your own department head can be a bit of an asshole. “So no wife. No kids. Are all the women in D.C idiots?” You ask, knowing what a great personality your ex-husband has despite your marriage ending. It never ended because you fell out of love with him. It ended because you wanted different things and you couldn’t come together to work it out.

“Now, don’t judge them too harshly.” He jokes. “I just moved to D.C a year ago.” He admits. “I’ve been burying myself in work and getting the team exactly how I want them.” He doesn’t add that he had decided to take time off from dating and get a little therapy. Wanting to really work on himself before throwing himself back in the deep end. “What about you? I can’t believe that you are still single.” He admits. “No man wants a beautiful, career driven woman in Seattle?”

You sigh, tapping your fingers on the slightly sticky table, “I mean, I’ve been on dates. Had boyfriends…but no one came close to proposing. I have been so focused on my career, on making something of myself, and I totally forgot I’m supposed to be living life at the same time.” You confess, “I have…I’ve missed a lot because I focused on work.”

He nods slowly, knowing you had been focused on forging a path for yourself. “That can happen.” He admits, leaning back slightly when the waiter comes back with his beer and your cocktail.

You’re a little relieved he’s not said “I told you so” and rubbed your face in it but you watch him as he sips the beer. His neck tilted and your stomach twists. “How’s your mom and dad?” You ask, knowing they weren’t your biggest fans after the divorce but they loved you before.

He smiles, shrugging slightly. “Retired. Dad complains that there’s not enough time for all the projects mom creates for him.” He has always admired his parent’s relationship, even if his dad’s grumbling makes him laugh. “They moved to Florida. Terrorizing the locals with their bad driving and early bird dinners.”

You giggle, "I'm sure your mom loves it. She hates cold weather. I'm glad they are happy and still together." You knew they would be but modern marriage is hard. "I missed them." You confess, glancing across the restaurant until your eyes find his, "I missed you. It was hard. Going from seeing you every day to never. You were my best friend."

He swallows harshly. “Yeah.” Glancing away, he takes another sip of his beer. He sighs. “Sorry I never called.” There had been the perfunctory promises to keep in touch, but he had never reached out, knowing that he couldn’t move on if he was still talking to you. “It- it was just better if I didn’t.” He admits quietly, looking back at you with a serious set to his face.

You nod in understanding, knowing you likely would've given in and led the life he wanted, ending up resenting and hating him. You couldn't do that to either of you. "It's okay." You promise, reaching out to touch the back of his hand without thinking. "It was for the best." You reassure him, "I- I don't think either of us could've moved on if we kept in touch."

Marcus looks down at your hand on top of his and wonders if he ever did move on. It wouldn’t be fair to you though, you have the life you always wanted. “Then it’s good that we didn’t.” He says after a moment, clearing his throat first. It might have been a bad idea to do this.

The truth is on the tip of your tongue but the waiter returns with your food, setting it down on the table, and he turns towards you. "Let me know if you need anything else, anything at all." You offer him a polite smile, your hand withdrawn from Marcus's and you look down at the food after the waiter strides off. "This looks delicious." You groan, having been traveling most of the day and you are starving.

“Better than the sandwich they offered on the plane.” He agrees, reaching over to pick up the appetizer plates and sets one in front of you. “Shit, he didn’t bring your wasabi.” He frowns, looking at the plates. You always loved extra and he could swear he ordered more. “I’ll go ask for some.” Before you say a word, he’s jumping up and hurrying over to the bar to ask for some.

Your heart flutters that he remembered such a small detail and you take a sip of your drink to smother your smile. "He's gonna bring it over." Marcus says as he sits back down and you look at him in a way that he ducks his head like he used to. "You're too good, Marc." You smile, shaking your head softly and taking a taco from the plate in front of you.

He smiles softly and reaches for a taco for himself. “You always loved having extra.” On the rare occasions you had been able to get sushi, he had given you his wasabi since you couldn’t afford to buy those expensive little tubes. It was funny to him now every time he opens his fridge and sees one in the little condiment rack on the door.

You dig into your food, a comfortable silence between you like you just saw each other yesterday and definitely not acting like a divorced couple. You pass him a napkin without him asking and he squeezes lime over the nachos without asking. You are still in sync and that scares you a little. He is still so goddamn handsome and you know tonight will be a little awkward sharing a bed with him but you have no choice.

“So do you still carry a toothbrush in your purse?” He asks, smirking slightly. “Or do you need to find a drugstore?” You probably have a car, but maybe you had taken a taxi. He picks a wonton chip with a beautiful slice of salon on it and adds a little edamame pea on it too. “This looks so good.”

You nod, loving the food, and you smirk at your ex. “Still carry a toothbrush. I have my toiletries thank God but no clothes.” You sigh, shaking your head, “damn airline just had to lose my suitcase.” You huff, “and I came from work so I’m wearing the right clothes but I need to borrow one of your shirts.”

Luckily he can blame the groan that escapes his lips from the bite of the poke chip instead of what the real reason was. The thought of you wearing one of his shirts is incredibly sexy. Back when you were married, it was mostly band t-shirts, but in one of his button ups? God, his cock twitches right here at the table. “Sure.” He manages after he swallows. “I always carry extras, in case I spill something on my shirt.”

You smile at him, "thank you. Honestly, you've saved me. I don't know what I would've done without you, baby." The nickname slips out before you can think and your eyes widen, "so-sorry. I, uh, old habits die hard." You choke and he nods, waving his hand despite his stomach twisting. "It's fine...sweetheart." He adds with a wink that has you giggling and soon you finish your meal with jokes and stories of your past, settling into a comfort you've only ever felt with Marcus.

“You want another?” Marcus asks, ready to call the waiter over when you finish your drink, but you shake your head. “God no, I can’t get drunk here.” You huff. “Still get so horny.” Marcus nearly chokes, remembering how you would always beg him to fuck you when you got home from partying or a gig he had been playing. They always gave you his free drinks and he never minded. “Okay.” He agrees, knowing that he could use another beer, but he won’t if you are ready to close out. “Then why don’t we switch to water or we can close out?” He offers. “I know you probably want to soak in a bath after today.”

You chuckle, “you know me too well. I, uh, I think I’m gonna head up to the room, have a bath. You can stay if you want, have another beer. There’s some women eying you across the bar.” Marcus snorts, “you just want the room to yourself.” You smirk, “caught me.” You hold your hands up, “stay, I’ll be fine.” You promise, not wanting him to feel obligated.

“How about I come upstairs with you and get you the boxers and shirt and then I’ll take a walk back down here so you can have that privacy.” He offers with a small smirk. “Or… you can go through my bag. Whatever you feel comfortable with.”

You nod, knowing it’s a lack of privacy but this is Marcus. “If you’re okay with that?” You ask and he nods, “use what you want.” He offers and you reach across to squeeze his hand, “thank you.” You reach for your purse, “let me pay for dinner. Least I can do.”

“No.” Marcus shakes his head. “My treat.” He insists, reaching for his own wallet. “You can buy dinner tomorrow night.” He wants to pay for this, wanting to treat you a little after wishing that he could have when you were younger.

You sigh, knowing you won’t win this argument. Marcus is as stubborn as a mule when he wants to be. “Fine. My treat next time.” You promise and he smiles, nodding at the deal. “I’ll be heading up to the room then. There’s no rush.” You promise, even if your stomach twists at the idea of him down here flirting with other women. Which is insane since you’ve been divorced longer than you were married. He nods and you stand up, grabbing the key card to make your way back to the room. When you’re inside, you sit down on the bed and wonder how the hell you're going to ignore the fact that your feelings for Marcus never died, you apparently just hid them deep inside your heart. “Fuck.” You murmur, rubbing your cheeks before you stand up to run the bath.

“Fuck.” He mutters as he sits back down. This is complicated, too complicated. You’re his ex-wife but he wishes that wasn’t the case. Somehow, you had both ended up in the FBI, as crazy as that sounds. Your paths were much closer aligned than you ever believed and he wonders how he hadn’t seen that before. His idealist views had caused him a lot of heartache over the years, but losing you might be the worst of all his mistakes.

You sigh as you relax in the bath, enjoying the warm water, and you wonder how you’re gonna handle sleeping in the same bed as Marcus. Trying to relax, you close your eyes until your skin wrinkles and eventually you get out of the bath, wrapping a towel around your body. You make your way over to Marcus’s case, feeling bad going through it but you need his shirt and boxers. You’re just about to drop your towel when the door opens.

Marcus whips around, “shit, sorry!” He had thought it would have been plenty of time. Grabbing the door handle, he’s throwing the door back open. “I- uh, just open the door when you’re dressed.” He calls before he’s rushing back out, trying to banish the memory of your body wrapped in a towel from his mind.

You freeze, fingers hovering over his suitcase, and you wonder why he ran off. He could’ve just stayed and closed his eyes. With a sigh, you pull his boxers and t-shirt on, loving how soft they are. You bring the material to your nose and shit, it smells just like him. You take a moment to compose yourself and make your way over to the door. “Sorry. I thought you’d knock.” You offer, letting him inside now that you’re dressed.

“I should have.” He admits with an apologetic gesture. “I forgot how long you could soak in a bath.” He closes the door behind him and walks over to his suitcase to pull out fresh boxers and a t-shirt for himself. “I’ll just jump into a shower and let you relax a little longer.”

You nod, watching him rush into the bathroom, and you sigh, hoping things aren’t awkward between you now. You turn the TV on, smiling when you see an old episode of Buffy. You used to watch this together. You settle against the pillows, waiting for Marcus to come back out.

Marcus stares in the mirror for a second and shakes his head. It’s going to be fine as long as he doesn’t act like a jackass and make you feel uncomfortable. “Just don’t be a weirdo.” He huffs to himself.

You are anxious when Marcus comes back into the room, you watch him move some of his things around until he approaches the bed. In the lamplight, he looks so handsome and your heart flutters at how much he still looks like his younger self. “Buffy is on.” You gesture to the TV, “unless you wanna watch something else.”

“No, that sounds good.” Marcus shoots you a smile and moves to the closet to hang up his suit. “We used to plan our night around new episodes.” He snorts as he recalls those nights. There was nothing better than staying home with you to watch a new Buffy episode.

You giggle at the memory, “those were the days. When my biggest worry was passing my finals and how my hair looked.” You smirk, watching Marcus come over to sit on the bed. “You wanna put your phone on to charge?” He asks and you nod, leaning over the edge to grab your phone from the nightstand, leaning back to hand it to him.

He’s got a multi unit charger, perfect for you since your charger was in your luggage. He sets both phones down and waits to see the screens change. “Have to admit, I miss the days when I wasn’t accessible twenty-four hours a day.” He huffs playfully. “Sometimes you just don’t want to talk to anyone.”

You sigh, shifting to lean back into the soft pillows, “tell me about it. And don’t get me started on social media. I miss the days where I didn’t have to see everyone’s perfect life posted all over Instagram.” You confess, “and I don’t even wanna talk about online dating. It’s hell.”

Marcus winces. “You couldn’t pay me to get on a dating website.” He shakes his head. “Can’t even imagine how many unsolicited dick pics you get.” He doesn’t understand why some men think that will interest a woman. But then again, he is single. “All the shit on Instagram is lies. Made up to appear perfect because no one is gonna post about the toilet clogging up and the dryer breaking.”

“Exactly.” You gesture with your hand, “no one is gonna see the bad times. Only the good times. If we had Instagram during that time, people would’ve thought we were the perfect couple. They never would’ve known what was happening behind closed doors.” You bite your lip, reminded of the arguments you had between you at that time.

Marcus sighs softly. “Yeah.” He frowns slightly, trying to ignore the urge to apologize. The past is just that. Both of you were stubborn and refused to compromise. Hopefully his maturity with age will help a future relationship if it happens.

You shuffle to lay down, hand on your stomach as you watch the show, not needing to stay anything else to Marcus. You both know you made mistakes but right now, you’re sharing a bed because of necessity.

Marcus flips the covers back on his side of the bed and climbs in. “Oh shit, I remember this episode.” He huffs, smirking slightly. It was a nice memory, especially when you had jumped him after it.

You suddenly remember that night this episode aired, making you bite your lip, and you turn your head to look at him. “Spike was especially hot this episode.” You recall, “this was like my porn.” You joke, turning your head back to the TV.

“I wasn’t dumb enough to complain.” He snorts. “Even if you were thinking about a fictional character, I was the one reaping the benefits.”

You chuckle, “it was never about the fictional character. May have gotten me horny but I was hot for you, my husband, and I wanted you to fuck me. Not him.” You clarify, “I wanted you.”

He smirks, looking over at you. “Good to know.” He jokes. “Stroke my ego a little more and I won’t be able to get out of the room in the morning, my head will be so big.” It’s a good fucking thing he’s under the covers because your words have already given him a semi. “We always excelled in that part of our relationship.”

“Yeah. We did, didn’t we?” You giggle, “you remember that time you fucked me in your truck next to the baseball game while you were on the bench and then you went back and hit a home run?” You giggle at the memory, the way you struggled to get his cock out of the tight pants but you rode him until you both came.

“Why do you think I hit the home run?” Marcus snorts. “Still think about that every time I play a game of softball.” He joined a co-ed league to get a little bit of socialization that wasn’t in a bar and he giggles a little every time he’s up to bat. “Coach was pissed I disappeared but I think he figured out why. The guys called you Homerun Honey the rest of the year.”

You grin, proud of that fact, “made sure you kept your scholarship too. Even if you weren’t gonna go professional, at least it kept you in school.” You remind him and he nods, “didn’t hurt that you looked damn sexy in the uniform.” You smirk, turning to look at him.

“Those were the days.” He groans, rubbing a hand down his softer stomach. “Definitely don’t have that body anymore.” He misses it, but honestly? He’s too lazy to spend hours in the gym.

“Nah. You’re still hot, Marc. ‘Dad bods’ are in and I personally think they are sexier than a six pack.” You confess, biting your lip as you watch him rub his belly.

“Shit.” Marcus belts out a laugh. “Got the bod before I ever became a dad.” He rolls his eyes and looks over at you. “This is because of my dedication to pancakes and a little too much take out. Thai and Chinese are my go to, so you know it’s alllll noodle heavy.”

You giggle, “you have always loved a Pad Thai.” You hum, “and for the record, pancakes are the best.” You grin, loving how he hasn’t changed despite the years between you. “I personally love a man you can cuddle who doesn’t want to be in the gym all the time. There’s too many guys in my office who are obsessed with the gym.” You roll your eyes, making Marcus snort.

There’s a flirtatious nature to your banter that would make it so easy for Marcus to reach over for you. Honestly, a want on his part, but he doesn’t want to ruin this by misstepping. He’s loved your easy conversation and getting to see your smile has already made the conference for him. “Nahhh.” He shakes his head. “I prefer to exercise outside of the gym.”

You chuckle, knowing what he’s alluding to, “you always did.” You shift a little closer to him unconsciously and turn back to watch Buffy. “Shit, forgot how much this show makes my heart pound. Look.” You grab his hand without thinking, bringing it to your chest between your breasts. His eyes widen at where you’ve placed his hand, feeling the hard thumps of your heart that you suddenly realize are less to do with the show and more to do with the man you’re watching it with. He swallows harshly, dark eyes on you as he doesn’t pull his hand away. You stare back, eyes flitting down to his lips, and you squeeze his wrist. He’s certain you are going to push his hand away but you don’t. You slowly move it down from your chest, down your stomach, until his fingertips brush the boxers you’re wearing. His eyes are on yours, searching for answers to questions he doesn’t verbalize but you give him your response by pushing his fingers under the elastic so he’s touching your mound.

It’s probably a mistake. He knows this, but he reads the desire in your eyes, your chest heaving under the anticipation of what he will do. You’re not bare now, it’s different from the smooth skin you use to insist on. The soft curls protectively cover your sex and he groans, lunging forward to press his lips to yours while sliding his fingers lower to press against your clit.

You know this equals disaster, perhaps devastating to your amicable divorce but you want him. You moan into his mouth, allowing his tongue to slide between your lips, and you caress his chest. Your hand tugs his shirt up over his stomach, exploring the softer skin and you whimper when he expertly starts to rub your clit.

His cock hardens as he shifts, turns towards you and presses it against your hip. His hand delving deeper into the boxers as your legs widen, giving him more access. It’s been so long since he’s slept with someone and even longer since he’s touched you, but he still remembers what used to do it for you. Hoping that you still love those things.

You moan when he rubs your clit like he used to, still remembering how to touch you. You whimper against his lips when his fingers slide lower to drag through your slick coated folds, "fuck, Marc." You moan, sliding your hand lower to squeeze him through his boxers until you dip your hand under the elastic so you can squeeze his semi.

He’s always loved how you call him Marc, you’ve been the only one to ever do that. He drags his lips down your jaw. “So fucking beautiful and wet.” He groans into your skin. “What’s got you so wet, baby? You horny? Need someone to fuck you until you scream?”

He always knew exactly what to say to make you desperate for his touch. "Fuck yes. Please baby. I need you. You got me this wet. You did this to me." You confess with a whine, squeezing his cock. "I - fuck. I need you to fuck me." You plead, all dignity out the door when you are dripping for your ex-husband.

He twitches in your grip, loving how you are begging him. “Thought I was gonna have to jerk off in the bathroom after you fell asleep.” He admits, pressing two fingers into your pussy as he nips your jumping pulse. “So fucking sexy. Wearing my fucking boxers. Wanted to just strip you down and make you cum.” He gets to now, but there is so much that he wants to say to you, needs to say to hear those moans that have haunted his dreams.

His words already have your walls fluttering around his digits, and you moan, starting to pump his hardening cock. He pumps his fingers at the same pace. "I rubbed my clit in the bath thinking about how you used to fuck me, wondering how you'd fuck me know." You confess, breathlessly.

He hisses, pushing up so he can use his other hand to push up the soft t-shirt covering your tits. “However you want me to fuck you.” He growls, leaning down to wrap his lips around your nipple and his teeth sink into the tender flesh with just enough pressure to make you gasp. He’s gained some stamina, and has become a little more confident over the years, but he will always give you what you want.

You cry out, your free hand coming up to tangle in his hair, and you whimper his name when he sucks on your nipple. "Shit, baby. Need you to fuck me hard. Need you to show me what I've been missing all these years." You demand, continuing to squeeze and pump his cock until you release him so you can try to tug the material down. His cock springs free and you wrap your fingers around him again while his fingers curl inside your pussy.

Both of you seem desperate, ravenous for each other. He groans and soothes the tip of your breast with his tongue. “I- fuck-“ he hisses when you squeeze him again. “Let me-“ he hates to pull away, but he’s got to get you naked. “Condom?” He manages after a moment.

You shake your head, "I have an IUD. I'm clean. Got tested after my last boyfriend a few months ago. It's up to you, baby. I trust you." You promise him, lifting your hand to cup his cheek and you let go of his cock.

Marcus groans. You had been so worried about getting pregnant when you were married that he had to wear condoms all the time. It was rare he got to feel you and just you around him. “I’m clean.” He swallows harshly and pulls his fingers out of your pussy so he can strip both of you down. “I don’t want anything between us.”

You nod in understanding, "me neither." You let him pull his shirt over your head and he's quick to whip down the boxers, leaving you completely exposed to his dark eyes. "You too." You demand, your hand coming up to squeeze your own breast while you watch him pull his shirt over his head and soon his boxers are off. "Fuck. Missed this cock. The thickest I've ever had." You murmur, reaching down to squeeze him again.

“That’s because your pussy is so tight.” He smirks, his hand stroking your thigh. “Fuck baby, I’ve fucking missed this view.” Spread out and wet for him, desire lighting up your eyes and making eager to slide inside you. “It’s been awhile.” He admits. “Do you want me to eat you out first?”

You shake your head, "no. No. I don't care if you cum and I don't. Just wanna feel you inside me again." You demand, letting go of his cock to grab his hip, "please, Marc. Fuck me."

He can’t deny you, not when you beg him like he’s the only man in the world. Hooking his arms under your legs, he brings them back, exposing your core as he settles between your thighs. “Fuck. You want it hard?” He asks, double checking to make sure and he groans when you nod frantically. “Please.” You beg, giving him permission to wreck you. He can’t wait another second to be inside you, lining up and snapping his hips forward to bury his cock deep.

Your cry has to be heard by the room next door but you don’t care. It stings a little as he stretches you out, like he always did, but you don’t care. You moan, tilting your head back into the pillows as he fills you up in a way only he has ever been able to. “Fuck, you feel so good.” You moan, eyes fluttering closed as your body tingles from his touch.

It’s like coming home, his eyes slip close and he moans your name. Groaning when your walls clench down around him possessively, like you’re afraid he’s gonna pull back. “Best fucking feeling the world.” He grunts, leaning in to kiss you again.

Your hand comes up to cup his cheek as he devastates you with his kiss. Tongue sliding against yours like he's ravenous and you eagerly respond, sliding your hand up to tangle it in his hair. Your legs wrap around his hips, sending him deeper as he pulls out and pushes back into you without missing a beat.

There’s a passion between you, a fire that ignites and threatens to take over. Every thrust of his hips is encouraged, praised by the moans and whimpers you pour into his mouth. Making him greedy for more as he fills you again and again. “Fuck.” He hisses. “So goddamn tight.” His praise is breathless as he hammers into you. “Best pussy I’ve ever fucked.”

His words have your walls fluttering around his cock, loving the praise. “You feel so good. Baby. No one has ever made me feel like this.” You confess, “no one ever fucked me like you can.” Your hands slide down his back to his ass, pushing him even deeper on his next thrust.

You encourage him to go harder, faster. Every time your nails dig into his ass, he snaps his hips forward with just a little more force. Wild and unrestrained, he’s panting and puffing a little harder than he would have when you were married but he doesn’t give up. “Fuck baby, rub your clit.” He orders. “Need you to cum for me.”

You obey, your hand sliding up his back while the other snakes between you to rub your clit. You watch his face, wrecked and jaw clenched as his nostrils puff. Fuck, he looks so sexy. “Marc. Fuck. Need you to cum for me.” You plead, so close and it doesn’t take long for you to fall apart. His full name is a cry that leaves your lips as you soak his cock, squeezing him like a vice in your body's attempt to get him to cum for you.

“Shiiiiiiit.” Marcus hisses, gritting his teeth as he tries to fuck you through it, but you’re too tight. Squeezing him like a fucking gorilla grip glove around his cock and milking him of his own pleasure. Your name falls out breathlessly, almost worshipfully when he stiffens, cock throbbed deep as he paints your walls with his release.

You gasp at how he feels when his hot seed fills you spurt by spurt. Your eyes closed as you grip his shoulder, your fingers resting on your stomach as you ride the wave of your pleasure. “Shit.” You mutter, trying to catch your breath.

He chuckles, collapsing down onto his elbows to be closer to you, kissing you with a series of soft and lingering pecks. Still buried inside you as if he never wants to pull out. “I think we needed that.” He agrees.

You nod, kissing his chin while you run your hands through his hair, “absolutely.” You smile, feeling dizzy with resurfaced feelings. “That was - wow. Like old times but better if that makes sense?” You question and he nods, “I know what you mean.” You sigh, “I don’t think I can move.”

He smirks proudly. “Then lay there.” He hums, finally shifting off of you and rolling to the side of the bed. “I’ll get you a rag.” His hand reaches over and caresses your hip gently. “You need some water too?” He asks, thirsty himself after that.

You nod, feeling thirsty now that he’s worn you out. He returns moments later with the rag in hand, cleaning you up and handing you a bottle of water from the mini fridge. “Thanks babe.” You smile, taking a few gulps and collapsing back onto the bed.

He smiles as he watches you starfish on the bed, still just as dramatic as before. It’s nice to know that hasn’t changed. “Fuck.” His eyes light up at the sight of his cum starting to drip out of your pussy, creamy and thick as it slides out. “That’s fucking sexy.” He admits, kneeling on the bed, intending on cleaning you up.

You giggle, “didn’t get to see that too often when we were married, huh?” You ask and he shakes his head, “my pregnancy anxiety was insane then but I didn’t want to be a cliché and get pregnant, ruin everything I worked hard for and give it all up to be a stay at home mom while you got to chase your dreams.”

“I get it.” He hadn’t back then, but he can also admit that he was a little selfish himself when you were married. So obsessed with this idealized future he hadn’t really believed your wants for your life. His eyes flicker back up to you. “I’m sorry.” He murmurs before he looks back down to start carefully wiping you clean. “I should have compromised with you more.” He is upset at himself for not being mature enough to have this conversation years ago, but that’s the realistic part of growing up. Wisdom that comes with age, things that his parents had tried to council you both on but neither of you had listened. “We made the choices the thought we had to.” He muses softly. “At least we didn’t stay together and resent each other until it exploded.”

You sigh, watching him shuffle off the bed to toss the rag into the bathroom and when he slips into bed, you curl into him, hand caressing his chest. “Exactly. Or have a kid and explode. We did the right thing.” You nod, breathing him in. “But I’ve missed you so much. I didn’t realize it until I saw you because I’ve buried it, but no one was you Marc.”

Marcus closes his eyes, letting your words burrow into his heart and it serves as a soothing balm to almost everything. “I missed you too.” He admits, his arm around your body tightening slightly. “I hoped you were happy, but I could never look you up.” He snorts, thinking about how easy it could have been. “I didn’t want to see that you had remarried.” It would have changed the memory he kept of you. “Didn’t want to hate some poor bastard I didn’t know because he got to have you.”

“I never looked you up either. Didn’t want to be like a psycho stalking her social media and comparing us.” You confess, tracing the moles that scatter his skin. “I didn’t want to hate some bitch I didn’t know because she got to have you.” You echo his words, tilting your head to look at him, “it’s always been you. Now I know that.”

He sighs softly, knowing that this has just completely complicated your lives. “It’s been you too.” He admits. “I knew that when we divorced.” He shoots you a deprecating grin. “But it’s not like I was going to chain you to our bed.”

You chuckle, “might like that now, but yeah…we did the right thing for us back then. I know you hated me for ruining our marriage. I was the one who wanted the divorce, if we are being honest.” You confess, caressing his arm.

“I never hated you.” He huffs, pulling you closer and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Upset, heartbroken, but never hate.” He sighs softly. “You’re right. I would have pushed you into having a baby. It’s one of those things that my therapist made me face.”

“You went to therapy?” You ask and he nods, “yeah. For more than us. I had a lot of shit to figure out.” You lean in to kiss his chest, “good for you. The irony is I’m ready now. I would love a kid or two and I don’t have a husband or anyone I’d want to have kids with.” You confess, “well, except you.”

“And I’ve accepted that kids might never be the cards.” He chuckles. “How’s that for paradoxical?”

“Shit.” You giggle, “talk about coming full circle.” You sigh and caress his chest, “I guess if it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be.” You declare and he nods, squeezing your shoulder and you curl into him. You want to enjoy tonight in case he wakes up tomorrow and regrets everything. You want to breathe him in and feel all of him while you can.

He knows it’s getting late and he sighs again. “We should get some sleep.” He murmurs softly. “The conference starts and we need to be ready for a full day of lectures and schmoozing.”

You nod, shifting so he can pull the covers over you, making you sigh as you close your eyes. “Goodnight, Marc.” You breathe him in and within moments you’re asleep.

****

“Time to get up.” Marcus hums, rubbing your back as he looks at the clock. His phone alarm is about to go off, but he’s been awake for about twenty minutes. Finding that he didn’t need as much sleep when he had probably had the best rest he’s had in years.

You whine, not wanting to be woken up when he’s so comfortable to sleep on, and you pull him close again, “Marc. Noooo. Wanna stay here. Fuck the conference.” You complain and he chuckles, “we can’t baby. You’re gonna need to be there.” You huff, opening your eyes and you nod, “fine. Fine. I’m up.”

You never have been a morning person and he grins to find out that seems to have not changed. “We can get ready and then go down to grab some coffee and breakfast.” He knows coffee will sweeten the deal.

You groan, “coffeeee. You know me too well, Marcus Anthony Pike.” You shift to sit up, “and I need one of your shirts.” You remind him, shuffling from under the covers and you’re naked still from the night before. “Unless you wanna shower with me?” You tease, looking at him from over your shoulder.

“I think we would get to the coffee faster if we showered together.” He grins, reaching out to slap your ass playfully. “Or later, depending on how you press up against me.”

You squeal when he slaps your ass and you pout, “I can be good.” You promise, “I won’t make us late.” You reassure him, “unless you want to be.” You tease as you disappear into the bathroom and turn on the shower, waiting for him and he doesn’t disappoint before his hands find your waist as you check the temperature of the water.

Marcus ducks his head, scattering kisses along your shoulder. “You want coffee or an orgasm?” He asks, smirking when he slides one hand up cup a breast.

“Can’t a girl have both?” You tease, covering his hand over your breast, and you turn your head to kiss his jaw. “You gotta pick.” He orders and you step into the shower, grabbing his hand to pull him in behind you, “come on baby.” You order, turning around to grab the body wash.

He laughs, finding it hilarious that you chose the coffee. “That’s my girl.” He shakes his head and grins. “Do you want me to wash your back?”

You nod, spinning around, and his hands caress your back, washing you off, and you hum, leaning back into him. "Fuck, you always lathered me up so good." You murmur, closing your eyes as you lean back against him.

He hums, his semi twitching. “You make it sound so dirty.” He coos playfully in your ear. “When I’m just cleaning you up.” He has enjoyed this, falling back into a routine with you as if you hadn’t spent years apart.

You love how his hands feel over your body and you press back against him, reaching back to wrap your soapy fingers around his semi hard cock. “You always do a good job. It’s a compliment, Pike.”

“Fuck.” He grunts, hands sliding around the front of your body and soapy hand cups your pussy. “Are you too sore from last night?” He asks huskily, not wanting to fuck you if it would be too much. You had been wet, but he knows it had stretched you out when he had just pushed inside.

You don’t care even if you are a little sore. You want him. “Fuck me. I’m fine.” You promise, squeezing his now hard cock in your soapy hand. “Please baby.” You aren’t above begging for him and he slides his hand lower to push two thick digits into you. “Feel okay?” He asks and you nod, turning your head to kiss his jaw.

He’s not even a little ashamed of rocking his cock into your hand. Moving his hips at the same pace that his fingers curl up inside you. “Fuck baby, always so fucking horny around you.” He bites down on your pulse. “Can’t fucking believe I get to touch you again.”

“We definitely don’t divorce because the sex wasn’t good. We had plenty of it. Corner store knew your name from late night condom runs.” You tease breathlessly as he withdraws his fingers. You shift to press your palms against the wall, looking over your shoulder at him. “Better be quick, baby. I still want a cappuccino.”

“Shit.” He quickly washes the soap from his cock and presses behind you. Knees bending to get positioned before he’s stretching you out again. Slower this time so he doesn’t hurt you, but it’s just as perfect.

“Fuck. You feel so fucking good.” You pant, resting your forehead on the cool tile as water slides down your back. Marcus grips your hips, giving you a second to adjust as he slowly rocks into you.

“Baby, you feel like heaven.” Marcus praises, pressing kisses to your shoulder as he rolls up onto the balls of his feet every time he thrusts up into you. “Perfect pussy, perfect woman.” He closes his eyes, those feelings that he had tried to deny for so long have been set free but he can’t push you. He can’t try to steamroll you again, so for now, he just focuses on making you feel good.

His words have your heart pounding and you whimper, grinding back against him. “God, I missed you. Missed this. No one has ever fucked me like you do.” You confess, “no one has ever made me feel like you do.” You know this is moving insanely fast, but it’s Marcus. “Fuck, Marc. I want you.” You moan into the tile and he kisses your shoulder, “you have me.” He promises and you turn your head to look at him, “and you have me.”

That could mean so many things, but for now, he just leans in to kiss you. The pace is slow and steady, making sure neither one of you slips and you feel every inch of his cock scrubbing your walls. His hands cup your tits, weighing them and squeezing them before he pinches and tugs gently on the nipples. Loving how you moan into his mouth.

You moan into his mouth, hands slipping on the tile but he keeps you upright as he slowly fucks into you. He squeezes your tits, pinching your nipples just how you like it, and you love it. He knows exactly what you need. “Fuck baby. Feel so good.” You pant, gripping his forearm to drag his hand from your tit and slide it down your stomach until his finger brushes your clit.

He groans into your ear and follows your lead. Knowing that you want to cum, he presses his fingers against the sensitive flesh and starts to rub in tandem with his thrusts. “You want to cum, beautiful?” He huffs in your ear. “Want to feel your pussy soak me. Hear you cry out in this shower. You gonna moan for me?”

How can you deny him when he asks you like that? This Marcus is more confident and cocky, and that sends you over the edge. You cry out as you clamp down on his cock within a few swipes of his fingers on your clit. "Fuck! Marc!" You squeal, nearly slipping but the hand on your hip keeps you upright.

He growls your name, loving how you clamp down around him. You always push him towards his own orgasm because of how tight you are. “Fuck, baby.” He pumps into you frantically and within a half dozen thrusts he’s pushing deep and filling you up.

You lean against the cool tile, trying to catch your breath, and you reach behind you to run your fingers through his wet hair. "So goddamn good." You pant, loving how he twitches inside you as he rides his high.

“Perfect.” He agrees, smiling as he presses his face into the juncture of your shoulder and kisses the skin gently. “Just because it’s you.” Pulling away, it’s time to clean up again. Needing to shower quickly before jumping out to get ready for the first day of the conference. He hands you a shirt. “Maybe the airline will find your luggage today.”

You snort, “I hope so. I had my best underwear in there.” You confess and Marcus raises his eyebrows, “for myself. I can treat myself.” You remind him, “but I do kinda like how your shirt looks on me

He smirks, wagging his brows at you. “You do look good in it.” He compliments. “Too bad you have to wear the rest of your clothes with it.” He’s fallen back into flirting with you outrageously.

You smirk, loving how he flirts with you. It’s like you’re back in college, and you flirt back, “I know, but later you can take them all off.” You promise, pulling on your pants and you tuck in his shirt as best you can. “Good thing I have my jacket and heels with me. I was gonna change into sweatpants. That would’ve been a disaster for me.” You see him struggling with his tie so you step over to him, taking over to knot the material perfectly.

He smirks slightly. “Bet you would still be the sexiest agent at the conference.” He watches you closely, admiring the way you bite your lip as you adjust his tie. “Thank you.” He murmurs softly when you smooth the material down his chest.

You pat his chest, “come on Agent, we still have time to grab a coffee.” You wink, slipping on your heels and you grab your purse, looking back at your ex husband as he shrugs on his suit jacket. He looks sexy as an agent and you’d love to see him in action.

****

The conference is predictably boring but Marcus sitting beside you, his thigh pressing into yours, has your stomach twisting. When lunch is called, you make your way through the convention center and notice Marcus freeze. “What’s wrong?” You frown, turning your head to see him staring at a man and a woman.

“Shit.” He had hoped that he wouldn’t see them, but he’s not that lucky. Even worse, the man turns his head and recognition and something close to smug satisfaction flashes on his face before he whispers to the woman beside him. She turns and immediately starts his way, making his stomach curdle and he doesn’t have time to say anything to you before she’s approaching. “Marcus.” Her tone is sugary, polite even though it was rare Teresa ever was anything more than blunt. Except maybe where her feelings were concerned. “Teresa.” He nods politely and glances behind her. “Jane.” Thomas Jane smiles as he wraps his hand around the woman’s waist and leans in. “Haven’t you heard Pike?” He asks. “She’s Agent Jane now.” Marcus had heard, but he hadn’t reached out. “Congratulations.”

You frown, sensing a past between the three of them and you're not dumb. You figure that Marcus was dating this woman and now she's with the pompous asshole who is looking at Marcus like he just bested him at a game of poker. "Nice to meet you, Agent Jane." You introduce yourself, "Pike?" Jane's eyebrows raise, glancing at Marcus and Teresa, who frowns at you. "You're the first wife?" She guesses and you nod, "one and only." You tease, winking at Marcus to help him relax a little.

“Oh!” Teresa gives a startled smile as she leans in. “He’s never done anything but say good things.” She promises. “Said you had the most amicable divorce ever. Must be true, considering you are friendly. How ironic you are both agents!”

You nod, "I know. We ended up on the same path. Then bumping into each other here." You smile at the woman, "he didn't mention you yet though." You tilt your head at Marcus, wanting to protect him when he is clearly irked by their appearance. "Guess he didn't have anything to say about you." You shrug.

She has the decency to look embarrassed. “We broke up a year ago.” She admits and her husband squeezes her hip gently. “It looks like things worked out how it’s supposed to be.”

You tilt your head, "apparently." You turn to Marcus, "come on, Marc. Let's get lunch. I'm starving." You say, reaching out to wrap your hand around his arm. He nods, looking at Teresa and Jane, so mad that she wouldn't marry him, wouldn't have kids with him, but she's doing it for Jane. You stride off, leaving a shocked Teresa in your wake and you wait until you're out of sight to speak to Marcus. "I'm guessing that was a bad breakup?" You ask, wanting to help him.

He snorts. “We were going to move to D.C together.” He explains, a little embarrassed. “She was my fiancé and she called me from the plane.” He twists his head and looks over his shoulder. “She chose Jane.”

You wince, "she's fucking crazy if she chose him over you." You shake your head, "and I'm sure you just wanted to give her the world." You sigh, knowing how he is, how he goes all in. "Well, she will regret losing you. I know I did."

“No.” He shakes his head. “She won’t, but I don’t care even if she does.” He admits, shrugging slightly but he shoots you an embarrassed look. “I’m just sorry you found out that way.” He murmurs, reaching for your shoulder gently. “That I had been engaged. It was stupid. Rushed. I was moving to D.C and I had just thought-“ he snorts out a laugh. “Now you know why I decided to seek therapy.”

You shake your head, reaching for his hand to take it in yours. “You’re entitled to a past, Marc. I have one too. You owe me nothing.” You promise, “but I hope you’re better off without her and happier now.” You squeeze his hand, “I’m happy we literally bumped into each other again.”

“I can’t believe that I’m here with you.” He admits with a soft smile. “You- you are what made me become an agent. What motivated me to become who I am now.”

Your heart flutters at his words and you know you still love him, still want him. You never had a bad marriage or divorce. You wanted different things. He wanted kids and you wanted your career and yet here you are, both on the same path without even knowing it. “I love you.” You blurt out, “I want to try again. I want to try us again.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” He asks, even as that soft smile turns into the wider, happy grin you have always loved. “Because I might have developed bad habits you hate.” He teases playfully. “Snore.”

You roll your eyes, “you’ve always snored. I’m sure we have changed but who you hasn’t changed. I love you. If I think about it, I never stopped loving you.” You confess, “I want to be your wife again one day but let’s see where we go.” You caress his chest and his grin slides into a frown, “we are literally on opposite sides of the country.” His reminder is like a bucket of ice water. “Shit. I, uh, we could try long distance? Or I could transfer?” You suggest, willing to risk moving across the country for Marcus. The sacrifice you should’ve made for each other all those years ago.

Marcus’ brow furrows slightly. “You would be willing to transfer?” He asks, stepping to the side so others can pass you to get to the buffet the conference organizers had set up for lunch. His gaze is focused on you. “You- you said that you loved working in Seattle. Are you sure?”

You nod, “I’d be willing to transfer. I love working in Seattle but this is D.C. Headquarters. I am willing to move. I should’ve compromised back then and I’m willing to compromise now. I love you. I know you’ve changed and so have I but I can’t let you go again.” You tilt your head, cupping his cheek, “baby. If you don’t want this, just tell me.” You order softly, “but if you want this, I can get my own apartment. We don’t have to move in together if you want to take it slow.”

“No, I just-“ he wants this with everything inside him. “I don’t want to screw up again.” He admits softly. “I always push for what I want and I lost you because of it. I don’t want to do that.”

You shake your head, “I’m all in if you are. If it doesn’t work, then it’s truly over. I know it will though. I love you. That’s never changed. I’m all in if you are. I’m ready now. For all of it.”

He licks his lips. “I’ve never not been in when it comes to you.” He confesses softly. “I’ve always loved you. Always. Even when I gave you the divorce you needed.”

You don’t even care if people see you when you cup his cheeks, bringing his face to yours to kiss him. Your heart pounds and you love how he’s still the man you married. He’s just more established and definitely sexier. “I’m in. I’m in.” You promise, “I’m yours if you want me. I always have been, even if I didn’t know it.”

“I want you.” He promises, closing his eyes and smiling. “Always want you baby.” He opens his eyes and leans back in to press his lips to yours again. He doesn’t care who sees you, sees him. “What do you want to do?”

“Well first I wanna get something to eat and then I want you to take me to the bathroom and fuck me.” You smirk, “and then we are gonna deal with the rest of this conference before we plan the rest of our lives.” You know this would sound insane to most people but this is Marcus.

He chuckles softly. “That sounds like a perfect plan for us.” He agrees, completely in awe of you and getting a second chance with you. He had ended up right back where he was supposed to be all along, with you.

****

“MJ, baby, you gotta eat your blueberries.” You sigh, giving your son a look he knows too well. “I don’t wanna.” He whines and you chuckle, “you can’t eat the pancakes without eating the blueberries in them.” You shake your head and the baby begins to cry in your arms. “Ssshh. It’s okay, sweetheart.” You coo, pulling down your tank top so she can latch on.

“Blueberries are nasty.” He huffs, making Marcus chuckle as he sets down a plate of pancakes and eggs in front of you. “Let me get you some more coffee.” He murmurs, leaning down and kissing your lips before lowering more to kiss his baby girl’s head as she greedily nurses. “You liked blueberries last weekend.” He reminds his son with a grin as he moves back to the coffee maker to refill your cup. “You said they tasted blue.”

You giggle at your husband, yes, your husband for the second time. The officiant had chuckled when he found out he was marrying you for the second time. You had your son not long after. All within 18 months of you moving to D.C. “They taste icky and I like red.” Your son pouts, looking just like his father, and you chuckle, “if you eat all your blueberries, maybe we can go out and look at that new monster truck you like?” You reason with the little boy who nods, nose bunched as he spears the blueberries on his plastic fork. You look up at Marcus with a smile, winking at him when he sets your coffee down. “Lemme take her while you eat.” Marcus offers now that your little girl has gotten her fill. You nod, sliding her into his arms and you tuck your breast away. When Marcus sits opposite you, your daughter in his arms and your son between you, you realize this is where you were always meant to be. It took you a while and a few diversions to get there but you’re here now. “I love you.” You mouth at Marcus and he winks, making your heart flutter. He was always meant to be yours.

#marcus pike #pedro pascal #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike smut #marcus pike imagine #marcus pike the mentalist

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76bookworm76 · 20 days ago

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Summary: The days blur together, a steady cycle of bottles, naps, laundry, a rhythm of new motherhood slowly reshaping you. Joel and Tommy orbit you in different ways, their presence both comfort and complication. Therapy brings things to the surface, but not resolution. And when the truth finally comes out over the dinner table, everything you thought you'd been holding together starts to come undone. || smut MDNI 18+, angst and fluff, therapy, mention of polyamory/throuples, tommy is still an ass, still aint kosher folks, sooo much kissing, pinv, dirty talk (!!), fingering, f!recieving oral, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, missionary (better to look into your eyes <3), 1 use of the word mama, please remember these characters suck at communicating, adding more tags later because I don't want to spoil! || a/n: woowee its a doozy. wc: 14k

“So, you’re back.”

In your arms, your baby squirms with a soft grunt, his little mouth puckered in protest. You shift him gently, rocking him with a practiced motion that’s more muscle memory than thought at this point. His weight is a comfort, solid against your chest. You breathe out a quiet laugh.

“Good to see you too, Dr. Servopulous.”

“Didn’t I say somethin’ about callin’ me Tess?”

Joel and Tommy both offer small smiles from either side of you. Tess returns them, her eyes warm as she leans forward, looking at the bundle in your arms.

“And look who we have here,” she says. “What’s his name?”

“This is Sammy,” you murmur, lifting your baby just slightly so she can see his round, pink-cheeked, bleary-eyed face. He yawns, clenching his fist around a lock of your hair.

“Samuel TJ Miller, ain’t that right, buddy?” Tommy adds with a soft smile, reaching to poke gently at the baby’s belly. Sammy squirms, kicking one foot free of the blanket.

“Thank you for joining us, Samuel,” Tess says with mock formality, then glances at the clipboard in her lap. “A lot has happened since I last saw you three.”

“Understatement of the century,” Tommy mutters.

You glance sideways at him, trying to read his face. It’s soft—eyes crinkled at the corners, tone easy with no bitterness. At least, not today.

Joel says nothing. He sits still on your other side, arm draped loosely across the back of the couch just behind your shoulders. His fingertips occasionally brush your upper arm when you shift, a quiet presence more than a participant.

Tess looks between the three of you, pen poised. “Tell me about your dynamic lately. We can start there and dig into what’s happened.”

You turn to Joel, exhaustion clinging to your bones, to your posture, to the deep, purple shadows carved beneath your eyes. Two months of near-sleepless nights etched into your skin like bruises. You look at him fully, wordlessly asking him to speak first.

Joel clears his throat and shifts forward, arm dropping to brace against his knees. “Uh, well,” he starts, nodding to himself. “We’ve been mostly focusin’ on takin’ care of Sam. Of her.”

Tess nods, encouraging.

“We’ve been a good team, I think.”

“It’s been quite the journey,” Tommy adds. “Feels like since Sam came into the world, things have been... I dunno. Easier, wouldn’t you say?” He glances between you and Joel.

“Define easy,” you scoff, untangling your hair from the baby’s fist.

“I just meant between us,” Tommy says, lifting a hand. “Not so much goin’ on dynamic-wise.”

“Then what brought you in?” Tess asks, calm and direct.

You pause, glancing between the two of them before your eyes land on the doctor again.

“I think... we’re trying to prepare. For when things don’t feel like survival mode anymore. When Sam’s sleeping through the night. When I’m ready to start…” You trail off, the words feeling distant, almost absurd. “Being intimate again.”

Tess nods, jotting something down. “And how have you been feeling? Emotionally.”

You hesitate, then shift Sammy in your arms and glance toward Tommy.

“Can you—?”

“Yeah, of course.” He takes the baby gently, already tucking the blanket around him just the way you like. You sink back into the couch, chest suddenly lighter without the weight of another body pressed against you. You exhale, slow.

“Obviously it’s hard,” you say finally. “Harder than I thought. I cry a lot. About nothing. About everything. I’ll lie awake wondering if he’s warm enough. If he’s eating enough. If he’s…” your voice falters, “...if he’s still breathing. I feel insane about it sometimes.”

“All very normal,” Tess says softly. You nod, staring at Sam as Tommy smiles down at him.

Tess gives you a moment, then adds, “And how about the dynamic between the three of you? How’s that felt lately?”

You look at the two men flanking you, and your mouth lifts slightly.

“Honestly... it’s been a gift. They’ve both been incredible. I’m never alone. They’re so good with him. I barely even have to ask, they just know.”

“Helps that you’ve done this before,” Tess says, smiling at Joel.

He chuckles under his breath, eyes down.

“My body still doesn’t quite feel like mine yet,” you admit. “But I feel... really connected. To both of them. And to Sam.”

“That’s really good,” Tess says. She scribbles a few more notes before shifting her attention.

“Now, Tommy,” she says, catching his eye. He straightens a little, as if realizing he’d tuned out, his mind and eyes having only been on the baby. “I want to talk about you for a moment. Last time we spoke, you were the one who had some reservations about opening the relationship. About all of this. How are you feeling now?”

Tommy looks between you and Joel, slow.

“I don’t really know how I feel,” he says. “Truth be told... things feel fine. Between me and her. Joel too.”

You let out a dry laugh and look to Tess.

“That’s ‘cause they barely see each other,” you say. “When Tommy’s at the site, Joel stays. When Joel’s working, Tommy’s there. We’ve got a rhythm. But it’s not... us. Not really.”

Tess nods slowly at your comment, the slight crease between her brows deepening.

“That 'rhythm' you’ve found sounds functional. But is it fulfilling?” she asks gently. “Or are you all just getting by?”

Tommy doesn’t answer. Joel doesn’t either.

Tess lets the silence sit for a moment before turning to Joel.

“Joel,” she says softly, “you’ve been quiet. I know that’s not unusual for you, but I want to check in. How are you feeling about all this?”

Joel shifts slightly, eyes on the floor. His voice is low when he answers.

“I think I’m just tryin’ to be where I’m needed,” he says. “Not stir things up too much. She’s been through a lot. The baby needs her calm. Last thing I want is to be another problem.”

“You think your presence is a problem?” Tess asks, head tilting.

Joel gives a one-shoulder shrug. “Sometimes it feels like it could be. I try to stay out the way.”

You turn to look at him then and there’s something in his face you hadn’t noticed before. A kind of quiet resignation. Like he’s still halfway out the door, even while sitting beside you.

“Joel,” Tess says after a moment, “that kind of self-erasure might feel noble. But it’s not sustainable. And it’s not honest, not if you care about them, which it’s obvious that you do.”

His jaw works for a moment before he nods, once.

“They…” you begin, fidgeting in your seat, fingers twisting into the fabric of your leggings. “They got into a bad fight. Right before I went into labor. I’d like to talk about that, if it’s okay.”

Joel glances over, his eyes meeting yours briefly. He gives a small nod, steady and quiet. You shift your gaze to the other side, to where Tommy sits. His arms are folded around the baby, posture rigid, a frown pulling at his mouth. But after a beat, he nods too.

“Um,”

You clear your throat, but the words won’t come easy. Because really, where the hell do you even start? How do you explain something like this? That Joel asked you to leave your husband, that you ignored him for weeks, shut him out like he hadn’t cracked something wide open in you, and then he showed up drunk, wild-eyed and full of hurt, and threw a punch at his own damn brother?

You shift in your seat, your chest tight, pulse fluttering. It's all there, still living in the back of your mind like a bruise you keep pressing, sharp and tender and unresolved.

“I acted like an idiot,” Joel says, cutting in when you still can’t find the words. His voice is low, rough. “Said things I shouldn’t have said. Did things I shouldn’t have done.”

You exhale slowly, eyes shifting to Tess.

She lifts her pen, not writing. “Care to tell me what those things were?”

Joel hesitates. His eyes meet hers, and when he speaks again, the words are quiet, nearly swallowed.

“I told her to leave him.”

The air seems to pull inward. The room holds its breath.

Tommy’s face doesn’t move for a second when you go to calculate his reaction. But then he blinks, a sharp laugh escaping his mouth, not a trace of humor in it.

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” His voice slices the room open. The baby begins to squirm in his arms, face tightening, body fussing.

“That was months ago,” you say quickly, reaching over to settle your hand on Tommy’s arm. “And he regrets it. Don’t you?”

Joel’s eyes don’t leave the baby, his gaze a thousand miles away. His voice is flat. “I regret saying it out loud.”

Tommy turns sharply to look at him then, jaw clenched.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Joel—”

“Okay,” Tess interrupts, lifting a hand, her tone calm but firm. “Before this turns into something I can’t break apart, I’m going to ask all of us to take a breath together.”

You nod and reach out instinctively, taking the baby from Tommy’s arms. He gives him over willingly, the baby's small hands clenching the fabric of your shirt. Joel stops you, taking him from your arms. You look at him with wide eyes.

He shifts beside you, holding out his arms. “It’s fine. I got him.”

You hesitate, caught between them. Then you hand the baby over. Joel lifts him gently, settling him against his chest. The baby fusses once, then quiets.

Tess watches the exchange closely. “All right. Let’s take that breath.”

You inhale together, slowly.

Deep breath in.

Hold, hold, and exhale all the way out.

Another.

And another.

Your heart rate finally begins to slow. You open your eyes, grounded just enough to keep going.

Tess glances down at her notes, then back at the three of you. “I appreciate you all staying here in this moment. I know that wasn’t easy. But this is why we’re here. Not to pretend things are fine, but to look at what’s underneath.”

She shifts slightly in her seat. “Would you be open to trying something together? It’s an exercise I use often with couples. Or, in this case, throuples.”

You glance at Joel, then at Tommy. They both nod, though a little begrudgingly.

Tess continues, voice steady. “This is about transparency. About seeing each other, not just reacting to old patterns. It’s called the ‘I see you’ practice. One at a time, you’ll each speak to the others using a few prompts. You don’t have to explain or justify what you say. The goal is just to be witnessed.”

She picks up a note card. “You can use these to start:

What I see in you right now is… What I need from you is… What I miss about us is…

And you’ll finish the sentence for each one, to each other. This is your time to be honest, to be open.”

She turns her eyes to you first. “Do you want to start us off?”

You nod slowly, your heart thudding beneath the weight of it all. You smooth your palms against your thighs, grounding yourself, then look to Joel.

Tess sees the hesitation on your face and offers, gently, “Why don’t you hold her hand, Joel?”

Joel shifts, eyes searching yours as if asking permission. When you nod, he reaches across the small space between you, careful not to jostle the baby who is already dozing against his chest, and threads his fingers through yours. His hand is warm, steady. You feel the weight of it go straight through you.

Your voice wavers as you begin.

“What I see in you is someone who’s scared to admit his role in all this.”

You glance up into his eyes. Joel doesn’t look away. His brow creases, just slightly, but his grip on your hand tightens.

“I see someone who helps, day in and day out. Who shows up, quietly, constantly. But only says what he wants when everything’s already blown up and it’s too late.”

Joel swallows, throat bobbing as he shifts the baby slightly, and you think the touch of your hand might be grounding him too.

“What I need from you is honesty. Not just in the aftermath. All the time. I need you to stop playing the martyr. You don’t have to earn your place here. You already belong. With me. With us.”

You feel Joel’s thumb move across the back of your hand, slow and steady.

“What I miss about us is… is the fun we had. I miss taking Sarah out for ice cream. I miss going to the fair. I miss being spontaneous with you…even if that feels like a lifetime ago now. I realize we can’t just do those things now with the baby but…I still miss it.”

He smiles, nodding along with you. You take a breath and turn to Tommy, letting go of Joel's hand as you do so. He shifts slightly under your gaze, like he knows what’s coming.

Tess says gently, “Maybe place your hand on his arm.”

You do. Your fingertips brush his bicep, and you feel the slight tremble there. He doesn’t move away.

“What I see in you is someone holding a lot of resentment.”

His brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt. His fingers twitch on his knee.

“What I need from you is consistency. I feel like one minute you’re with me, and the next you’re not. I just want to feel secure, to know you’re not going to pull back when this is hard.”

You press your fingers into his arm a little firmer now, a little more tender, “What I miss is… us.”

The words nearly catch in your throat, and you see Tommy’s eyebrows furrow in anguish.

“I miss the way you used to kiss me just because you were thinking about me. I miss the little touches like your hand on my back when we were brushing past each other in the kitchen. I miss being your best friend. I miss feeling like your wife. Your other half.”

Tommy’s hand comes to rest over yours, finally. He doesn’t speak yet, but his grip says what he can’t.

Tess gives a soft cue with her eyes, and Joel looks at Tommy.

Joel shifts slightly in his seat, adjusting the baby with one arm.

“What I see in you is someone who’s trying really hard to build a family. I see my brother. Someone I’ve known and loved my whole life. Since the day you were born.” He glances at Tommy, voice low.

“And I see you throwin’ it away with jealousy.”

Tommy stiffens, but doesn’t look away. His fingers curl around his knee.

“What I need from you is to stop pushin’ me out. I didn’t sneak in here. You asked me for this, and we all fell into it. And yeah, it got messy. But it’s happening. She wants me here. And I want to be here.”

Joel’s hand tightens protectively on the baby’s back as he continues.

“What I miss about us is knowin’ I could count on you. Maybe I haven’t earned that lately, but I need you to know you can still count on me. I’m still your brother, Tommy.”

Joel turns to look at you then, and your lungs catch.

His voice is soft, almost reverent, and his hand joins your fingers that are clammy and splayed on the couch, intertwining his with them again.

“What I see in you is... someone doin’ such a beautiful job bein’ a mother.” His eyes flicker over your face and your heart constricts.

“I see how tired you are. How you keep pushin’ through, even when you’ve got nothin’ left. Sam is lucky to have you. We all are.”

A long pause.

“When I see you... I see everything.” His eyes glint. “I see my future. I see the mother of my child—”

There’s a short pause as his eyes flicker over to Tommy, gauging the reaction, before gazing back at you, clearing his throat.

“What I need from you is to stop actin’ like you’re caught in the middle. You’re allowed to make a decision that might hurt us. But you chose this too, same as we did. You’re allowed to want both of us. To lean on us in different ways. We can work with that. We can make that work.”

“What I miss is... how easy it was. Bein’ near you, talkin’ to you. Just sittin’ in the same room and feelin’ like that was… enough.”

He glances at you, something flickering behind his eyes.

“It used to be simple. And I didn’t realize how much that mattered ‘til it wasn’t.”

The room quiets.

Tommy shifts forward slightly, his knees brushing yours. Tess watches closely.

“Tommy,” she says gently, “Why don’t you hold her hand while you speak?”

Tommy hesitates. Then he reaches out, lacing his fingers through your free hand. Your hands are linked between them, one held in each of theirs.

He turns to Joel first.

“What I see in you is someone who’s been trying to take my place.” Joel stiffens, but he lets Tommy keep going.

“I know how things got. How tangled up everything’s been. But I’m allowed to feel that way. You’ve been whisperin’ in her ear, turnin’ her against me when we fight. That’s what it’s felt like. But couples fight, Joel. They cry, they scream, they figure it out. It don’t mean it’s over.”

Joel opens his mouth, but Tess lifts a hand slightly: not yet.

“What I need from you is the truth. Not the quiet kind you use to protect people– to protect yourself more like. I need the real truth of it. Because if you’re gonna be here, then you better stop waitin’ for the bottom to fall out. Either be in it, or don’t.”

His eyes drop to his lap.

“What I miss is feelin’ like I could count on you too. Even before all this. Before we both fell in love with the same damn woman and stopped talkin’ like we used to. I miss gettin’ wings at the Tipsy Bison with you an’Sarah on Wednesdays. I miss watchin’ the Cowboys, crackin’ a cold one on a Sunday. I miss us just bein’... just brothers.”

Then Tommy turns to you, his thumb sweeping gently across the top of your knuckles.

“What I see in you is someone stretched thin. Tryin’ to be everything for everyone. And I think in the middle of that, I forgot how to make you feel safe.” His voice shakes just slightly.

“What I need from you is to stop actin’ like stayin quiet keeps everything fair. Like not choosin’ is somehow keepin’ the peace. It’s not. All it does is make me feel like I’m a third wheel in my own marriage.” he sighs, sorting through his thoughts, “I just want you to be honest about what you feel, what you need. From me. Not just from him. I don’t wanna feel like I’m always a step behind, tryin’ to prove I still matter in all this.

You squeeze his hand, nodding.

“What I miss about us,” he finishes softly, “is that feeling I used to have when I looked at you. That certainty. Like no matter what, we’d figure it out.”

You pinch your brows together, an apology written on your face as Tess draws in a soft breath, folding her hands over her clipboard.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice a little quieter now. “All of you.”

She pauses, letting her gaze pass over each of you — Joel, still holding the baby, Tommy, knuckles a little white where his hand still holds yours, and you, sitting between them, strung out and seen for the first time in what feels like months.

“That was not easy. And you stayed with each other through it.” Her eyes are kind, earnest. “That matters.”

She leans back slightly in her chair. “You’ve given each other a lot to think about. There’s hurt here, but there’s also love and commitment, even if it’s messy.”

She nods once, thoughtful.

“I’m not going to ask you to do more today. You’ve all been carrying enough. For now, I want you to sit with what was said. Let it settle. Think about each other’s expectations. How you heard each other. What you want moving forward.”

Her smile is gentle.

“We’ll meet again next week. No homework. No pressure. I know you’ll be busy with the little one.”

Joel glances down at the baby still cradled against his chest, his palm softly cupping the back of Sam’s tiny head. A quiet hum of agreement leaves him, like he already knows you'll be awake every hour tonight.

Tess stands slowly. “Take care of yourselves. And each other.”

Outside, the three of you walk out into the cooling afternoon air. The sun is low, casting gold along the pavement. Joel still carries Sam, his big hand shielding the baby’s head from the breeze.

The silence between you isn’t necessarily heavy, but full and settling.

You stop beside the car and turn toward both of them.

Without speaking, you wrap your arm around Joel’s side and your free arm around Tommy’s back, pulling them both in. Neither resists. Joel leans his head against yours for just a second. Tommy's hand presses gently at your lower back.

The hug holds.

Then Joel shifts, adjusting the baby and glancing down at him. “Here,” he murmurs, careful as he lifts Sam and passes him back to you.

You cradle the baby close, resting your cheek against the top of his soft little head, breathing him in.

Then you glance up at Joel, your voice gentle. “Come over for dinner tonight?”

He raises an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Tommy’s cooking his famous chili,” you add, nudging your shoulder lightly into Tommy’s side.

Joel’s brow lifts a little higher. “Since when you got a famous recipe I don't know about?”

Tommy shrugs with a quiet laugh. “Since I started doin’ more of the cookin’ lately. But… could be nice,” he says, glancing at Joel, then at you. “Just to talk.”

Joel hesitates for a second, then shifts his weight, looking over to his truck, “Can’t tonight. I gotta get Sarah settled, junior year’s kickin’ her butt right now, wanna make sure she has a good night.”

You nod, trying not to let your disappointment show, but he notices anyway.

“I’ll be over first thing in the morning,” he adds, then looks at his brother, “You’re good to be on site, right? Got contractors comin’ to lay the framing before they pour concrete.”

Tommy nods. “Eight sharp.”

Joel leans in, kisses your cheek, just light and familiar in his farewell. Then he rubs his knuckles gently over Sammy’s cheek, careful not to wake him.

He meets Tommy’s eyes and gives a short nod. “See you.”

Tommy nods back. “Yeah. See you.”

“Goodnight,” you murmur, watching him turn away.

Joel smiles briefly before walking off toward his truck, the light stretching long behind him.

“I just don’t understand why everything has to be a damn therapy session,” Tommy mutters, rubbing at his face as he yanks a shirt over his head, his voice low but sharp in the stillness of morning.

You shift Sammy against your chest, adjusting your grip as he nurses quietly, his small body heavy in your arms. The weight of him is comforting and exhausting all at once. Your back aches. Your eyes sting from another night of broken sleep. You’re still in the oversized shirt you slept in, bunched up awkwardly to give the baby access as you lean into the headboard.

“Tommy, it’s not,” you say, voice hoarse with tiredness. “Tess says we need to communicate. And I was just saying—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, bending to grab his boots from the floor. “You were sayin’ I don’t do enough.”

“That’s not what I said.” You exhale hard, slumping back as the baby shifts and latches again. “I said maybe if you were more aware of how you’re feeling, I wouldn’t have to pull it out of you every damn time.”

He lets out a soft, humorless laugh as he sits on the edge of the bed to tie his laces. “Sounds like the same thing to me.”

You adjust the blanket over Sammy’s back, trying to focus on the slow rhythm of his breathing, his tiny hand resting against your chest. Everything in you feels pulled taut. Between your body and your thoughts, there’s nothing left that belongs only to you.

“I’m not trying to fight,” you say, quieter now. “I just don’t want to keep playing this guessing game of how you’re feeling. We have to talk to each other.”

Tommy doesn’t answer. He finishes tying his boots, stands, and grabs his jacket from the hook by the bedroom door. For a second, it seems like he might walk out without saying anything at all.

But then he circles around the bed and leans down and kisses the top of your head, his lips barely touching your hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re right.”

And that’s it.

Not tender but not unkind either. Just enough to move past it.

You nod, but your eyes stay on the baby. Tommy lingers for a moment longer, then heads for the door. The sound of it closing behind him is soft, but it feels louder than it should.

You adjust Sammy again, not because he needs it, but because you don’t know what else to do with your hands.

Downstairs, you hear the low murmur of voices, a few words exchanged, calm and indistinct. Joel, you assume. Then footsteps, slow and familiar, making their way up the stairs.

He appears in the doorway with a mug in his hand and that quiet, almost apologetic smile he gets in the mornings. His voice is soft when he speaks.

“Mornin’.”

“Hey,” you exhale, too tired to say more.

He comes around the bed just as you lift Sammy up to your shoulder, patting gently at his back. Joel sets the mug down on the nightstand and holds out his hands.

“Let me take him.”

You don’t hesitate. You ease the baby into his arms, and Joel takes him like it’s second nature, one hand cradling his head, the other curling protectively around his small body, patting him on his back.

“Get some more sleep,” he says, voice low, steady. “Tommy said you were up half the night. I got this.”

You manage a faint smile and murmur your thanks. Joel just nods, already rocking gently in place, gaze focused on the baby like there’s nothing else in the world that needs his attention right now.

And as he shuts the door behind him, you’re already drifting back to sleep.

When you wake again, the light in the room has shifted, warmer now and spilling across the hardwood in quiet streaks. You lie still for a moment, your body heavy and aching in all the familiar places—shoulders sore, lower back aching, and breasts heavy.

The house is quiet, but not silent. There’s a low, murmuring voice downstairs, rhythmic and gentle. You push the blankets back and stand, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you shuffle barefoot to the door.

Once down the stairs, you detour into the kitchen, grabbing a piece of toast from the counter, half-eaten from a midnight snack during the wee hours of the morning. The murmuring continues closer now, just around the corner in the living room.

You peek in.

Joel is on the couch, legs bent with his heels resting on the coffee table. Sammy lies across his thighs, his head by Joel’s knees, arms flailing in slow-motion like he’s swimming through thick air. His little feet keep kicking up into Joel’s stomach, and Joel keeps pretending to be offended by it.

“Oh, alright,” Joel says softly, eyes on the baby, grabbing his feet gently after one good kick. “You’re feelin’ tough this morning, huh? Gonna try and take me out one toe at a time?” He leans in slightly, eyebrows raised, and gives the tiniest shake of his head. “You don’t even know how dangerous I am, buddy. One more punch to the gut and I’ll eat those toes right off.”

He scoops up one of Sam’s feet and presses a loud, smacking kiss to the bottom of it. Sam wiggles, blinking up at the ceiling, cheeks pulling into a half smile.

Joel grins. “Tough crowd.”

You lean against the doorway, smiling into your toast, watching the way Joel’s voice softens around the baby. He looks completely at home, like this is the only thing he was meant to do. He took to the caretaker role with ease, with a gentleness you knew was there but still pulled at your heartstrings to see. His hand rests gently on Sam’s belly, thumb stroking absent patterns through the fabric of the blanket.

Eventually he glances up and spots you there.

“Hey,” he says.

You step into the room, yawning softly. “I’m surprised he let me sleep so long,”

Joel nods. “Oh, yeah. We’ve been busy havin’ lots of intelligent conversations about how to build a house, how kickin’ your daddy is rude,”

Your feet still halfway across the rug.

It hangs in the air, the word daddy.

Joel doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t look at you either. Just gently tugs the baby’s sock back into place like nothing happened.

You move toward the couch slowly, toast forgotten in your hand. He said it so easily, like it belonged to him, like it didn’t need discussion.

You’re not mad. Not even really surprised. But something knots in your stomach all the same. Not in a bad way, just… tight. Complicated.

Because what do you call him? What do you call either of them?

Tommy’s the husband. The legal father. But Joel’s the one who got you here, who made this all possible. He’s been here in the quiet hours, the one who holds Sammy like he’s always known him, the one who keeps showing up with soft hands and gentler eyes than he knows what to do with.

Is it normal for a baby to have two dads?

You don’t know. But somehow, it doesn’t feel wrong.

Joel finally glances up, like he can feel you thinking too loud. His eyes meet yours, uncertain.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, like he’s backing away from the thought.

You shake your head, sitting down beside him. “Don’t be.”

And just like that, you both look down at the baby again.

“He’s probably due to eat again soon,” you say, voice low.

Joel nods, “I figured. He’s been frowin’ at me for the last ten minutes.”

“He gets that from you,” you say around your last bite of toast as you brush the crumbs off your fingers, holding your hands out to take the baby. Joel transfers him gently into your arms without a word, just a soft look. You adjust your shirt and get Sammy latched, his small mouth working almost immediately. It still aches a little, but you’re used to that now. The sting fades fast enough.

Joel doesn’t look away from your face. He just watches you, like he’s still surprised by the whole thing. The way your body knows what to do. The way you cradle Sam like he was always supposed to be here.

“It suits you,” he says finally, “Motherhood.”

You scoff, “Not so sure about that,” then, tucking the blanket around the baby, you add. “I look like I got hit by a truck.”

Joel huffs a breath through his nose, almost a laugh. “Still.”

You glance up at him, cheeks warm, but before you can say anything else, he leans over and presses a kiss to your temple.

And then your cheek.

And then, gently, he kisses your lips.

It’s slow. Soft. Still tinged with that quiet affection that’s been simmering between you since before everything fell apart.

You let it happen, you even lean into it.

But when he pulls back, your mouth curls into a crooked little smile.

“Real romantic of you,” you murmur. “Kissin’ me with a baby attached to my boob.”

Joel laughs, real and warm, the sound vibrating from his chest. “Can’t help myself,” he says, eyes flicking over your face. “You’re just so damn pretty.”

You shake your head, but you’re still smiling. Sammy suckles contentedly between you, unaware of the way his mother and… whatever Joel is now… keep orbiting closer and closer.

You don’t have the words for any of it. Not yet. But it feels good. It feels okay.

The thing is, you'd already gotten the all-clear from your doctor. Physically, your body was healed, ready to be intimate again. But emotionally, mentally, you hadn’t felt ready. Not yet.

Not when your body still felt like a vessel. A machine built to feed, to soothe, to keep tiny lungs breathing steady through the night. You hadn’t really felt like you again. Not in the way that mattered. You were a mother now, and that shift had been swift and irreversible. Beautiful, yes, but altering in a way that left you grasping for pieces of who you used to be.

And now, everything had more weight. You weren’t just navigating your own wants, or theirs. There was someone else in the mix. A tiny person who would grow up watching you, learning from the way you looked at Joel, the way you touched Tommy. Watching the love between all three of you and making sense of it in his own way. That made you cautious. Careful.

Sarah came around too. Mostly in the afternoons now that fall was in full swing and she was buried in homework. She’d slip in after school, wave hello, drop her backpack by the couch and curl up to do her work while Joel rocked Sam or helped you prep dinner. She didn’t ask questions, not yet—but there were still answers you knew would have to come.

At least the chaos had begun to settle. Sam was four months old and sleeping longer stretches now, Joel coming and going with his usual quiet consistency. Tommy stayed most mornings, all of you still trying to find the rhythm of it all. You hadn’t lied to the therapist when you said you’d found a groove, something steady in the storm of new parenthood.

But where you fit in it...that still felt blurry.

This morning, Tommy’s home. You’d heard him moving quietly through the nursery, the soft creak of the floorboards and the hushed murmurs he offered the baby as he changed a diaper. And now, he’s by your side, handing Sam over with no more than a gentle brush of your fingers. He doesn’t say much, but he sits back in bed, yawning. The morning is still early, the sky outside a pale wash of gray and blue.

After Sammy finishes nursing, you hold him close for a while, letting his warmth soak into your skin, getting him to let out a little burp against your shoulder. His breath is slow and steady, his small weight curled against your chest like he still belongs to your body. But eventually, he’s out cold, and you carefully get up lay him back to his nursery and set him in the crib.

When you walk back to your bedroom, it’s still quiet. Morning light filters in through the curtains, the house hasn’t woken up fully yet, and neither has the day. It feels like one of those rare soft moments, the ones you’d come to cherish just between you and your husband.

So you climb back into bed and turn toward Tommy, watching as he stretches out beside you. You touch his arm, then his chest, letting your hand linger.

“Come here,” you murmur, your voice still gentle from sleep.

He does. He settles in next to you, his arm rising to loop around your shoulders and pulling the blanket over both your bodies. You nestle close, your face tucked near his collarbone. It feels good. Solid. Safe.

You kiss him, tentative at first, testing the waters. He kisses you back, warm and a little surprised, but you press into it with more urgency, craving that spark you’ve been missing. The one that used to live between you so easily.

Your body is finally feeling like yours again—or, at least, starting to. For the first time in months, you feel that ache in your belly that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with having a man with his arms around you. With missing the feeling of being wanted. Your blood feels warmer, your skin more sensitive. You’re ready. You want this. You want him.

Your hand moves to his waist, slips beneath his shirt. You press your chest against his, mouth parting against his.

But Tommy pulls back a little.

Not completely or abruptly, just… enough. His hand stills on your hip. His eyes dart toward the monitor on your bedside table.

He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. You can feel it, that reluctance. The discomfort.

You pause, breath shallow in your throat.

“…What?” you whisper, “You okay?”

Tommy shifts, pulling his hand away. “Yeah. I just—” He sits up slightly, dragging a hand down his face. “I dunno. It’s early. Gotta keep an eye on the monitor. And I just…”

He doesn’t finish.

You sit back against the pillows, heart sinking. The moment has slipped through your fingers like sand, and now you’re left holding the shape of something that could’ve been.

It’s been months. And within the past week, you’d started to feel like you again. And your husband said no. Maybe not outright, but not a wholehearted yes either. He’s allowed that, sure. You just…didn’t expect it.

You pull the blanket tighter around yourself and say nothing.

Tommy exhales and swings his legs off the bed. “I’ll make some coffee,” he mutters.

You nod, eyes locked on the ceiling, willing the sting behind them to go away.

You sit across from him at the dinner table that evening, a simple dinner between you, picked up while you and Sammy napped that afternoon.

Sammy kicks his legs with soft, erratic movements, his little fists in the air. He coos soft and sweet, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan, then flickering toward the two of you. When you lean over and tickle his tummy, his mouth opens in a gummy grin.

You smile back, brushing your knuckles lightly over his soft cotton onesie. “You’re in a good mood today,” you murmur.

Across the table, Tommy forks food into his mouth with one hand, scrolling something on his phone with the other.

“How’s work been?” you ask, trying not to let the silence stretch too far.

He shrugs. “Busy. Contractors finally started pourin’ today.”

“That’s good.”

“Mm.”

You push a piece of food around your plate before bringing it to your mouth and chewing slowly as you glance at him. His face is unreadable, focused somewhere far away. Not cold, just distant.

“You’ve been quiet,” you say. “Even this morning. I just… I don’t know where your head is lately.”

Tommy sets down his fork, wiping his hands on a napkin.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Instead, he glances over at the baby, at the slow bounce of the seat, the soft dimples pulling in your son's cheeks as he looks back at him. They both smile at each other for a moment, though Tommy’s doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Like I said before” you offer, “I just don’t want to have to guess what you’re feelin’, if you’d just—”

“I’ve been seein’ Maria.”

The words land like a weight between you. No preamble. No softening. Just like that.

You blink. The baby kicks again, cooing again for your attention.

The room goes still.

“You’ve been…seeing….” your brain feels like static, channels flickering through words as you try to piece them together, “Maria…”

Tommy sighs, rubbing his jaw. “Her an’ Frankie split, ya know. I’ve been stoppin’ by her place sometimes, see if I can help with anythin’. We got to talkin’. About everything—relationships, parenthood. It’s been nice, havin’ someone to talk to about all of it.”

“Okay,” you say slowly.

He looks over at you, “We’ve been sleepin’ together.”

Your eyes don’t move from him, but they begin to burn with a slow, simmering rage. “When the hell did you even have time for that? Between the site and bein’ here with Sam—”

He shrugs, jaw tight. “Made time.”

You blink at him. The room feels smaller.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tommy.” you say, throwing down your napkin, the utensils clattering on the table.

His voice flares a little. “It ain’t like you and Joel haven’t—”

“Don’t,” you say sharply, standing up so fast your chair scrapes against the floor. “That is not remotely the same.”

Sammy fusses at the sudden tension, a little cry bubbling up in his chest.

“I’m not doin’ this right now,” Tommy mutters, shaking his head.

“You brought it up!” you shoot back. “You practically dropped it in my lap like some casual thing! Like it doesn’t wreck everything we’ve been trying to do!”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks past you, jaw tight, fingers flexing slightly against the table as Sam starts to cry again.

You take a breath. “How long?”

He finally looks at you. There’s no fight in his eyes. No remorse, either. Just tired acceptance.

“A few months.”

Your throat tightens. You push your chair back fully, bending down to lift Sammy from the bouncer, hitching him on your hip. He quiets as you lift him up, his little hands pressing into your collarbone, both of you looking at Tommy with red cheeks and glistening eyes.

“Well,” you say quietly, adjusting the baby's onesie with trembling fingers, “I was really trying to figure all this out. Trying to make it work.” You lift your eyes to him, something sharp creeping into your voice. “But I guess you’ve gone and made the decision for us.”

Tommy’s brow furrows, his jaw working like he wants to say something as he looks up at you from his seat.

“I want a divorce, Tommy.”

He flinches like you hit him. But he doesn’t argue or raise his voice. After a moment, he sighs and just nods. Like it’s something he’s already thought about.

And that somehow hurts worse than if he’d fought you on it. He doesn’t even ask for an explanation.

You hug Sammy a little closer, watching Tommy’s shoulders sag.

“Why the hell did we even go to therapy if this was already happening? Why’d you sit next to me and bother to pretend like you were trying?”

“I was tryin’,” he says, but the words are thin, paper-flat. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I was tryin’ to be a good dad. And I figured…if I could just do that much…”

You hadn’t seen it. Not really. He’d been good with the baby, gentle and helpful, and you’d been too tired to notice how he’d already left you behind. Not physically. Emotionally. As a husband. As a partner.

And now, when you need him to show up and fight, there’s nothing left in him. Nothing but a shrug and a sigh.

You take a breath, force your voice to stay calm.

“Well, I hope Maria has room in her bed for you tonight,” you say, shifting the baby higher in your arms. “Get out.”

The next morning, you wake with a jolt.

The light streaming through the blinds is too bright. Not the soft pale glow of early morning, but that harsh, bright sunlight of the day already starting without you. You hadn’t woken up to the sound of Sam crying for his next meal. You shoot upright, heart hammering and hand already reaching towards the baby monitor on your bedside table.

But the crib is empty.

You sit up quickly. The covers slide off your legs. Your throat tightens.

Empty.

For a second, your breath stops. You forget how to move. Your entire body goes still, locked in place as the worst possibilities flash through your mind like a siren. The room tilts slightly before the static hum from the monitor finally catches up, and then a soft sound filters through the tiny speaker. A voice.

It's just a gentle murmuring from Joel’s figure, voice low and quiet, the familiar rasp of it slowed into something gentle. You blink at the screen. The camera has tilted slightly, off center, but just enough to catch the edges of the rocker in the corner of the nursery. Joel’s legs are stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other, his body relaxed in that way only he ever manages. Your son is in his arms, nestled to his chest with a bottle held steady in one hand.

You hear him singing.

“If I ever were to lose you…”

You sink back into the pillows, one hand pressed flat over your chest, trying to slow your breathing. The tension melts from your body all at once, leaving behind something else—something heavier.

“...I’d surely lose myself,”

You watch him on the monitor as the image flickers again. Joel is looking down at Sam like he’s the most important thing he’s ever held. His expression is so soft it makes your chest ache. The bottle is nearly empty. The baby’s fingers curl loosely around one of Joel’s thumbs, and Joel shifts just enough to cradle his small head more securely.

“Everything I have found dear, I’ve not found by myself…”

You stare and stare and stare at the monitor screen.

Your hand lifts to your mouth without thinking. Your palm presses firm against your lips, trying to stop the feelings before they start.

“Try and sometimes you’ll succeed… to make this man of me…”

You don’t mean to cry. You don’t even feel it coming. One second, you’re watching Joel rock gently with your son, and the next your eyes blur, your shoulders hitch. A sob climbs up the back of your throat, muffled beneath your hand as you try to keep quiet.

You tell yourself it’s the postpartum. The hormones. The sleeplessness. The residual ache in your joints, the rawness in your body, the way your heart seems too big for your chest lately.

But you know that’s not the truth.

Not the whole truth.

You know it in the deepest parts of yourself. In the spaces you haven’t had time to visit lately. The ones that have gone untouched while you learned how to be someone new. A mother. A woman who survived childbirth. A woman who stayed up night after night whispering lullabies in the dark, nursing a child while the man she married quietly drifted further and further away.

It had been happening for months. You see it clearly now. You were so consumed with survival, with getting through the day and the next one after that, that you didn’t realize how far gone he was.

Tommy found something in Maria that you weren’t giving him. Something easier, maybe something softer. You don’t even blame him, not really. You know you’ve been hard to love lately. Closed off, frayed at the edges. But he didn’t fight for you. He just went and found someone else. And now that you know, the hollowness inside you twists into heartbreak.

“...All my stolen missing parts, I've no need for anymore…”

Joel’s voice settles over you like a blanket. You close your eyes, clutching the edge of the plastic monitor in your hand, as your ribs ache from trying not to fall apart completely.

You think of the way he always holds Sam like he was made for it. The way he instinctively knows how to quiet him when he fusses. The way his voice drops into something softer, something warmer, even when he’s speaking to you.

Joel has always been steady. Even in his silence, even in his desolation. He never once let you feel alone, even when you tried to push him away.

And now, as he rocks your child in the nursery, singing softly through the monitor, you feel something split open in your chest.

Because he never made you guess where his heart was.

He gave you everything without needing to be asked.

And it was never about obligation. He knew how to see you without looking away. He made you feel wanted. Desired. Not for what you could do. Not for the baby you could make, but for who you were.

Joel made it about you. Always you.

Tommy wanted a future. A family. A child. And in so many ways, he meant well. He was good. He gave you so much. But there had always been this sense, deep underneath it all, that you were trying to become the version of yourself he needed. That everything you were, everything you gave, was meant to fit into that shape he’d carved out for a life with you.

You curl onto your side, tears sliding across the pillow, the monitor still clutched in your hand.

“I believe,” Joel sings, voice quieter now, but still carrying through the static, “and I believe, ’cause I can see… our future days. Days of you and me.”

You sob quietly into the sheets, biting your knuckle so you won’t wake the whole house.

But eventually, a little while later, your body’s needs win over any semblance of staying in bed. Hunger gnaws at the edges of you, and the dull ache behind your ribs reminds you to get up. To eat, to do something. So you peel yourself from the bed with effort, padding barefoot into the hallway.

You expect silence, maybe Joel whispering to the baby in the nursery, maybe the sound of a lullaby or soft humming. What you don’t expect is the low hum of the washer and the sight of him shirtless over it, the laundry room door wide open. The soft light of the hanging bulb spills out around his frame, casting him in a light frame of gold.

He hears your steps immediately.

“Hey,” he says, glancing up.

Then he really looks at you, and his brow furrows. “Hey,” again, firmer this time, already stepping forward. His hands come to your face without hesitation, warm and steady. “What’s goin’ on, sweetheart?”

That voice, so kind and low and worried, is enough to split you wide open. Your chin trembles as your hands find his shoulders, curling into the back of his neck, fingers tangled in the curls at his nape. You don’t answer him. You just pull him down and kiss him.

It’s messy and desperate and tastes like salt and his minty toothpaste, but he meets you right there, mouth warm and open against yours, hands sliding around your head and into your hair to steady you.

When he pulls back, it’s just enough to breathe. “What’s—”

But you cut him off again. Another kiss, more feverish this time. You don’t want to talk. You don’t want to think. You just want to feel something that isn’t betrayal or failure or loneliness.

He kisses you back until he can’t anymore, and then he murmurs against your lips, “Baby, stop. Come on.”

You finally let him go, arms dropping limply to your sides. Rejection stings like vinegar in a wound. You know it’s not fair, Joel doesn’t owe you this, he doesn’t understand. But still, it’s there, sharp and fresh.

And he sees it, of course he does. He stays close, cupping your jaw, eyes darting between yours, steady and searching. “Talk to me.”

You deflect without thinking, looking down at the running wash. “What happened to your shirt?”

He blinks at the question, thrown for a second, but he lets it go. “Got spit up on by your son.”

“Your son,” you echo, soft and low. Your fingers brush over his chest, the hair there thick and coarse under your touch.

Joel huffs a soft laugh, and you feel his hands move to your ribs. He lifts you with ease, turning and setting you on top of the dryer, the machine quiet beneath you. He leans in, arms caging on either side of you with his palms flat, face close.

“Talk to me, please,” he says again, quieter now. He kisses the corner of your mouth, gentle and coaxing.

You drop your face into your hands. You can't look at him. Not yet. But Joel doesn’t let you hide, he takes your wrists carefully, the pads of his thumbs stroking over your pulse as he draws your hands away. He presses a kiss to one fingertip. Then another, and another. The tenderness of it threatens to break something open in you.

“I just… I feel like I do everything wrong,” you murmur.

Joel starts to shake his head. “You don’t—”

“I’ve been a terrible partner. To you. To Tommy.” Your voice wavers, thick with shame. “I pushed him away. I know I did.”

“Hey,” he says gently, leaning in, “no—”

But you shake your head, and Joel quiets immediately. He waits, still and steady, just like always. You can feel him holding space for you, not trying to fix it, not trying to rush you. Just being there.

You swallow hard, throat tight. “He told me…” You pause, breathing in a deep gulp of air, “Tommy told me he’s been seein’ Maria.”

Joel’s body tenses, the air goes very still, only filled with the sound of the washer, your uneven breathing, your sniffling.

“He what now?”

Your throat tightens. The tears burn again. You nod, swallowing hard.

“He’s been seeing her for months. Since her and Frankie separated.” You look down at your hands again, like maybe they’ll make this make sense. “He said they’ve been talkin’. About parenting. About everything. That it…just happened. And I just… I asked for a divorce, Joel.”

It takes him a long beat to respond. You watch the storm pass through him, one of anger, disbelief, something colder and harder. He closes his eyes, moving to press his forehead to yours. His breath is deep, slow, like he’s forcing himself to stay grounded.

His hands come back to your face, strong and warm.

“He’s got no idea,” Joel mutters, voice like gravel. “He has no clue what he’s got.”

You shake your head slightly, and Joel feels it, his grip only tightens.

“He has no fuckin’ clue what a prize you are,” he breathes.

Your hands find his wrists, clutching hard. Tears spill again, hot and fast.

“He’s a fuckin’ idiot if he thought he could do better. You are everything. I mean it.”

He kisses you, slow and sure, pressing into you like he’s trying to remind you with every breath who you are. Who you’ve always been.

“I don’t ever wanna hear you thinkin’ otherwise,” he murmurs between kisses. “Not ever. This ain’t on you.”

You let out a choked little sound that might’ve been a sob, might’ve been relief. His hands are so soothing as they begin to drag along your sides, your arms, warm against your waist, and you can’t help the way you lean into him. How your body starts to melt under his touch. You sigh, your lips parting under his, the kiss deepening all on its own. Your tongue meets his and something inside you shivers awake, slow and warm and wanting.

“I love you, Joel,” you whisper between kisses, your chest tight as the words spill out. “I’m sorry. For everything. For puttin’ you through all—”

“No,” he says quickly, firmly, pulling away for a moment to brush your hair back with a shake of his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t start with that. None of that was on you.”

He trails his mouth down your jaw, warm and open, grazing your pulse with his lips. Then your neck. Then the soft curve just beneath your ear.

“‘Nough of that apologizin’,” he says again, barely above a whisper.

You close your eyes as he plants little soft kisses against you, and you feel that deep want inside you awaken, making your skin sensitive and belly flip beneath his touch. You grip his shoulders and pull him back to your mouth, needing more of him, needing everything.

“I love you too,” Joel murmurs, kissing you deeper now, his hands spreading wide over your hips. “And miss you. Missed kissin’ you. Missed havin’ you close.”

“I miss you,” you whisper, broken and breathless. “All the time.”

Joel groans quietly against your mouth, like it physically hurts him to hear that.

“I’m right here, baby,” he breathes, kissing you again like a promise. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Your breath shudders out of you, lips pushing against his. “Joel…” you whisper.

He stills, watching your face closely, his hands warm where they hold you.

“I’m ready,” you say, voice small but certain. “Please. I want you. So badly.”

His brow knits together, like he wants to be sure—completely sure. “You feel okay?” he asks quietly. “You sure you’re up for it?”

You nod, cupping his face with both hands now, the stubble scraping your palms. “I feel more myself than I have in months,” you say. “Please, Joel. I need you.”

And that seems like it’s enough for him.

He kisses you again, but messier this time, wetter, like he can’t hold back anymore. His mouth slants over yours with more hunger, more heat, like he’s trying to get closer than skin will allow. His hands slide under your thighs and pull you further to the edge of the dryer, crowding into you until there’s nothing left between you but heat.

He kisses your jaw, your throat, the hollow beneath your ear, each place drawing a little gasp from your lips. And when you sigh his name again, something soft and breathless, Joel growls low in his chest.

His mouth moves lower, dragging over your collarbone, your chest. He pulls at the hem of your sleep shirt, tugging it upward, exposing you to the open air and the warmth of his mouth. He kisses your breasts, slow and open-mouthed, tongue flicking softly as you arch under him.

“Christ,” he mutters against your skin. “Missed you so much. You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

You whimper, thighs tightening around him, and he kisses down the curve of your stomach, and you lean back to give him access as his lips press into every inch he can reach, his fingers slipping under the waistband of your panties.

When he tugs them down, slow and careful, his eyes flick up to meet yours again.

“You still sure?” he asks, voice low.

You reach for him again, threading your fingers into his hair. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He hums softly, a little broken sound, and kisses the inside of your thigh and his hands slide down your legs, fingers grazing over your knees.

“Let me take care of you, baby,” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. His hands guide your legs apart with care, spreading you open for him as he kisses a path up from your knees. His lips graze the inside of one thigh, then the other, slow and careful, like he’s savoring the moment. Like he’s savoring you.

Your breath comes quicker the higher he gets, chest rising and falling with shallow little pants, your skin already flushed and hot. It’s been so long—months— since anyone touched you like this, looked at you like this, and Joel is looking at you like you’re holy.

He glances up, eyes half lidded and dark. “Always so good for me,” he murmurs against your thigh, voice a low drawl that makes your belly clench. “You’re burnin’ up, sweetheart.”

“Joel,” you whisper, your voice nearly breaking on his name. You can’t sit still, your hips already tilting toward his mouth like you’re starving.

His hands squeeze at your thighs. “I got you,” he says, and kisses right at the crease where your leg meets your hip. “Just let me take my time with you. Been dreamin’ about this.”

Then finally, his mouth finds you.

You cry out softly, your head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut as his tongue parts you with aching slowness. Hooking your legs over his shoulders, a low hum of contentment rumbles from his throat as he tastes you. His fingers press into your thighs, holding you still as he works, mouth so gentle, so thorough it makes your legs tremble.

He pulls back just a little, breath hot against you. “So sensitive, baby,” he says, grinning a little when you mewl and try to press yourself closer.

Joel leans in again, licking a long stripe before wrapping his lips around you, tongue flicking gently before suckling around your clit.

“Gonna make a mess of you, sweet girl. Make you come so many times before I even get my cock in you,” he pants, one of his hands sliding upward, the pads of his fingers finding you and pushing inside of you with slow, careful movement, curling just right once pressed to the knuckle. The stretch makes you moan, your hips undulating against his fingers and mouth. He groans into you, loving the sound, the way you clench around him.

He licks and strokes you, teasing until you’re shaking, your thighs trembling around his shoulders. He keeps one hand firm on your thigh, his eyes never leaving your face as you come unravel above him. Every gasp, every cry, he drinks it in like he’s been starving for the sound of it.

That pressure, the kind only he ever managed to pull from you like this and always so damn quick, coils deep along your spine, winding tighter with every curl of his fingers. And then he finds it, just that one spot, and presses.

You wail, high and ragged, your body bowing toward him as the wave crashes through you, fierce and fast and blinding. You’re cresting, cascading, bursting at the seams, coming hard around his fingers with a helpless cry that rips from your throat.

Joel groans into your center, holding you through it, letting you shake apart in his hands.

His hands slow. One strokes your hip, the other smoothing gently over your thigh after he pulls it from your walls. He kisses the inside of your leg, then again a little higher, then higher still, trailing a path back up along your skin.

You feel his breath first, then the low rasp of his voice.

"How many more you think you can do?" he murmurs against you, lips brushing against your stomach.

Your head falls back, neck craning as you catch your breath, body limp and overheated, sweat clinging to your skin. You run your fingers through his hair again, a gentle tug, and sigh with a breathy laugh.

“Oh god,” you whisper, still panting. “I don’t know if I could take any more.”

Joel chuckles against your thigh, hot and smug and a little devilish. He lifts his head just a little, and you look back down at him to see a devilish glint in his eye.

“I don’t know, sweetheart…” he says, bringing his hand between your thighs. You jolt as his thumb begins brushing the lightest feather touch to your swollen, sensitive clit. “Our record’s five just from this. Think I could get at least six.”

Your eyes widen, your jaw dropping a little in disbelief, a laugh bubbling up in your chest. “Joel—”

But he just winks, and before you can finish whatever protest you were about to make, he dives back in, tongue and fingers working in tandem like a man on a mission. And all you can do is gasp, clutch his hair tighter, and try not to completely fall apart all over again.

But he makes you.

Again.

And again.

“Okay, okay, okay!” you eventually squeal, breathless and trembling, your whole body buzzing as you push him away from your soaked center. You're slick with sweat, flushed all over, and the insides of your thighs slide against one another, wet from your own arousal. Your skin is glistening, the aftermath of release painting every inch of you. Joel slowly pulls his fingers from between your legs, wet and glistening with the proof of your seventh—yes, seventh—orgasm.

You pant, trying to catch your breath, still twitching from his attack on you. “I’m only just getting back into this,” you manage, voice thin and hoarse with pleasure. “You gotta go easy.”

“That was me goin’ easy,” Joel mutters, standing and kissing you before you can protest. He tastes like you, tangy and sweet. His beard is damp, his lips sticky from the mess he made of you, and when he plunges his tongue into your mouth, you moan at the flavor of yourself on him. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight, then carefully lifts you from the dryer and carries you down the hallway.

As he passes the nursery, he whispers against your ear, “How much more time you think we got before he’s up?”

“At least twenty minutes.”

“Perfect.”

He nudges your bedroom door open with his boot and steps inside, the room dim and soft in the mid morning light. He lays you gently down on the bedspread and doesn’t move right away. He stays there, looking at you like he’s memorizing every part of you. One hand lifts to brush your damp hair back from your face. His eyes are still dark with want, but there’s something else there too, something quieter.

“I love you,” he says, voice steady and low.

You feel the words tighten in your throat, a rush of emotion sweeping over you. Your hands reach up to cup his face, fingers threading into his hair.

“I love you, Joel.”

He kisses your chin, your jaw, the tip of your nose, then finds your mouth again and kisses you slow and deep, like he’s sealing it in place.

Then he sits up, and you watch as he strips off what little clothing he has left. You don’t look away, taking in every inch of him.

“You’re so pretty,” you murmur.

He laughs under his breath, bending back over to kiss your neck, his beard rasping gently across your oversensitive skin.

“You’re so pretty,” he replies, voice teasing.

“I’m serious,” you say, smiling.

“So am I. Now shut your mouth before I start blushin’.”

You both go quiet then, but the smiles don’t fade. You just look at each other for a long, suspended moment, something soft and unspoken settling between your bare skin and the morning light.

“I’m sorry,” Joel says eventually, voice low. “About my brother.”

You shake your head, hands still buried in his hair, “I don’t wanna think about that right now.”

He nods, leaning down to kiss you again, slow and warm, like a balm.

“Just wanna show you how good you are,” he murmurs against your lips. “How perfect. For me. With me.”

You hesitate for a second, remembering the boundary you’d tried to put in place last time. No more messy comparisons or crossing wires. No more talk of Tommy during sex. But right now, with Joel hovering over you, his cock hard and hot against your thigh, your body still shaking from his mouth, all you want is to feel wanted. Claimed. Loved in the most primal, unshakable way.

“No one makes me feel like you do,” you whisper. It slips out before you can stop it, the truth of it curling in the space between you.

Joel stills slightly, lifting his head just enough to catch your eyes. “What was that?”

You look right at him, breath catching a little. “Tommy could never make me feel as good as you do, Joel.”

And maybe it’s petty, maybe it's mean and vengeful, but you don’t care. Because Joel’s eyes darken instantly. A low sound rumbles from his chest, and he leans in, lips brushing yours, voice barely held back. He nips at your bottom lip before murmuring:

“Say it again.”

You swallow, your pulse thrumming in your throat, your body still trembling from everything he’d already given you.

“You fuck me better than he ever could,” you whisper, breath hitching in your lungs. “Better than anyone ever has.”

Joel groans, low and rough, like it’s been pulled straight from his chest. He presses his forehead into the crook of your neck, the heat of his breath hot against your skin. One hand slides down to your thigh, gripping firmly, spreading you wider as he nestles between your legs. His other hand wraps around himself, thick and heavy in his palm.

You reach down, your smaller hand covering his, fingers curling over his wrist as you guide him to your center.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs, his voice reverent as he rubs the head of his cock through your slick folds. “So wet.”

Your breath shudders out, your lips brushing against his cheek. “For you, all for you,” you whisper, words trembling on your tongue. “I missed you, missed the way you make me feel. Every time.”

Joel groans again, rutting forward just enough to press the head of his cock at your entrance.

“Fill me up, Joel,” you breathe, your voice soft and aching. “Please.”

He sinks into you with a groan that sounds torn between pleasure and pain, the thick stretch of him dragging against every hypersensitive inch of your walls. It’s too much and not enough all at once. He fills you up completely, your pussy fluttering and pulsing just trying to accommodate the size of him, the heat of him. You gasp as your back bows, your hands scrabbling at his shoulders for purchase.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe, legs wrapping tight around his hips, anchoring him to you. “You’re so…so deep.”

Joel’s head drops to your shoulder, his mouth pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses against your skin as he slowly starts to move, moaning into your skin. He takes long, languid strokes that feel endless, like he’s dragging himself through molasses, letting you feel every inch of him, every vein, the blunt head catching just right.

“You take me so goddamn well, baby,” he mutters, voice thick and reverent. “Always do. Always so tight, so fuckin’ wet for me.”

His body eclipses yours entirely, shielding you from the rest of the world like he’s your shelter, your storm, your everything. His forearms bracket your head, caging you in, the muscles in his back working under your palms as he drives into you with slow, consuming force.

“Feels so good, Joel,” you whisper, mouth pressing into his as his head turns to you, and you let out a breathless laugh as you admit, “Feels like you’re splitting me in half,”

You kiss him deeper, your tongue sweeping through his mouth before you say, “You make me feel so good, so wanted. Like I’m yours.”

Joel pulls back just enough to look at you again, lips kiss bitten and his eyes wild with heat and something deeper.

“You are mine,” he says, jaw tight. “Look at you, baby. Look at how fuckin’ pretty you are. Laid out for me like this. All mine.”

His thrusts grow deeper, more purposeful, as he shifts the angle of his hips. The new rhythm hits something inside you that makes you cry out, your fingers clawing at his back. Joel’s lip snarls at the look on your face, that primal, possessive side of him clawing its way out as he growls low in his throat, a sound more animal than human. He dips his head to take your breast in his mouth, sucking your nipple between his teeth while his hips never stop.

Your body lights up at the sensation, pleasure ripping through you as you keen beneath him, sweat beading at your temple.

He releases you with a wet pop, panting against your skin, the sound making your walls convulse and flutter around him. “You feel that, sweetheart? That’s how much I missed you. Missed this tight little pussy. Fuck—” he bites down gently on your other breast, then kisses the sting away.

You whimper, your body jerking as his cock pulses inside you.

“You’re so fucking big,” you gasp, “I can feel you everywhere—Joel—oh my god—”

“That’s it,” he grits, one hand slipping down to rub slow, aching circles over your clit. “Come on, baby. Come again for me. Let me feel you squeeze me. I need it. Need to feel you.”

Your head tips back as the pleasure builds again, white-hot and unforgiving. Your thighs tremble around his waist, slick with sweat and arousal, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the quiet of the room.

“Joel, I—fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he rasps, speeding up, fucking you harder now, his mouth at your ear. “You’re so close, I can feel it. Come for me. Right now, mama. Right on this cock.”

You shatter for him, again, your whole body locking up as your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, your vision blurring with the force of it. Joel curses, groaning as he watches you fall apart, his hips stuttering with the effort to hold back.

He doesn't stop.

Joel fucks you, his rhythm slow but steady as you milk him through your orgasm, savoring the stretch, watching your body open up around him. You’re soaked, still twitching and trembling as you come down, and he’s so thick but it doesn’t matter. You take him anyway. Your cunt flutters, pulling him in, and he grits his teeth at the way you clench down on him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice wrecked. “You feel like heaven, such a good girl for me,”

Your nails dig into his biceps as he starts to move faster again, hips grinding deep and mean, dragging moans out of you with every thrust. The stretch, the pressure, the weight of him has you gasping again, mouth open, eyes fluttering.

“Joel—”

“Uh-uh,” he growls, hand wrapping around your jaw, not tight, just enough to hold your head still so you’ll look at him. “Don’t start with the whining, sweetheart. You wanted this. You begged for it. Said no one fucks you like I do, remember? Look at me.”

You do, whimpering and pulling his thumb into your mouth, suckling on it, and that only makes him smile, a little dark and wicked but a sweetness still there when he kisses you over it.

“That’s right,” he says, rocking into you harder, filthier. “You like it when I ruin you. When I split you open and stuff you full of cock. You fuckin’ love it.”

You cry out as his hips slam forward, the angle brutal and perfect. He pulls his hand away to watch your tits bounce with every thrust, swollen and heavy.

“Christ,” he groans, “Look at these tits. So full. So fuckin’ pretty. My girl. The mother of my goddamn baby and still beggin’ for it so pretty, too.”

You clench around him at that, and he laughs, low and breathless.

“Oh, I know you like that, like when I talk dirty to you, huh, baby? When I tell you how good you are like this, all open and wet and mine?”

“Joel—please—”

“You’re fuckin’ milkin' me,” he growls, deep and low and primal, pulling back to watch his cock disappear into you again and again. “Drippin’ all over me. Look at this pussy, baby. Takin’ what’s hers, tight as a damn vice.”

You’re spiraling, thighs twitching, body already racing toward another climax. Joel feels it, sees it, smells it on you. His hand drops between your legs and he starts circling your clit, fingers rough, perfect, practiced.

“What’re we at now? Eight? Wanna make it nine?”

You shake your head, hands gripping his wrist, pushing him away.

“But you feel so good, clenchin’ around me like that baby, I think she wants it, damn near loves it.”

You shake your head again, but it’s half-hearted now, your grip on his wrist already weakening. The moment his fingers start circling again—tight and relentless, exactly where you need it—you whimper, back arching, thighs quivering around his hips.

“You’re so goddamn perfect. Every inch of you.”

You exhale hard, trying to catch your breath. “Joel…”

He leans over you, brushing a thumb along your cheekbone, then down to your lips, which are swollen and slick. “Talk to me, baby.”

“I love you,” you breathe, blinking up at him.

“I know, baby, I know,” he says breathlessly.

Your eyes squeeze shut, and the tears finally slip free, clinging to your lashes before they fall. You nod, lips trembling as you breathe through it, the words cracking out of you like you’ve been holding them back for years.

“You’ve always made me feel safe. Like... like I’m home.”

You don’t even know where it’s coming from, only that it’s true. Maybe it’s the release. Maybe it’s the eighth orgasm. Maybe it’s the months of aching and wanting and feeling like you’d lost yourself. But now, with him, his hands on you, his body still buried inside you, you feel found.

His hand cups your jaw, steadying you. “You are home. Right here with me. Always.”

You whimper as he slows down, still just as deep, stretching every inch of you. It’s overwhelming, even after everything, but it’s perfect—he’s perfect—and you cling to him like you might fall apart without him.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

You do. You meet those heavy, hazel and honey-dark eyes, and he stares back like he’s memorizing you all over again.

“Mine.” he murmurs, not asking, just claiming. “Always have been.”

Your breath stutters, your thighs twitching again. “Yours,” you echo, and he smiles like he’s never heard anything better.

“Say it again.”

“Yours, Joel,” you whimper. “I’m yours.”

“Damn right,” he whispers, picking up pace again. “And I’m yours. Every piece.”

You hold on with everything you have, arms locked around his neck, legs trembling, ankles crossed tight at his back, but your body is barely hanging on. You’ve lost count more than once of your orgasms, your body exhausted. Every nerve ending is raw, every breath shallow. You’re shaking, soaked, spread wide and taken fully, your skin slick with sweat and his touch.

He fucks you like he’s starved for it, like every part of him belongs here, in this moment, inside you. And it’s too much. The way his body dwarfs yours, his broad chest brushing your flushed, sensitive breasts, the deep, aching drag of his cock that finds every part of you like it was made to. You feel him everywhere. In your lungs. Your ribs. Your throat.

“Please,” you whisper, or maybe you moan, it doesn’t matter. It’s all coming apart at the seams, your vision blurring with tears of pleasure and overstimulation. “Please come with me.”

Joel groans, low and guttural, his hand cradling the back of your head as he presses a kiss to your cheek, your jaw, your lips. “I will,” he breathes. “I got you. I always got you.”

Then you’re gone.

The world whites out. Your body locks, then convulses. Your thighs shake violently, clamping around his hips as your back arches off the bed. You feel everything and nothing—just heat, just pressure, just the overwhelming wave of pleasure snapping through your core and spiraling you under. You can’t breathe, can’t see. All you hear is Joel, panting and whispering your name like a prayer, his voice like static through the roar in your ears.

He follows, and you can feel it all. That deep, jolting pulse as he buries himself inside you and comes with a desperate, broken grunt. You feel every thick, hot rope of spend filling you, the warmth spreading deep, spilling from the seams. He twitches inside you, stilling as he empties himself completely.

Your eyes stay closed, the blackness of your lids soothing as your body pulses with the aftershocks of everything. You feel Joel, though. You feel the way his fingers press into your hair, tethering you to reality. His length still inside you, still pulsing, his lips still kissing you softly, over and over, like he’s trying to bring you back from wherever you just went.

“I got you, pretty girl,” he murmurs, barely audible over the sound of your panting. “I got you.”

You hum in response, tongue swiping over dry lips, lungs still trying to remember how to breathe.

“Holy shit,” you manage, voice hoarse, a dazed smile tugging at your mouth.

Joel chuckles, the sound rough and full of affection. “Too much?”

You shake your head slowly, the movement loose, hazy. You open your eyes to finally meet his, warm and swimming with something that settles you down to the bones.

“No,” you breathe. “Perfect.”

The crackle of the baby monitor cuts through the last of the silence, followed by a sharp, insistent cry. You both go still for a beat, like your minds haven’t quite caught up yet.

You groan softly, pressing your palm to your face. “Guess it’s my turn.”

Joel’s already moving, slowly sitting up and reaching for his pants at the foot of the bed. “Nah, I got 'em.”

You blink at him through the strands of your hair, still splayed against the pillow. “No, it’s okay, you were with him all morning—”

“I said I got him,” he says again, firmer this time, but not unkind. He leans over, brushes your hair gently away from your forehead, and kisses the space just above your brow. “You take a shower. We’ll join you in a minute. He needs a bath anyway. Little guy stinks.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “Oh, so like you?”

His hand stills on his belt, and he narrows his eyes at you. “Easy,” he warns, though you can see the twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

You giggle, covering your smile with the sheet as he buttons his fly and finishes dressing. He’s half-disheveled, hair a mess, skin blotchy red and a sheen of sweat across his chest, but still. You think he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

Joel heads for the door, pausing just before the threshold. He glances back at you, eyes soft, a little smirk tugging at his lips. “You're gonna be okay. We will.”

You watch him go, heart aching in that strange, quiet way it does when you realize you're deeply, hopelessly in love. Not just with the way he touches you or how he fucks you—but with the way he remembers the baby needs a bath, the way he tells you to rest, the way he makes you feel safe and wanted and not alone in any of it.

The bed is warm around you, the room still thick with the scent of him, of you, of what you’ve just shared. You press your hand to your belly, smile against your wrist, and finally let yourself breathe.

It's going to be okay.

6 Months Later

Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday dear Sammy, Happy birthday to you!

Applause erupts around the yard, a chorus of clapping and laughter and camera shutters. Sam just blinks, stunned by the attention, his round cheeks dusted pink as he stares at the sea of faces all beaming at him.

Joel steps up with the smash cake, all blue and white icing swirled across the top just like you made it the night before, carefully piping it under the glow of the kitchen light after Sammy had gone down. He sets it on the highchair, and the baby leans forward, captivated, pudgy hands curling into tight fists at the edge of the tray.

You guide him gently, pressing your own finger into the frosting to show him what to do. When you pop the sweet mess into your mouth, Sam follows, smashing his hand into the cake and shoving a generous amount into his mouth with startling determination.

You laugh, licking icing off your finger, glancing back at Joel beside you. “He gets that sweet tooth from you, you know.”

Joel hums in amused protest, slipping his arm around your shoulders. He dips a finger into the frosting and swipes it across your nose. You gasp, playfully scandalized, and he leans in to kiss it off with a quick, warm brush of his lips. Around you, no one notices. Phones are out, Sammy is being thoroughly documented from every angle, and the low buzz of chatter and laughter fills the air.

When the kiss ends, you linger just long enough to rest your head against Joel’s shoulder, soaking it in—an entire year of you and your baby. And Joel. Memories fly through your mind like a cinematic reel, first words, first steps, first tooth. He was growing too fast for his own good.

Then your eyes catch on something across the yard.

Tommy and Maria stand off to the side, a little tucked away but not distant. Maria has baby Abigail on her hip, the girl wearing a pale pink dress and matching bow, her tiny fingers waving excitedly in the direction of the cake. Tommy’s arm brushes Maria’s as they both smile toward Sam, and for a moment, it’s almost hard to remember how much it hurt—how messy things were.

“Dada!” Sammy calls out from the highchair, cake smeared from cheek to ear, holding up a sticky hand like an offering. Joel smiles, crouching to take a bite straight from his tiny fist. The baby squeals, delighted.

You leave Joel to play and cross the yard, dodging through guests of familiar neighbors, a few folks from Joel’s job, Sarah’s friends.

“Hey,” you say softly, coming to stand in front of Maria and Tommy.

“Hi,” they both say in near unison. There’s no tension in their voices, just tired smiles and that kind of weary, mutual understanding that only time can build.

You smile at the toddler in Maria’s arms. “Hi, miss Abby,” you coo, brushing a finger along her arm. “You enjoying the party? You get yourself some lunch?”

Abigail nods emphatically, then stretches out her arms toward you, open and wanting. “Auntie!”

Maria lets you take her without hesitation, and the baby settles in your arms with the trust of someone who already knows you love her. You hold her close, already sticky from something and warm, and glance back at your son, who’s now banging his fist against the tray while Joel pretends to be scandalized by every slap of icing.

“Thank you for coming,” you say to Maria, voice quiet but sincere.

“Of course,” she replies without missing a beat. “She’s been talking about ‘Sammy’s party’ for days.”

Tommy adds, rubbing a hand along Maria's back, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You nod, smiling, and shift Abby against your hip. “You wanna go help Sam eat some of that cake?”

“Yes!!!” she squeals, and all three of you laugh.

And as you carry Abby back into the fray of laughter and frosting and the remains of one-year-old chaos, you feel the ache in your chest shift.

It’s not what any of you imagined. It’s more complicated, more layered. But the love is still there. There's effort. There's presence.

It’s messy, but it's family.

And family matters.

you guys 😭 what a journey it has been! THANK YOU so much for everyone who has been along for the ride with me. Whether you've been here since the very start, where I'd listened to some podcast tell a reddit story about a brother helping a couple conceive and falling in love, or maybe you found it somewhere along the way, i'm so so grateful you're here.

I had no idea it would grow into something like this or that so many of you would love it the way you have. Your comments, reblogs, messages, they mean the world to me. You've made the story feel bigger than just some silly joel miller fanfic I wrote in my free time. you made this truly special.

thank you for reading, for sharing, for sending me all your feelings, for rooting for these chaotic characters.

I love you. I'm eternally grateful.

love, may x

taglist: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @alidiggory92 @pinkylouise @izzy698 @doblasftcisco @devotedlypaleluminary @elsplayground @puduvallee @victoriaholland @legoemma @leenieweenie12 @possiblyafangirl @alitaar @mads198-9 @emmaoc10 @auteurdelabre @the-last-twin-of-krypton @lilasskicker2 @levislegislation @flowercrowns-goodvibes@starmurdock, @94namkooksworld, @staley83, @escapefromrealitylol, @starkleila, @ashleyfilm, @honeyydip, @timeladyrikaofgallifrey, @brooklynbbxo, @ratoonstown, @caroldxnvxrs, @lovelykat001, @snowlycanroc, @powellssaturn, @marylimlp, @pklol, @tomie-it-girl, @nayomi247, @joshylanefleet, @pedrospurplerain, @person-005, @beewithouthoney, @thegoldenhood, @aj0elap0l0gist

#joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #tommy miller #joel miller #family matters #joel miller smut #tlou #the last of us #the last of us fic #joel tlou

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76bookworm76 · 22 days ago

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Priorize-se ✨

#ilustração #artistas no tumblr #desenho

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76bookworm76 · 23 days ago

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THE F*CK-IT LIST: Superbowl

rating: 18+ (if you're a minor, please don't interact with this story. Seriously.)

chapter: 9.6k

story tags: DBF!Joel , Smut , Romance , Angst , Comedy, Mutual Pining, dirty talk, and more Smut.

a/n: Hey folks, I'm sorry for the delay. Rreal life has been AWFUL and if you have a few bucks to toss me on ko-fi I'd really appreciate it.

As per usual your support, your comments, your hilarious asks, your funny memes, your impossibly contagious enthusiasm - all of it got my tippy tappy fingers writing away! Please know that while I don't respond to all comments (something about it sometimes stresses me out, I cannot explain it) I READ all of them and LOVE all of them and sometimes when I'm down on myself and want to give up, I read a comment or see a funny mention and I just get inspired to keep going.

PSA: I don't know shit about football.

For those requesting to be tagged Sadly tumblr will not let me tag more than 30 ppl so instead you'll have to follow my updates blog! @auteurdelabre-updates I also post most of my work on A03.

F*ck-It List masterlist here

You shouldn't be mad at Joel.

The two of you made this agreement when the list was created. That either one of you could pull out at any time. That there was no pressure on either side.

So why are you so angry the following days after the talk in his office?

Yes, he was rude about it and yes you didn't feel like you had a chance to add anything to the conversation, but surely you shouldn't still be this upset days later?

He's not worth my attention.

Your dad sails by, murmuring a hello before heading into his office. He's been really busy lately, you barely saw him this week. You give a distracted wave before you lick a stamp and pop it resolutely on one of the many envelopes scattered atop your desk.

"Good morning, lunch buddy."

Kathleen greets you with a warm smile, distracting you from your maudlin thoughts. She's wearing a pink cardigan today and it brings out the rose in her cheeks.

"Good morning."

"I wanted to tell you that I just loved that place we went to eat at the other day. I actually took my date and he loved the dragon rolls."

"Your date?"

Kathleen doesn't seem the type to go dating a lot so this surprises you and to your delight she blushes. "Yes."

"How long have you been seeing this guy?"

Kathleen licks her lips nervously, glancing around the room to make sure she's not overheard. She tilts forward, so close you can see the dark ring around her irises.

"About six months."

"What?" You nearly leap up from your rolling chair. "This isn't some random hookup?"

Kathleen wrinkles her nose, shaking her head jerkily. "No no. I'm not that... I'm not that kind of woman."

Something about the accusatory tone makes you internally wince. Not that kind of woman? Your smile dims a bit.

"He's normally the one that plans all our dates," Kathleen continues. "So thank you for the suggestion."

"My pleasure," you reply. "If I find any other cool places I'll let you know."

She thanks you again before telling you she and your father have been going through some of the client reviews and that perhaps you could help her brainstorm some ways for employee recognition. But you're not really listening; your mind is on what she said.

Not that kind of woman.

What's wrong with random hookups? What's wrong with chasing pleasure? Kathleen has a good twenty years on you but you'd never thought of her as repressed.

"I thought we could meet up early next month to narrow down our event ideas," Kathleen says. "I loved so many of your options and I'm looking into vendor costs and things. I want to run the finalized ones by your dad before May."

You glance at the desktop computer, eyes falling on a date next week. Your stomach twists, bile rising in your throat.

"Are you okay?"

Kathleen has that open look that she sometimes wears when she's being extra empathetic. The kind reserved for crying staff or overworked interns. You wave it off before swallowing thickly.

"How does the 2nd work for you?"

Kathleen nods before telling you she'll touch base later next week. You click off the computer, eyes traveling up to see Joel and Tess chatting across the room. Joel has a file tucked up under his arm, his body stiff as he listens to her.

Tess on the other hand is all smiles, chatting animatedly. When her hand lands on his forearm mid-laugh you watch as he flinches.

Joel's eyes scan the office, clearly uncomfortable. When his eyes sail your way you're already looking down at the remaining envelopes you need to address.

Jacob sails by the two of them, giving you a wink as he nears. His figure is dashing, his suit fashionable and tailored.

Tess is still chatting animatedly to Joel, pointing at something on her phone as Jacob comes to stand beside your desk.

"You're picking the lunch spot today, yeah?"

"Mhm." You tap your finger on the desk, flashing your eyes to Jacob. "And maybe you can help me find someone new to mark more stuff off the list."

"What do you mean?"Jacob tilts his head slightly. "What do you need my help for? You have your sweet mystery man."

You nod, averting your gaze from Joel across the office. It's like you can feel him, heavy and oppressive. Jacob's smile dims as he scans your face.

"I wanna branch out, try it with someone new," you finally say with forced levity. "I want to experience someone new."

Jacob gives you a hard look before leaning forward on your desk, his voice dropping.

"Did something happen?"

You stare up at him before you have to drop your eyes to your cluttered desk.

There's so much that you want to tell Jacob, you want to admit how this has been going on with Joel, you want to ask his advice. But you know that you can't.

"No, nothing. You told me to put myself out there so that's all I'm doing."

Jacob is tilting even closer to you, his voice soft. "Honey, are you sure?"

You're still staring at the desk, terrified that if you make eye contact with Jacob it's all going to come spilling out.

"We not giving you enough to do, Milne?"

Your head jerks up in time to see Jacob's eyes go round. He jerks to stand straight, twisting around to see a scowling Joel behind him. Joel's arms are crossed, biceps bulging through the flannel as he stares Jacob down.

"Uh, no, no sir. I mean yes, sir. I have enough to do."

"Then why are you up here distracting other employees?"

"He's not-" you begin, voice catching when Joel's dark eyes flit to yours, his expression darkening.

Your face feels hot, your hands clammy. You shoot a look at Jacob but he's stricken, staring at Joel. Jacob is always so cool and collected, seeing him so anxious makes you apprehensive. A click of heels makes its way to the three of you.

"Joel, I forgot to ask, did the Wilson contract arrive yet?"

You watch as Tess comes up behind Joel, likely continuing the conversation they were just in. She sees your pinched face and Jacob's terrified one and her smile fades. "I'm sorry, have I interrupted something?"

"Nope," Joel mutters, his gaze locked on Jacob's. "Just chattin' with my employee here."

"Oh." Tess smiles at Jacob reassuringly.

"I was actually just on my way to finish the briefing for this afternoon," Jacob says with a squeak. "I'll see you later."

You give him a shallow nod, gaze drifting after him before sliding over to Joel who still stands there, only now his glare is directed at you.

"Last time I checked we pay you to work, not flirt."

If you could melt into the floor right this second, you would. Tess is still standing there watching this exchange, making it all the more excruciating.

“We were just making lunch plans.”

“Do it on your own time.”

Tess blinks, taken aback. You shrink into your chair.

"I-I apologize, Mister Miller."

Joel moves towards his door, not even bidding Tess a goodbye. She seems nonplussed by this, turning her smile your way. Your face is throbbing, so hot that tears are springing to your eyes. You want to disappear from the face of the planet at this very moment.

"I was hoping you could help me with the coffee machine," Tess says with a chagrined smile. "It's so fancy and I have no clue how to make anything. I always get Starbucks."

You go to acquiesce when a heavy hand lands on the back of your office chair, stopping you from moving back to exit.

"S'not her job."

Joel's voice is low and tinged with irritation. You can feel him hovering there behind you like some sentry.

"Oh I didn't mean...." Tess goes pink in the face, attention drifting between you and Joel. "I just thought..."

You know Joel's only standing up to her request because he can't stand Tess. It's not a real form of respect, not really. You're a pawn in his pissing contest. Irritated at this you push your chair backwards roughly, rising quickly. He takes a step back, eyes on the back of your head while you smile at Tess.

"I don't mind."

You don't look behind you as you move from the desk, ignoring Joel entirely as you and Tess make you way to the large coffee room.

Like the other spaces in the Mill Group, this room is beautifully designed with a floor to ceiling window overlooking the outdoors.

Beautifully crafted tables and chairs sit with fresh flower centerpieces. The coffee bar is long with white speckled granite countertops. Customized Mill Group mugs sit next to baskets of fresh fruit, pastries and bags of snacks.

You and test make your way to the shining metal coffee maker. It's wide and takes up a large portion of the counter.

"Okay you just program it here," you say tapping the screen. "You said espresso right?"

Tess nods, brows furrowed. "Yeah. I did that and it didn't do anything."

"You have to hit the cup size twice. I don't know why, it's really annoying," you explain as you hit the 6 oz number twice.

Tess makes a sound of approval as the drink starts to pour into the mug.

"Such an easy fix," Tess marvels behind you. "Thank you."

"You'd think for how much this thing costs it'd bring your coffee to you."

Tess gives a polite laugh, taking the mug from you with another thank you. You're about to walk off, shooting her a polite smile when she murmurs your name.

"Does Joel always talk to you like that?"

"Like what?"

She taps her heel absently as she searches for the right word. "So... Harsh."

"Not often." You shrug. "Think he's just having a bad day."

"Does he ever make you feel unsafe?"

You drop the spoon to the counter with a clatter. "What?"

You're suddenly very aware that it's only you in Tess in this break room, very aware that this line of questioning seems to have come out of nowhere. Almost as if she tried to get you alone to talk about it on purpose.

Joel is intense, even intimidating at times but you have a feeling that's not what Tess is referring to. You've definitely never felt unsafe with him.

"No."

Your eyes flick to someone passing by the door, heading to the copier machine before you glance back at her. She's still wearing that mask of concern. Her knuckles blanching around the mug handle.

"If he does anything to make you uncomfortable, will you promise to come to me?"

You scan Tess' eyes and take in the clear blue concern reflected back at you. You don't know this woman but she senses something in you, a familiarity, clearly. It makes you uncomfortable as much as it does comforted.

It seems motherly.

The thought sours your stomach. The remembrance of your father's late night texts, his desire to have Tess involved in so much of the company despite Joel's obvious disapproval. Have you really just been overlooking the most obvious thing? Is it possible that Tess is your father's mystery woman?

No. He wouldn't do that.

But just the thought that your father might be engaging in a secret romance with Tess makes you cringe away from her.

"Joel is passionate about his job," you say firmly. "Yes, he can be intense sometimes. But he's never done anything to make me feel uncomfortable."

Tess seems to falter at that, nodding and going to say something else when you give her a brief smile of a poorly concealed insincerity.

"Anyway, I should probably get back to my desk, busy day ahead."

"Right yeah," she not seeming to understand that she's overstepped in some way. "I'll see you at the Superbowl party."

"See you then. Enjoy the coffee."

///

"Okay, the betting pool is on, caterer should be here in an hour or so, drinks are chilled, margarita machines are working..."

Your father goes through his mental checklist walking around the parameter of your large living room. The theater sized screen displays the countdown to the super bowl in glorious HD.

It looks silly in your old home. Too big for the wall even though your dad customized cabinetry put in on either side. He's tried to update this home the best he could and to be fair it has all the splashy decor and appliances of any model show home.

He wanted to keep that familiarity for you and your brother, a landing place for you to return to. He thought just by keeping the home that he would do that, but he failed to understand that it was what was inside that mattered.

Memories in front of your old fireplace, the ugly carpet that you puked on after drinking too much grape juice. The memories were built in the little details and he stripped those away in favor of modern conveniences.

You don't fault him for it. Your mother's been gone for so many years and the previous decoration was much more her style; homey and warm. Your fathers’ is more sterile, more organized and geometric.

You watch him scurrying from place to place, adjusting balloon arches and putting finalized touches on h. He’s nervous. You’ve never seen him nervous at one of these things before.

You are not a fan of the Superbowl at all, but you are a fan of the commercials. Plus Jacob will be coming which means you two can chat about your list and how to properly check off the remaining items.

"Potato skins?" You ask with a grin as you move one of the balloon clusters over by the snack table.

"You got it, Trix."

"Perfect," you say snagging a pretzel. "Those are my favorite."

"Oh I know. Caterer is making extra." He gets a small smile on his face. "Your mama always loved them extra crispy."

Your dad mutters this to himself it seems, quiet and held close like a secret. He doesn't talk about your mom much, not in cruelty but because you think it hurts him too much.

As if realizing what he's said your father claps his hands together, breaking the moment.

"Okay the prize wall is set up in the back but I'm gonna make sure it's extra secured," your dad says to you, gathering several buckets full of darts and heading back there.

Your dad's idea to make this party one to remember was to have a huge wall of balloons, all colors and sizes. Everyone who walks through the door will have a Superbowl player randomly assigned to them.

Every time a player gets a point, the corresponding guest throw a dart. You think.... You kind of zoned out during your father explaining, bored out of your mind.

The balloons are filled with pieces of paper with numbers that correlate to the expensive prizes sitting wrapped and numbered on the nearby table. It overflows with boxes, your father intent on everyone walking away with something exciting.

"I'm gonna go relax a bit before everyone gets here," you call to him before sauntering to your bedroom where your phone is charging.

You plop down at your desk, feeling melancholy. All the senior staff is going to come today (along with Jacob at your insistence to your dad) and you're not looking forward to navigating a sea of small talk. You get enough of that at work. Everyone is extra nice to the boss' kid.

You begin tugging at the sleeve of your team jersey, your hair decorated with matching bows. You wanted to dress up for today, to make your dad happy. You wonder how much of your life has been spent in that pursuit.

You look at some of the sketches on the desk that you were working on last night, ideas on sustainability in the nearby buildings. You'd always loved the sustainable forest of Milan and dreamed of something similar here in Austin.

Of course your dad would never want something like that. He's big on solid craftsmanship but he could give a fuck about the environment.

The sketch is rough and the lines need some work but you were satisfied with it before bed. You think about the green architecture programs offered in Italy, the chance to work with people who are passionate about the same things.

It's a two year advanced program thanks to your undergraduate studies and marks. It could be feasible with enough money but then you'd be abandoning your dad.

A sort of weight presses into you, holding you down by your shoulders. You feel it leeching into your body and you physically shake.

"Stop it."

You can hear your dad whistling in the backyard, clearly excited about the party today.

You wonder if Joel is actually going to show up considering he and your dad seem to be avoiding one another.

Joel. A topic you've been trying not to fixate on.

Without Joel now you're going to have to find someone new to help with your list. The thought should excite you, but mostly it makes your stomach twist. And there underneath the sketches is the wrinkled page attempted to be smoothed. The writing and doodles by the numbers.

The list.

You look at the few items you managed to check off, sighing at how it all went tits up.

What happened? Was he feeling guilty? Was he turned off? Did you do something offensive? Was he mad you fell asleep? You're so frustrated that you'll never know the answer. You'll always wonder what happened to make him pull back so viciously.

You grab your phone, frustrated that it's still only at twenty percent. You plug it back in and compose a text to Jacob.

I can't wait to see you.

Same here Oh I had an idea about the list

Yeah? ????

Calm down fast typer. You know that club Elysium on Red River?

That haunted looking place?

Yeah. Tuesday is singles night. A perfect place to pick up a gentleman to knock off a number or two.

You’re a genius

A sexy one.

"Why can't you just be straight?" You say with a sigh, popping the phone back onto your desk. Your fingers trail over the well-worn list, face heating.

The doorbell rings.

"Can you get that?" Your dad calls through the sliding glass door. He sounds irritated, which is what he always is right before hosting a party when he feels rushed.

"Okay!"

You jog to the door hoping to see Jacob on the other side. You've barely been able to speak to him this week; Joel's been circling your desk like a hawk every time he comes near.

He always has some kind of excuse, correlating, stapling, photocopying. Sometimes it feels like busy work. But you don't understand why he's acting like that. Maybe he is just a stickler about fraternization. Maybe you and Jacob do seem unprofessional.

Well, there's nothing he can say today, you reason. This isn't work.

You smile in satisfaction, humming to yourself. When you open the door however, your smile dies immediately.

"Afternoon."

Joel stands there in a dark t-shirt with the home teams logo emblazoned on the front. His jeans are dark washed and his hair looks styled, like he went to some effort.

You hate that he looks so good.

You don't reply to him, you just stand back and take the door with you, looking at the floor. Joel slips out of his boots and walks inside and you notice he's holding a case of beer.

"My dad already has plenty."

"Yeah, that microbrew trash," Joel murmurs, "S'why I brought my own."

"Knock yourself out," you mutter back, walking away from him into the kitchen.

He walks after you awkwardly, his footsteps heavy and the scent of sandalwood and sweat catching up to you. You stand at the far edge of the counter, watching Joel move to the large fridge. His back is so broad under his T-shirt, biceps bulging...

Stop.

Your logical self tries to prevail. It's like an imaginary cartoon of yourself that shows up on one shoulder wearing thick, oversized glasses and looking serious.

Get yourself together. He's just a man.

But then another you pops up on your left shoulder wearing a clown nose.

Yeah a man who's cock you sucked!

"Shut up," you whisper to yourself.

"What was that?"

Joel is still there, loading his beer into the fridge with a puzzled expression. You figure it's a fair response given that you were just babbling to yourself.

"Nothing."

You want to leave but you also don't want Joel chasing you out of your own space. You grab a water glass and pour yourself some from the tap.

Joel pulls a beer bottle from his case, twisting the top off and flicking it into the trash.

“You want one?" Joel asks, holding a bottle out to you. You shake your head, opting for lemonade from the fridge instead.

You flinch as he clears his throat - a classic maneuver which means he's about to say something uncomfortable. Great.

"Hey, uh, you think we could talk?"

You turn to see him inches from you and your sardonic reply dies in your chest. He's so big, his mouth so pouty under that close cropped beard.

"I.. erm...”

His eyes bore into yours. He's intimidating even when he's not trying to be.

"Miller, you showed!"

Joel steps back from you as your father appears through the back sliding door with a smile on his face. He seems relieved to see his friend.

"Figured it was weird if one of the CEO"s was absent," Joel says before smirking. "Plus I had to make sure you were keeping tradition alive and making it one to remember."

“Lemonade?” Your dad says with an exaggerated shake of his head. “Not gonna try out the margarita machine, Trix?”

“Nah.”

"What's with the Trix thing?" Joel interrupts as he raises a brow in interest. "I've heard it a few times and I don't get it."

"It's nothing," you frown. Having Joel here talking about mundane things makes you feel insane.

“She wasn’t nothing,” your dad defends. “She had a pet bunny named Trixie.”

“Dad he doesn’t want to hear this,” you say with a cringe. You notice a twinkle in Joel’s eyes, a hitch to one side of his mouth that makes him smile crookedly.

“Sure do.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

"Uh, Trixie was a very big deal," your dad interjects, offended at your casual dismissal of a beloved pet. "You made us feed you carrots out of our hands. On Halloween you dressed up as her, you had bunny pyjamas... "

"For fucks sake," you mutter, head in your hands. "Next topic, please."

"I wanna hear more about Trix," Joel says and you can hear the laughter edging into his words.

"For a whole summer this one went around wearing bunny ears on a headband her mama made her, just so she could look like Trixie."

At the mention of your mother you bristle, frowning and pushing back from the table.

"I need..." You search your mind for some excuse.

"More carrots?"

You shoot daggers at your father and a chuckling Joel.

Could this be more embarrassing?

Joel peers outside the glass sliding door. "S' that a wall of balloons?"

"Sure is, c'mon and see what I cooked up this year."

Your father is like a child on show and tell, beaming and excited to show his friend. It's been quite a long time since you saw the two of them relaxed like this. A. Part of you is touched that your father looks so happy.

The caterers arrive shortly after and begin to get to work. You glance around at the decorations that were set up by the decorators last night, at all the effort your father went to.

It's not only to impress staff, you know that. It's also to give you everything he couldn't when your mom was alive. He wants you and your brother to live well.

It doesn't mean hand outs; it doesn't mean not teaching you the importance of hard work. It just means splashy parties and good food and birthday presents that make you dumbstruck. It means a father not stressed about making ends meet.

Your parents used to argue about money a lot. Of your mother's overspending or your father's late nights at the office. Perhaps that's why money has never sat well with you.

People start to arrive, the doorbell ringing constantly as your father ushers everyone in, urging them to grab margaritas and canapés.

Kathleen greets you a squeeze, looking around at the extravagance of the event.

"Seems like these parties get more and more over the top."

"Tell me about it."

"Best go see what you're dad's up to," she says, looking around the room for him.

You feel sympathy as you look at her, the way she feels she needs to be at your father's beck and call even off the clock. Is she just an older version of you? Never able to say how she feels? The thought sobers you.

"Kathleen, lemme show you the margarita machine."

Minutes later Kathleen has a margarita in her hand and is being brought into a conversation with Terry about who the cutest football player is.

In habit you go to message Jacob to see where he is when you remember your phone is charging in your room. You make your way through the crowd and walk in the room. You turn away from the door, phone raised to your face as you check the battery life. 35%. You need a new phone. You sigh.

"You got a minute?"

Joel's voice wafts from behind you low and husky. Startled, you drop your phone to the ground, cringing before picking it up.

"I'm just grabbing my phone."

He nods, hands stuffed awkwardly into his denim pockets. He's waiting for an invitation, like some flannel-wearing vampire. You don't want Joel in your home. You want him far away.

"Mind if I come in?"

To my childhood bedroom? Sure. Nothing embarrassing about that. I hope you like math-a-thon trophies and shitty movie posters.

"Sure."

Your room is a mausoleum containing the bones of your childhood self. The insecure smart girl, the outcast that never felt like she fit in. Back before the puberty fairy hit and helped you grow into all the things you hated about yourself. The damage was done, your brain chemistry stuck on the belief that you weren't sexy or confident.

You were the girl that yearned to be as pretty as her mom, as stylish as the girls at school, as confident as the women she saw in magazines and movies. But you just never quite got there.

Can Joel sense who you used to be? Can he look at your collection of hobbies and photographs and cobbler together something meaningful? You never could. You stand in silence watching as Joel shoves his hands in his pockets, eyes darting all around the room.

"S'Nice."

You can't help staring at the awkward man standing there in your bedroom. He stands out like a sore thumb, too tall, too broad, and too manly amongst your floral sheets and colorful hair ties.

You can both hear the party going on downstairs at full volume, the drinks clearly flowing. When you hear Kathleen shriek your father's name you can't help but smirk.

"Full house," Joel says. "More than last year I think."

Seriously? He wanted to talk about this? He came up to your bedroom to chat about party size?

"Uh yeah. Must've been dad's crab dip that sealed the deal. No one can say no to that."

Joel huffs a laugh but it doesn't translate to his face. He's still just staring at you with a strange look.

"You upset about not hosting, Mister Miller?"

Joel's lips thin at the honorific, face darkening. You have a feeling you know why. It makes your thighs press together slightly.

"We're not at work," he manages to mutter. "You don't have to call me that."

You scratch the side of your nose, unsure of what to say. You've always called him Mister Miller. You end up shrugging at him by way of response. The energy is weird in here now. You wish Jacob would stop being a social butterfly and show up already.

His eyes fall on your bed and you see his breath hitch in his chest. You look at it through his eyes; the light floral print, the haphazard way you folded it. Then there, near the edge of the mattress; a pair of panties you missed folding this morning.

They’re the scandalous sort, red and lacy that you bought back when you thought Joel would be seeing them. But not like this. You lurch across the room like some uncoordinated Frankenstein’s monster and grab them, shoving them into your back pocket.

Neither of you speak, but Joel does do that throat clearing thing that you despise.

“So what did you need, Joel?”

Joel clears his throat, clearly ready to start communicating about what he intended to.

Yeah, you were. You nod politely, too kind to rub it in.

"It's.... It's about what we talked about at work the other day," he says quietly, looking everywhere but you're face as he speaks.

Is he serious?

Irritation flares within you, arms crossing over your chest. Your voice is a little shaky when you reply to him, faltering in the face of being blunt.

"You mean the day you told me you didn't want to talk about it anymore?"

He cringes. "Yeah. That."

You watch his jaw wiggle slightly as he tries to get his point across. Clearly he's been thinking about this a while judging by the apprehensive expression he wears.

"You asked me if you did anythin' wrong in the hotel. And I just needed you to know that you didn't. You were great."

You stare at him, blinking slowly as you digest this. "Really?”

"More than great," Joel says with a nod. "You didn't do anythin' wrong. I got in my head when we... You know," his neck flushes. "And I was shitty about it. M'sorry."

You've never heard Joel apologize to anyone in your entire time knowing him. Even when you think he's been in the wrong. He's come to you with his proverbial hat in hand, sincere and apologetic. He's so human to you in this moment. It softens you immediately.

"Thanks Joel," you finally say softly. "I appreciate the apology."

The moment feels surreal, having Joel in your childhood bedroom, having him apologize, having him standing there not attempting to move.

"Is it just that?"

Joel squints at you, confused. "Huh?"

"Is that the only reason?" You step towards him, surveying his expression. "My dad doesn't have anything to do with it?"

His eyes give him away immediately, the subtle wince. "That's part of it. Yeah."

You're not stupid, you always thought it might be an issue for Joel but you never wanted to push it. You were content ignoring that part of the arrangement. Joel sucks at his teeth, exhaling through his nose as he continues to look at the floor.

"I need to tell you...I need you to know," Joel starts, speaking in a rush. "I offered to help you with your list because I was pissed off at your dad. I dunno, I guess it felt like payback somehow." He searches your face. "I'm really sorry about that. Fuck, feels like all I'm doing today is apologizin'. But I mean it."

He looks beside himself, this bear of a man taken down by an arrow of guilt to the chest.

"I've been sick about it," Joel confides. "You probably think I'm a piece of shit."

You can’t help but laugh loudly, drawing his brows to his hairline. You laugh so hard you snort, covering your mouth and feeling your face heat as he stares.

"I'm sorry, you're just so earnest. Joel, I don't care about that," you say once your laughter subsides.

"You don't?"

"Why would I?"

How can you possibly be upset? His motivation was shitty, sure, but was yours any better? You fucked around with Joel knowing he fired a good man like Brian. You fucked around with him that he denied his brother a respectable job even though Tommy was clearly desperate. But you didn't care; you just thought Joel was hot.

As far as you can tell you're both pieces of shit. Only Joel seems utterly devastated by his actions.

"It’s not like we were dating or anything," you say as you lean against the bedroom wall. "And it's not like either of us went into this with pure intentions."

Joel blinks. "We didn't?"

"You offered to help me for your reasons and I accepted for mine. It doesn't matter why to me." Your tone softens. "You were really kind and I enjoyed our time together. No regrets."

Joel looks relieved, but something else lurks behind the dark of his iris. Something you can't name.

"So we're good," you say with a reassuring smile. "All good. We can part as... Well, I feel like friends is pushing it. Acquaintances who've seen each other naked?"

Joel's grin suddenly appears, carving that small dimple into one blushing cheek. He chuckles softly at you, his broad shoulders lowering.

"I think after everythin', friends is a fair assessment."

Relief is warm and soothing as it runs through your veins, making you feel a thread of affection for Joel. Despite how things ended with you two, you'll always appreciate what he was able to show you.

You can't tell him that right now, that level of sincerity is too intimidating. Maybe one day you'll write him a letter.

"Good."

He nods, shoulders lowering. He's done what he came here to do. Joel continues to survey your bedroom with the quiet interest of a stalking animal, eyes scanning the space until they land on your desk. You figure it's time to leave. You spin around, hand reaching for the door when a low rumble sounds out behind you.

“You do these sketches yourself?”

You turn back to see Joel’s long fingers pressed lightly against the papers on your desk.

“Yeah.”

He slants a smile your way. “Damn. You’re good.”

You feel yourself flushing in a quiet sort of embarrassed pride. “Thanks.”

You think about offering your services, of seeing if Joel would consider letting you shadow him without your father’s knowledge. But then you see the amusement drain from his face, his lips thinning in displeasure.

“This what I think it is?”

In his desire to see more of your work he’s unearthed the wrinkled checklist. Wake Partner with Oral Sex can be seen from where you stand, a big red X through it.

You make a choking noise, lurching in his direction. You bump your hip into his as you cover the list with an old textbook on Gothic architecture.

"Nothing."

Smooth. Real smooth.

Joel's dark brows are still pulled, eyes flashing up to yours as he thins his lips.

"You're still doin' that?"

You shrug non-commitally, cheeks warm. Joel looks upset, rubbing the back of his neck and exhaling out his nose. You’re too embarrassed to reply to him so you decide to flee. You turn, hand raising to open the door.

"You can't do anymore of that list."

You blink several times at the door handle, not convinced that you actually heard him right. You turn around, your body slow.

"Pardon me?"

"I said you can't do' anythin' else off that list of yours."

You can only gape at him, shocked that this gauntlet has been thrown at your feet. "And why not?"

"You're my best friend's kid," Joel says dismissively. "I'm not gonna sit by while you put yourself in danger."

"Danger?"

"Completing the rest of that list with strangers?" Joel says slowly as if you're an idiot not to know this already. "One night stands with handcuffs? You're askin' to get hurt by some creep out there."

You begin to feel your temper flare at the way he's speaking to you. How dare he sit there acting like he's in charge of you? "I know how to take care of myself."

"Clearly you don't," Joel shoots back. His broad shoulders square. "You could get seriously hurt. That's why you can't do anymore 'a this."

He motions to the list on your desk. Your body feels tight, like your skin is too taut. You want to roll your shoulders, feeling an energy shift in you that is not at all pleasant. You move a step closer to him, feel sinking into the carpet.

"And if I do?"

The silence is deafening. You've never been one to speak to Joel like that. He tilts back, jutting his chin ever so slightly to look intimidating. That familiar sneering curl to his upper lip is back, shadowing his mouth. He never breaks eye contact with you, his gaze cold.

"I'll tell your Dad all about your little list."

Your head cocks, hands on your hips in defiance.

"Really Draco Malfoy? My father will hear about this?"

Joel squints, clearly not understanding the reference. Fucking boomer.

"When you do that, are you gonna tell him who helped me knock off some of those numbers?" You grimace. "Gonna tell him about our time at the hotel, Mister Miller?"

He visibly flinches.

Your face is so warm it almost hurts. You've never spoken to anyone like this, but Joel's treatment of you is frustrating.

"Because if you don't, I will," you continue. "But I feel like that might not go over so great for you."

If I'm going down, I'm taking you with me.

Joel doesn't move a muscle but you can tell by the slight widening of his eyes that he clearly never thought you'd defy him. He bares his teeth, about to bite back.

"Miller? You up there?"

Your father's voice breaks through the argument, causing you two to move apart as if you'd been embracing instead of standing toe-to-toe in an argument.

"Yep. Just using the facilities," Joel calls back, his eyes still on you. "Downstairs was occupied."'

"The games starting and I know you got twenty on kickoffs."

"Be right there."

The two of you haven't broken eye contact yet. Your body is buzzing, legs wobbly. You take another step forward, lowering your voice.

"It's fine if you don't want to do the list. I respect that," you tell Joel honestly, not wishing to escalate things further. "And I’m sure this is all a misguided attempt to be kind. But you don't have any say about what I do on my own time."

That familiar sneering curl to his upper lip is back, shadowing his mouth. He never breaks eye contact with you, his gaze cold.

"It's a bad idea."

"Thank you for your feedback," you reply flatly. "But Tuesday night is singles night at Elysium and I'm gonna knock off number two."

The two of you are inches from one another, breathing heavily with your pupils blown out. His eyes are flicking between your mouth and eyes, causing your pulse to spike.

A roaring cheer goes on downstairs and the two of you break apart, both gulping for air. You're embarrassed at how turned on you are right now just from this little spat.

You watch him leave; seething, all the while wishing his ass didn't look so fucking good in those jeans.

///

Joel shovels pretzels into his down turned mouth, casting sideways looks your way. You're perched on the edge of the sofa, scrolling your phone bored. Clearly football isn't the event of choice for you.

Despite this you wear a team's jersey over your jeans, your hair tied up in matching bows. You've tried to be festive despite not enjoying the subject matter.

He watches the small little pull of your mouth to one side. You're amused. Joel finds himself eager to know what about. Are you on tinder? Are you trying to find someone to go to the club with? Were you serious about that?

You cross your legs and Joel can’t help but trace the line of your ankle up to your thigh in those tight jeans. How can you be so sexy all covered up? Your dad is saying something to him and Joel replies with a ‘mhmm’ but his gaze is covertly on you.

He doesn’t know what happened up in your bedroom. One moment he was apologizing and the next he was furious and hard. You’d looked so intense, eyes bright, teeth clenched with this kind of confidence he’d never seen in you.

It turned him on.

He shifts in his seat now, willing his cock not to swell in his jeans as he recalls. He thinks he feels eyes on him and his gaze shifts your way again. But it’s not you staring at him, its Tess. She gives him a soft little smile as she heads into the kitchen. He frowns.

All of a sudden the doorbell rings and you jump up to get it. Joel watches you leave the room, hears you give a little squeak of delight when you see who it is. A familiar chuckle sounds out.

It’s Jacob Milne.

The Mill Group Casanova.

If Joel has to hear one more female intern in the break room giggling over how handsome he is Joel is going to vomit. He can’t stand the kid and doesn’t know when that started. He’d been the one to hire him on years ago, impressed with his work ethic and portfolio. But now just the sound of his laugh is like nails on a chalkboard for Joel.

The two of you walk back into the room, snaking between the bodies on chairs and couches, giggling. Your bodies are close, your movements comfortable with one another. Joel can feel himself growing more furious by the second.

And then salvation in the form of a long pass.

"Halftime!" Your dad announces, pushing himself up to stand. "Feeds on!"

The group gathers excitedly around the large spread. Snacks have already been served, but now its gourmet burgers, steak and lobster bites, shrimp pasta salad and more. The kind of stuff Joel always thought of as ‘too fancy’ when he and Tommy grew up with his single father.

Joel grabs a plate, absently listening to Kathleen chattering on beside him. But his eyes are stuck on you across the room, oblivious to the food.

You two look good together, similar in age, both very attractive. You look well suited and Joel can't understand why that pisses him off so much.

Your dad sidles up beside Joel, excusing his reach as he grabs one of the steak bites.

“Having a good time, Miller?”

“You bet,” Joel says forcing a smile. “Good food. Good company.”

“Sure beats our first one, huh?”

“Shitty beers and a couch with springs that dug into our asses.”

The two men smile toothily at the memory. Back when they thought they’d never get out of debt. Back when they were two widowers feeling alone. Time sure has changed things.

Joel’s eyes are back on you as he and your dad pile food onto their plates.

"That’s interestin’," Joel murmurs to your father.

Your dad follows Joel’s gaze, brows raised. "What?”

Joel takes a bite of burger as he looks to your father. To his extreme relief your dad is watching you and Jacob like a hawk. They both watch as you laugh at something Jacob says, your head tossed back as Jacob grins at you.

"Never realized they were so... close," your father hedges uncomfortably, taking a sip of his beer, fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle.

Joel can see the tension there in his friend’s expression. Knows that if he plays his cards right there’s a chance for opportunity.

"He's a good kid. Smart too. Brian anyways really liked him. Makes me wonder if he should be brought into the Williams account."

Your dad frowns. "You don't think he's a bit wet behind the ears?"

"Naw, he's a quick study and worth the investment." Joel doesn't give recommendations lightly. "Plus if he's busy with that, his nights might not be as free..."

Your dad looks at Joel and then back at you and Jacob. You shift your hips and from this angle Joel and your father can see the lace of your red panties poking out the back of your jeans pocket. Joel nearly choked on his beer.

“Oh my fuck,” your dad whispers in horror, tugging Joel out of the food line and ushering him to the far wall for privacy. “You see that?”

“Uh… I do.”

“You think he asked her to do it?” your dad asks, looking from you to Jacob while he shakes his head.

“Maybe.”

“You think he’s some kinda pervert?”

“Oh, uh, I don’t think so,” Joel hedges. “Just young.”

“Not that young.”

“He treats her nice,” Joel insists, not wanting to get Jacob fired. “Always polite in the office. Always respectful.”

Your dad hums a reply but when Jacob runs a few fingers through your hair and your dad launches himself your way, Joel can't help but smile to himself.

///

"Your hair looks so good," Jacob marvels, dragging his fingers through your tresses once more.

"Thank you," you preen. "I did that reverse washing thing. And… you look like you've been busy," you say taking in the circles under his eyes. "Aki work his way back into your bed?"

"No, and keep your voice down," Jacob says casting a look around the crowded space. "Roxie ate my expensive lotion and I had to rush her to the vet."

Your smile dies. "Is she okay?"

"She's totally fine, she just smells like bergamot and cost me five hundred in vet fees."

You can't help but laugh loudly at this and he joins in.

"But while we're on the subject of casual dating, are we going to Elysium on Tuesday?"

You step a little closer, voice dropping. "Yes, I just need your help deciding what to w-"

"Milne, glad you could make it."

You both glance over to see your father approaching, beer in hand, a queer little smile on his face. You snap your mouth shut as your father appears, giving Jacob a swift handshake.

“Thank you for the invitation, sir.”

Jacob is always a bit tense around your dad and Joel and despite the frivolity of the event, you can still see the stricken expression he wears.

"We got lots of drinks and grub, so help yourself,” your dad says with a wan smile. “Both of you.”

"Thank you, sir."

You watch as Jacob takes off for the drink table not even waiting for you. You feel your dad's eyes on you and you raise a brow.

"What's up, dad?"

"He's a nice boy."

"Uh yeah, I guess."

"Ambitious, would you say?"

"Sure."

Your dad nods thoughtfully, eyes sailing over to Jacob who has been dragged into conversation with some of the marketing team. His phone beeps and you watch him take it from his pocket, holding it closely to his chest.

After halftime is over and you and Jacob have commandeered the comfiest couch for yourselves, you settle back and try to focus on the game but you’re distracted, nodding when Jacob mentions something about the players. He's intense about sports, especially football. He started the fantasy football League in the Mill Group.

You try to be interested, enjoying the warmth of his soft shoulder against yours, inhaling the expensive shampoo he uses. Jacob is a great comfort to you, especially now when you're still reeling after Joel's treatment of you.

You hear the chatting of those around the television, the crunch of salty snacks, the clink of ice. It looks like it's a hit so far which you know must delight your dad.

You steal a look his way, seeing how he quietly chats to a smiling Tess, her eyes on his face, enraptured. You feel your lip curl in disgust. Jacob is muttering to you now, trying to get you into the game despite your obvious apathy.

"So, it’s a cover-2 shell, right? Safety’s creeping up, linebacker’s shading inside and everyone’s thinking it’s a run. But Jenkins reads it instantly, like, pre-snap, he hits his back foot and fires between the hook defender and the dropping safety...."

It's like another language you have no desire to learn. A Rosetta Stone for sport bros. You keep nodding with a polite smile on your face. Jacob darts his eyes between the screen and your face.

"...this perfect seven-yard pivot, just enough separation. The ball arrives just when he turns and it’s textbook quarter- YES GO!!!."

Jacob jumps from his seat next to you arms raised and cheeks pink as he cheers along with the rest of the group. Your dad is pleased, clapping loudly and whooping.

Loud applause goes everywhere, hiding the yelp you let out when Jacobs’s beer lands in your lap. Of course it does. Making you look like you've wet yourself.

You think you feel eyes on you but a quick scan of the bustling room let’s you know that it's just your paranoia. You wince, standing as the cheers continue and head into the kitchen to wash up, telling everyone you pass that its beer and not urine.

To your surprise Tess is in the kitchen texting, her hip balanced against the counter. She looks up surprised to see you as you enter and she hastily shoves her phone into her purse.

"Hey there. Are we allowed to smoke in here?"

"Backyard," you say pointing out the window. "By the shed. Dad smokes his cigars out there. He doesn't know I know."

Tess flashes you a smile and laugh, thanking you. She squeezes your upper arm as she passes, leaving her citrusy perfume in her wake. It mixes with the hoppy smell of the beer which really adds another level of gross to the experience.

You go to the sink, running it and exhaling softly. This day is really turning into one massive headache. You feel a hand at your shoulder and turn to see Kathleen there with a packet of wet wipes extended to you.

"Don't think those will cut it," you laugh weakly. "I think he spilled the whole bottle."

Kathleen tuts in that mother hen way of hers, looking at the stain. "You got it early so make sure you blot. Don't rub."

You run a hand towel under the sink, blotting at the stain as she watches.

"I don't think he even realized he did it," Kathleen chuckles. "He’s still out there cheering with an empty beer bottle. Men and football, I'll never understand it."

"Me neither," you agree. "My mom used to take me out for ice cream or a movie when Dad hosted games.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she hated it even more than I did."

You surprise yourself with your open candor about your mother. You don't really enjoy talking about her much, but there's something about Kathleen that just encourages you to open up.

"My kinda lady," Kathleen says, blotting your jeans with the other hand towel. "I'm just here for the free margaritas."

You laugh with her, the two of you trying to tidy the beer from your clothes the best you can.

"Think I'm just gonna have to change into something," you eventually frown. "But that's okay. The jersey material is so itchy."

Kathleen nods, watching you strip off the jersey to reveal a tight white t-shirt. She’s looking at you with a heavy look, one that you know from therapists and compassionate friends from over the years.

"So, can I ask something real inappropriate?"

"Sure."

"How're you doing this month?"

Your smile is frozen, brow raised as you try to parse what she's talking about. When it hits you, your stomach drops.

"You mean because of my mom."

"Yeah." Kathleen's eyes widen when you take a moment to compose yourself. "Oh shoot. Was that.... Should I not have-"

"It's fine," you lie. "Just .. I didn't know a lot of people knew."

As a longtime employee and your father's right hand it's no surprise that Kathleen would remember your mother's birthday. A time of year that you try to push from your mind as often as possible.

The day your father always takes off work to visit her gravesite.

The day you pretend doesn't exist.

"It’s been ten years this week," you offer quietly.

"Wow."

"Yeah. My dad hasn't said anything but I think it's hard for him..." You shuffle, feeling her eyes on you. "He, uh, I think he blames himself. For not getting her to the doctors in time."

Kathleen says nothing, but her eyes tell you that she's here, she's listening.

"Your mom was a special lady," Kathleen observes. "Your dad tells some amazing stories about her."

"Really?"

Your dad never talks about your mom in great detail and you always thought it was because it hurt him. But here he is sharing it with one of the employees? That hurts.

"He said that you and your mama went to the fair all the time?"

"Yeah." You smile at the memory. "Ate enough popcorn to kill us, topped off with cotton candy."

Kathleen smiles wide. "My kinda lady."

You grin over at Kathleen, heart warming. "Yeah. She was. I actually think the two of you would have gotten along really well."

It's true. Kathleen and your mother both have that sweet warmth that just draw people into their orbit. If you close your eyes now you can still see the crinkling of her eyes as she smiled, that one tooth that slightly overlapped the other, the way her head fell back when

"Her favorite was riding the rollercoaster’s." You smile to yourself. "I was always too scared to go on them. I kinda regret it now."

"How come?"

"I was always too afraid, too cautious," you murmur, eyes on the floor. "Ever since she died I've just been ... Scared of everything."

You used to be brave. You know you did. But you can't grasp that feeling anymore, it slips through your fingers each and every time you try to cling to it.

You feel it sometimes though, in those quiet moments with Joel. In the unknown, heart pounding, body tingling but thrumming with this dormant bravery.

"I get that," Kathleen says and there's a tinge to her voice that suggests something deeper, something that hurts to remember.

You look up at her, seeing the sheen to her dark eyes and flinching when a roar goes up in the next room.

"Guess we scored," she says blinking away the sadness. "I'm gonna go see how we're doing."

She gives your shoulder a squeeze, a soft smile shot your way before she's gone, slipping into the next room. You watch her go, missing the warmth of her presence. This conversation has left you feeling vulnerable, aching in a way that brings bile to your throat.

"You okay?"

You jolt when the low voice reaches you, yelping and turning around. Joel is standing there at the edge of the kitchen and despite your previous animosity, you don't scowl. You're a housecat, declawed and weak. Your stomach churning, chest tight. You hate this feeling.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Doesn't look it."

He doesn't say it cruelly or with that arrogance he had in the bedroom earlier today. He says it concerned with his dark eyes big and entreating.

There are no words so you just shrug. Another roar sounds from the next room. You wait for Joel to leave and join them. He's always been a dedicated fan of the team. But he lingers, long muscled legs slowly making their way to you. One hand rests in his jeans pocket, the other holding a sweating beer in his long fingers.

"Didn't know it was your Mama's birthday this week."

"Yeah, well," you shrug. "Probably why dad wanted to host the game this year."

Joel looks contemplative, like something is settling in his mind. A realization perhaps. He nods, exhaling so hard you feel it on your cheeks. He's close to you, closer than you realized. Your eyes are stuck on his mouth, a perverse desire to shake this moment of its solemnity.

Joel senses it; he must, because he moves a little closer.

"Hey, I-"

You wait for those plush lips to form an apology for his outburst in your bedroom but one doesn't arrive. Maybe it would have if Jacob hadn't entered into the kitchen at that very moment, his laughter following him from the other room.

At the sight you and Joel spring apart guiltily, your back hitting the sink so hard you cringe. Jacob's smile drops as he sees Joel's frame come into view. Joel's eyes are on his beer.

You try to give a nonchalant smile. "Hey Jacob."

"Sorry," Jacob says, anxiety in his voice, "I didn't mean to interrupt-'

"Not interruptin' anything," Joel insists with a casual shrug. "Just talkin' shop."

He tilts his bottle to you by way of farewell, nodding to Jacob as he passes. You watch him go, savoring the pinch of his waist, the breadth of his shoulders, the muscles of his exposed forearms.

"So,” Jacob says in a low murmur. “When were you gonna tell me your mystery man is Joel Miller?"

#pedro pascal #smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #the f*ck it list

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76bookworm76 · 25 days ago

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To Build A Home Masterlist

Content Warning: 18+, NSFW, descriptions of domestic abuse and violence, PTSD, age gap: 60s Joel/ 30s Reader, all chapters with smut will be marked as such

Chapter One: The Stranger ** Mention of domestic abuse and PTSD

#joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller #tlou #tlou fic #the last of us #joel miller imagine

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76bookworm76 · 25 days ago

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View this post on Instagram

A post shared by All about Pedro Pascal (@allaboutpedropascal)

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I know, I know… AI… but… Pedro..

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #Instagram

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76bookworm76 · 1 month ago

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Pedro Pascal as Oscar in Exposed - an unaired pilot

#pedropascal #pedro pascal characters

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76bookworm76 · 1 month ago

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View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Pedro Pascal Fandom 🖤 (@pedro_pascal_addicts)

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#pedro pascal #oberyn martell #Instagram

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76bookworm76 · 1 month ago

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Gotta read it.

♡ Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

When your high-powered marketing career goes up in flames, you find yourself back in Texas and out of options—until your old high school friend Tommy offers you a job at his family’s growing construction company. The only catch? His older brother Joel, the project manager with a chip on his shoulder and zero patience for your city-slicker attitude.

You clash instantly: you’re clever, confident, and painfully corporate. He’s quiet, rugged, and set in his ways. You push his buttons. He pushes back harder. But somewhere between long meetings, late nights, and one very unexpected work trip… the tension starts to shift.

What begins as bickering turns into banter. Glances linger. Walls crack. And neither of you is quite sure when things started to change.

♡ Tropes:

#modernau #nocordycesoutbreak #officeromance #oldermanyoungerwoman #hatetolove #coworkerstolovers #confidentreader #twopeopleterribleatfeelings #emotionallyscaredjoel #sarahisalive(YAY) #smokerjoel #banter #hatesex #roughsex #semipublicsex #oralsex #semibratreader #switches??

♡ a03

♡ Chapter 1

♡ Chapter 2

♡ Chapter 3

♡ Chapter 4

♡ Chapter 5 - coming soon

Extras:

Playlist

#fanfic #joel miller #joel x reader #last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #the last of us #the last of us hbo #tlou joel #modern au #office romance #terms & conditions

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76bookworm76 · 1 month ago

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Ingydar | fester

joel miller x reader | mdni 18+ | ao3

previous | next

tags: reader uses she/her pronouns, blood gore and death, mentioned cannibalism, sexual tension, frostbite/hypothermia, amputation, everyone is touch-starved

You're a loner in the woods. A ghost story to the kids, a tale of caution to the hunters. A rumor of smoke on the mountain and a glow between the trees. Joel Miller finds himself tangled up in your story and slowly discovers that you're not nearly as dangerous as you've made yourself out to be.

More patrols start popping up around the mountains. Bigger numbers. More guns. More horses and larger backpacks. Younger people, usually, paired with people who look like they may have once been locals. Experienced hunters and veterans, maybe, or just whoever was better at shooting a gun.

They’re away for longer, you note. Often not returning through the valley for days. Sometimes they come back with meat, other times with an empty horse and a couple less people. You don’t know how they’re managing, and although a part of you is curious, the other knows large groups mean danger. Means spreading the disease that bubbles up through the corpses in the snow. That levels cities, poisons the air, and grows on the rubble.

Survivors hear stories of the city of Jackson, flocking through the mountains in groups to the safehold. You hear rumors through the trees when travelers pass and sometimes intercepted through the radio you keep near your bed. The city grows and you watch from atop your mountain, yellow lights steady. Stronger by the day.

The gold ring on your finger feels heavier as the weeks go by.

Winter progresses, worsens. The deer, elk, and moose become scarce, leaving the once buzzing forests baren and still. Freezing to the point that your skin stings from just a few moments against the open air. It leaves you poking a few new holes in your belt just to make it to the next week. Still, you manage. You’ve seen worse with less, a little hunger wouldn’t level you.

Jackson was also having shit luck, if the growing number of patrols are any clue. It’s too cold for much game and with the amount of people coming that need fed, they’re picking off whatever they find. Before you know it, rabbits are rare, too. Reluctantly, you decide your usual stomping grounds just aren’t cutting it anymore. You gear up and head down the mountain, rifle slung over your back.

Hours pass with nothing. You’re growing frustrated as your energy dwindles, trekking further into the woods while the sun rises heavy above your head. Your breath fogs in front of your face with each step, rifle held close between freezing fingers. It's like time is frozen. No breeze to stir the snow, no animals in sight. Just the birds that fly between trees and the crunch of snow beneath your boots. Pine trees coat the mountains in thick, dark fur; dropping snow in dense piles at the quietest moments. At the very least, the sky is blue, although the sun on the white landscape irritates your eyes through your sunglasses.

Eventually, you catch wind of a single moose. A massive one. The only living thing within miles, it’ll feed you for weeks without rationing. Maybe the whole way through winter, if you’re smart about it. The creature wanders alone and even it has trouble walking in the amount of snow that coats the ground.

You lower yourself under the cover of the trees, squatting atop a hill at the base of the mountain. You raise your gun, squinting through the scope until your sights land on the massive animal.

Something else, too. A man. Downwind of you, about a click away from the moose. He’s dressed in black hovering near a stream in a similar position, a dark cowboy hat adorning his head. Stalking. His horse isn’t far off, tied up and drinking from the frozen stream among a few others with similar weapons.

You’re closer, quieter, your rifle more equipped for such a beast. You flick your safety off and approach, snowshoes nearly silent over the snow. You don't think he sees you, keeping his distance and wandering to the west, trying to anticipate the animal’s movements, you think. Then, when you get close enough, you notice him glancing in your direction. He’s caught your movement and your eyes meet, for a moment.

There’s something there. An unspoken plea. A certain I need this that makes you think there’s more to this than bringing food back to a hungry city. A family, maybe, waiting for him back home. A purpose.

Your eyes flicker back to your prey and you keep moving, getting closer.

It’s a game now. You inch through the wood and so does he. You raise your gun, lining up your shot, and he watches closely. Mimics you as if he’s committing each of your movements to memory. You take one measured step towards the moose. He does, too.

The man steps on a stick wrong and the creature startles, starting off towards the woods. Your gazes meet once more for a split second before you’re off, following at a distance. Starting over. Resetting. Letting the animal calm before you stalk it again, not risking anything.

You settle yourself in the brush again and look around. The man is gone, leaving only the sound of your tired breathing to fill the silence as you lay your gun on your shoulder and line up your shot.

Pop. The moose startles before it topples. With one more quick shot to the chest, it's dead, and the forest is silent again aside from your heartbeat. You could collapse with relief, really, at the thought of eating something other than a few stale crackers. Something you might pair with some of your whiskey tonight in celebration. A breath leaves you before you stumble over, the energy sapped from your muscles after the hunt is over. The adrenaline drained.

Gutting and skinning is laborious work, and you only have a few hours of daylight left whenever you’ve fit enough onto a sled to last a couple of weeks. Your hands are coated in still-warm blood you do your best to wipe off on a cloth.

You pretend not to notice when the man returns. Like a skittish but curious animal, he watches from a distance. His eyes burn holes in your head as you work and ignore him.

“Hey.”

You look up and he’s there at the treeline, gun raised and ready. Dark hair, a mustash under his nose coated with snow. He’s cold—nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot, but his expression is calm. Focussed. No bullshit. His gloved finger isn’t on the trigger and its clear he’s been out here a while, maybe longer than you. Desperate. You feel a little bad.

“Who are you?” He huffs and it clouds out in front of his face, the loudest thing in several miles.

You pause, surprised that he stuck around this long. Still, you don’t answer, just look up at him before returning to your task, tying your sled up tight so the pelt doesn’t drag in the snow.

“Hey,” he urges, louder from the treeline. He shifts his weight again, holds the gun closer to himself. His finger is on the trigger now, but it's a light grip—bluffing. Southern drawl thick under his voice. “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you!”

You stand with a grunt, sore and tired and completely not in the mood for social interaction. Especially not with someone pointing a gun in your face, half-frozen while the sun is beginning to set. Still, you look up to meet his gaze.

You nod towards the carcass you’ve barely put a dent in.

“The rest is yours,” it’s the first time you’ve talked in months.

He doesn’t stop you. Just watches in silence, something softening in his gaze as he lowers the gun. His eyes follow as you drag your feet back home. Sled a few feet in tow, tied to the belt around your waist and only just barely full. Halfway up the mountain, when the sun is sinking over the treeline, you finally stop to look behind you.

A team of men trek through the snow, armed with lanterns that bob and weave through the trees. Three horses each with their own bag of meat strapped to their backs. Something about it brings you comfort.

***

You’re running. Sprinting through the mud, feet bare and pants ripped. Your throat burns with the effort of breathing, in and out and in and out, burnt feet aching against the ground with each painful smack against the mud. The fire feels hot on your back still, even as it gets smaller on the hill, and you turn to see the town burning. Houses swirling with orange and yellow that licks at the sky—gone. Everything, gone.

Your heart in your throat, you turn and keep stumbling, even as screams fill your ears. People darting everywhere gathering neighbors, even with the infected in tow—ravenous. Unforgiving. The world is a dark mess of fire and red and blue.

A rock catches your boot and you fall with a yelp, tumbling down the side of the hill. Each slam against the mud is muted after the first, igniting a bright and paralyzing pain down each one of your vertebrae. You hit the bottom of the ditch first, meeting the hard path below with a loud thud. Your ring follows, somehow ripped off your finger in the mess. It dings twice before you catch it in a bloody palm, golden and scratched.

Everything is silent. Dead. Gone. The screaming put to a complete halt by the blinding ringing in your skull. Even the crackling of the fire is gone, along with the light that came with it.

It’s dark. The chaos suddenly snuffed out the second you hit the ground. The only thing that breaches it is the rapid thudding of your heart and the struggle to catch your breath as you lay there, writhing. You’d probably throw up if there was anything left to, but there isn’t. You cough and sputter instead.

You squeeze the ring into your shaky fist. Cold. Grounding. You need to get up.

You open your eyes and you’re immediately met with a snarling face. Wavy, dark hair with the grey streaks behind his ears. Eyes that once held the capacity to be kind now lifeless and wild. He snaps at you, the man whose daughter you saved, and you yelp. Scramble backwards. Moving is a struggle, limbs about as nimble as bricks as you drag yourself away.

It’s no use. He goes for your neck and you scream.

***

It takes a moment for you to wake fully; as it always does whenever you come back from a nightmare. The ceiling of your home greets you first, wooden beams dancing with light that reflects through the gap in the curtains next to you. Then, it’s the chill against the cold sweat on your brow, and the way your sleeping bag sticks to your legs as you shift sore limbs to sit up. It’s quiet, as it normally is, and it takes you a moment to shake sleep from your mind long enough to gauge what roused you.

Then, as you grunt and sit up, the sound of voices outside. Laughing, shushing.

“I dunno, guys, someone’s definitely been up-keeping this.”

“What?” A female voice and a thud sound muffled through the wood, “you scared?”

You launch upright immediately, grabbing your rifle from the side of your bed and peeling back the curtains in one fluid motion. You pull back just enough to peek down into the dark; spotting three teenagers. Two with lanterns a little ways off, the third looking up from just below your window. It’s too dark for them to see inside, but you flinch away anyway. Heart in your throat. Shit. Fuck.

“Did you hear that?” The first guy speaks up as you back away from the window and onto a squeezy board. The door off to the corner is locked; they won’t get inside. Not unless they’re really determined.

“Someone is definitely in there,” the second female mutters, nervous. “Tommy was right, guys. We should head back. Best not to start shit.”

“Oh, please. Nobody is surviving up here on their own. ‘Place is haunted or something.”

There’s a knock against the trapdoor and your rifle is trained on it in an instant. Heart in your throat, you wait. Stare at the door, listen to the sound of shuffling on the stairs below it. You don’t blink. You don’t breathe. You don’t move an inch.

“It’s empty,” The girl scoffs and shoulders the door. “Told you.”

You hear your barricade start to give as she continues hitting it and you’re immediately climbing up on top of your desk. A shaky hand reaches up to push open the door to your roof before you slide your gun up silently. The cold almost immediately bites at your exposed knuckles as you scramble up.

“Okay, alright, this has gone too far,” the male voice rings out. “Maybe the hunter was just some straggler, maybe she lives here and is just out. But we definitely should head back and report this to Maria now instead of breaking into some random building.”

“And miss out on some crazy loot?” The girl fires back as you stifle a grunt, scrambling up and into the snow that sits on your roof. “We won’t get in trouble as long as we don’t fuck up.”

You lower the door carefully back down, hoping your plan B will buy you some time. She hits the door with a grunt and you shut your eyes with a quiet curse as you hear wood splinter and give. Then, she lets out a breath and adds, “so don’t fuck up, alright?”

You glance over the roof of your home to the footprints in the snow leading to the ladder below.

“Jesus…” The male mutters as he climbs the rest of the steps below. You see the light of the lantern swish and disappear into your lookout. “This is fucked.”

“Fucked and awesome,” you hear the teenagers move things, open cupboards, step on creaky floorboards.

“Joel’s gonna lose his shit.”

“I don’t know, Jesse, there is a shit ton of medicine in here.”

Freezing hands fiddle with your gun. It’s empty, but you slowly slide a couple stray bullets into the chamber. Pull the suppressor off the muzzle while your heart races in your ears and your face stings from the freezing cold.

They continue exploring, pocketing your belongings. Some of your food by the sounds of it, too. You pull yourself over the edge of your roof with a grunt, head peeking down over the snow. Your burglars speak in harsh whispers, now, silhouetted against your pelts of elk and moose that keep the cold from leaking in through the windows.

You pull yourself down until the gutter digs into the skin just below your ribs. Lean down just far enough to see into the windows, socked feet rooted painfully into the snow and ice to keep you from sliding free.

“Didn’t think anyone was actually living up here.”

“People say she’s watching us,” one of the girls whispers softly, shining a flashlight over your belongings. “Has been from the start. Tommy even says he saw her.”

You flick the safety off your rifle.

“I think there's more than one, here,” the other girl says. “Planning an attack, or something. Scouting us out. They would’ve just come to Jackson, otherwise.”

The man, Jesse, scoffs.

“Maybe they’re waiting for the perfect moment,” the first girl says, dropping her voice. “Waiting until we get hungry and weak, when our defenses are down.”

You line your shot up against the base of the window. There’s a gunshot there already anyway, the window was on its last legs.

“Stop,” the other girl swats at her friend. “You’re scaring him.”

“Jesus, speak for yourself.”

“I’m not kidding, though,” a girl insists. “I’m telling you—it's bad news. Creepy ghost shit, a group of fuckers in dark snowsuits following our guys. Waiting, stalking, following…just waiting for the right time to—”

You fire.

It shatters the window, pierces the pelts. Creates a sound loud enough to reverberate through the lookout, over the mountains, and ignite a panic. It doesn’t hit anyone, you make sure of that, but the force of the blast causes the snow to crack at your feet. You slide off, snag your leg on the wooden stairs, and land so hard against the snow it slams all the breath from your lungs before you can yell out in surprise. Your rifle follows soon after, disappearing into the snow somewhere in front of you.

Your vision blurs, fuzzy in the dark. You take in one heaving breath after the other and writhe onto your side in silent agony. The ground tilts and spins, disoriented. Your leg feels warm. Hot. Blood runs from your pant leg into the snow from a deep, lengthy cut through your calf.

Still, you blink your eyes open just in time to see three teens run from the scene. The shorter girl with a full backpack, then who you assume is Jesse. The last girl scrambles from the steps before stopping, hesitating. Breath fogging out from under the hood of her parka, stirring locks of brown hair, before she spots you.

You see regret shoot immediately through her expression, raw and genuine, as she realizes her friends were wrong. That it’s just you alone in this lookout, not a ghost or a cannibal or a firefly or whatever else Jackson has been speculating. She almost reaches out as if to help your battered body from the snow, to say something, or maybe just to grab your rifle and run—but her friend comes back. Grabs her shoulders, urges her along, and she follows quickly.

You watch their lanterns disappear over the hill. Their yells grow quiet and distant as they return to their horses and disappear back down the mountain. Gone. Quiet. Cold.

Your head falls back into the snow as the pain catches up to you, and you spread out onto your back to catch your breath. Lungs aching, but slowly beginning to work again.

Above you, thick and heavy snowflakes start to fall around your camp. You can hear each one as it hits the ground.

***

You have rules that you follow.

Most of which are not particularly for survival, but for your own peace of mind. Keep yourself somewhat sane through all of this; the killing and the fungus and the cold. Keep things comfortable and suffering to a minimum. Like how the alcohol is only reserved for really productive days. Boil water every morning, wash yourself up when you can. If you’re sick, sleep until you’re better. Never go to bed cold and hungry, just one or the other.

Some are more important to you than others, like how you tried not to light fires during the day; knowing the smoke draws attention to your structure up on the mountain. You’ve treated the pelts of any animal you could to keep you warm and pressed them to the windows instead. It keeps the temperature bearable and confines your lantern light to inside the house—keeping you hidden at night, too, whenever you have to light a fire.

It's the first rule you break in a long time, that next day, flicking flint onto some twigs. The wind whistles against the broken glass and through your pelts, exploding shivers through your muscles all night as you do a botched sewing job up your calf. The wound is nasty; open and deep in the muscle. So deep even the slightest movement of your toes makes you nauseous. You’re positive that no metal punctured your skin, though. A small blessing.

They took most of your first aid, so you settled on a hot needle that's thicker than you would have liked and a plastic container of dental floss. You reluctantly used the last of your whiskey as disinfectant, bunching your shirt into your mouth to muffle your suffering. By the time it's over, your hair was damp with sweat, the floor spotted with blood, and you had your head resting against the cold of the table with one arm over a bucket.

You wake up late into the morning exhausted. Heavy and dizzy. Your back aches something fierce from your fall and your leg damn near has its own heartbeat. It’s storming, snow casting the outside in a thick, suffocating white. The fire helps, and once you muster the strength to stand, you nail a wooden plank to your unsalvageable window and clean up the glass. You take stock of everything that was taken, too. A couple cans of tomato soup, your best hatchet, some socks and underwear. All things you could live without.

Aside from your first-aid kit and your fucking antibiotics.

It pulls a quiet curse from your throat, opening your medicine cabinet to find an entire shelf of it empty. They left the morphine and ibuprofen, which you’re thankful for, shooting just enough into your veins to take the edge off the hurt. Still. It casts a dark veil over your thoughts as you clean everything up, hopping on one foot.

Once you’re done, you crawl back into bed. The pain dulled and the heaviness of the drugs still thick in your system, sleep comes to you in a massive but gentle wave. It’s deep. The kind of sleep that only comes whenever you’re drugged or sick, the kind without nightmares that feels almost like slipping through time. Infection settling deep in your wound, you’ve grown to notice the signs before the worst of it even starts.

The next time you open your eyes, the sun is setting against your pelts. You don’t feel nearly as rested as you should, but eventually you force yourself to sit up, anyway. Stoke the fire back to life, adding logs and poking at embers until orange streaks flicker in the stove. It’s hot on your fevered skin, cold sweat caked in your hair and across the collar of your sweater. A sigh leaves you. You don’t want to look at your leg again, but you can’t put it off forever.

You pull the leg of your jeans up with shaky hands and prop your foot against a chair. Unwrapping the wound hurts worse than a burn, you think, and looking at it is even worse. White stitches stained dark against puffy, irritated skin. It starts about halfway down your calf and thins out into a red streak by your ankle. If anything, you're thankful the wood you snagged yourself on didn’t tear anything terribly important. Still, puss leaks from the wound when you press on it and you scrunch your nose up at the sight.

Draining it is painful, but you press on anyway. You have to. You go back to bed after.

The next time you wake is when you break the biggest rule you’ve set for yourself.

You’ve used the last of your firewood. You have more in the shed by your outhouse, but retrieving it means suiting up and moving. Deciding you’ve procrastinated enough, you pull on your winter coat and struggle with your boots before grabbing your rifle and heading out. You hobble down the steps before hesitating at the bottom, already tired.

There’s footsteps in the snow.

Big ones. Fresh, adult ones. A guy, if you had to guess—not smaller like the teens from the other day and not infected ones either; judging by the even spacing. You linger on them for a moment before taking a breath and pressing on, tucking the butt end of your rifle under your arm and your other hand around the trigger.

That’s when it happens. Movement. Behind your outhouse. Your heart leaps in your chest and you’re quick to act, keeping each footstep more measured as you shift around to the other side. Careful, quiet.

You see one dark horse. Then another. Two men. One still saddled and the other just getting off. You purse your lips and grip your gun tight—you’ve seen both of them before.

“This it?” The younger one asks as he squints up at your tower, the man in the cowboy hat from a few weeks ago. He’s got the same rifle slung over his shoulder and his breath fogs out in front of his face as he raises a hand to his forehead to block out the light. The other follows his line of sight up to your shelter and grunts in affirmation. They look similar. Brothers, maybe.

“Yeah,” he says, tying his horse off at a tree. He’s got a backpack slung over his shoulder and his own gun at his back. “This is it.”

You blink before pressing your back to the wood, shielding you from sight. It’s the man you saved weeks ago.

“‘Figured it’d be bigger.”

“Just one person living here. Doesn’t need to be big.”

The man in the cowboy hat steps in your direction and you brace yourself for a fight, heartbeat in your ears.

“Jesus, they got a chicken farm and every—”

He steps around to face you. You don’t give him time to react, his eyes merely widening before you jump into action.

You grab him and shove hard, forcing him into the snow at your feet. He yelps. Before he struggles to stand you plant a boot between his shoulder blades and shove your gun to the back of his head. The other man raises his weapon immediately, flicking the safety off. The horses startle.

“Joel!” The man at your feet strains to the man a little ways off, “don’t.”

Your eyes shift to meet the man in question—Joel. He stands statue-still, gun trained between your eyes and finger clutching the trigger just hard enough not to shoot. He looks older than you thought, up close, and you level him with a stare that shares an equal amount of intent. You will fire if he even so much as flinches wrong, and you don’t doubt he’d do the same.

You watch his eyes shift from the man at your feet, to your gun, to your face, and back to his brother. His face twitches with a reluctance that seems annoyed before he forces himself to lower his gun to the ground. You watch him drop it, slowly put his hands up, and kick the weapon aside into the snow. You remove your finger from the trigger of your rifle, but press your boot harder against the man’s back. It hurts like a bitch, sends shockwaves of pain up your leg, but you don’t show it.

“If it’s more antibiotics you want, I’m fresh out.” You snarl to Joel, voice hoarse. Ugly and underused.

His brow furrows deeper. He dips his head a little and you can’t read his expression; somewhere between thinly veiled anger and trepidation. Other than the subtle shifts in his countenance, though, he doesn’t move an inch. A discipline that screams experience.

“It’s not,” he grunts simply.

Frustration growing, you twist your boot, pulling a curse from the man below you. Joel’s hands twitch.

“Then what the fuck do you want?”

“To talk.” The man under your feet grunts through clenched teeth. “We just…wanna talk.”

A moment passes as you consider his words. Your eyes glance from him to Joel, who holds your gaze. Calm, but tense.

You watch him move, slowly. You let him lower his hands to slowly remove the backpack from his shoulder. Not once does he break eye contact as he tosses it over and the contents spill from the bag. Pill bottles and syringes. First-aid. Antibiotics.

You could sigh with relief, throw yourself to the ground and collect everything. Zip it up and run off like some thieving fox, but you hold back.

“They didn’t mean trouble,” Joel says, sincere. His hands are back in the air. “Just trying to look after their own.”

Your eyes glance back up to him again. The paranoid part of you feels like this might be a trap, but his eyes tell you otherwise. Measured in a way that suggests he got talked into diplomacy instead of just tossing the pack up to your lookout and leaving.

“And their punishment?” You ask, curious.

“Latrine duty,” Joel answers evenly. “For a month.”

That satisfies you.

You remove your boot from the man’s back and he sputters, taking a deep breath and coughing into the snow. You reach down and scoop up the pack, taking stock of what’s inside. It's more than they stole from you; proper suture supplies and rubbing alcohol. A new hatchet; smaller than your old one, but newly made. Two bottles of painkillers only a few weeks expired.

“This is more than they took,” you say, voice softer. You just wanted your things back, not anything that someone less fortunate could use.

“You were injured,” the stranger stands up from the snow and dusts the worst of it off. Stretches his sore back and winces. “‘Least we can do to make up for the trouble. Figured you'd need it.”

That teenage girl flashes through your mind again. You don’t know how you feel about her reporting your injury to the hold, and even less so about their kindness. The man grabs his hat from the snow, clears his throat and offers his hand, pulling you from your thoughts.

“I’m Tommy,” he says, voice hoarse from your boot. He juts his head back in the direction of his brother, who is holding his gun again and still just as anxious as you are about all this. “Joel. We’re from the hold down the hill.”

Your hand clenches and unclenches at your side, eyeing his outstretched hand. You figure that if they really did come to pillage, they would’ve done away with you by now. Both strong, healthy, albeit pale and cold from the hike up here. Perhaps a little lean, but that was a given considering how harsh this winter was going.

You really weren’t in any state to defend yourself, and you were well aware it showed. Food was hard to come by, your window was shattered, you didn't have the energy to bathe, your leg had its own heartbeat and even the frigid air felt warm on your sweaty skin. You weren’t doing well—and they could see it. You didn’t have a choice other than to remain polite, diplomatic.

So, you slowly take his hand. Shake it once. He’s got a ring of his own, silver and well-polished. You offer your own first name and it feels distant, foreign on your tongue. Belonging to someone else who barely existed anymore. You wonder when you last said it, and wonder again how long it's been since you’ve shaken someone’s hand.

“You’re from Jackson,” you confirm.

Tommy nods once, sharing a glance with his partner. He hadn’t expected you to be able to see as far as the city from your lookout, and it shows.

“Yes,” he says, and looks back at you. “Jackson.”

“You’ve been watching us,” Joel adds, tone still wary.

You think back to the name that teenager dubbed onto you, The Hunter. Like you were some ghost or legend to be chased, something intangible. Dangerous. You’d find it amusing, if it didn’t end in your shit getting stolen.

Your hackles rise at his tone, accusatory. Wary. Like any of this was your fault, like you weren’t here first. Like you weren’t just minding your business before your house got raided. “You’ve been watching me.”

“Looking for you,” Tommy corrects, stepping to the right once as if to direct your attention back to him. Away from the man quietly steaming in anxiety near his horse. “Since you gave us that moose, anyway.”

There’s sincerity, there. Enough so that it confirms your suspicions; that food has been just as hard to find for you as it has for them. Still, you only huff. You pull out the painkillers and toss them back to Tommy.

“For your back,” you note before zipping up and shouldering the rest. “I’ve got my own.”

You turn to leave, to grab your bag of firewood and limp your way back up to your bed, treat your wounds, and sleep for another day. You find yourself looking forward to it, you’re already low energy drained from this interaction.

“Wait.”

It’s Joel’s voice that makes you stop. When you turn, he steps forward up next to where Tommy stands. He meets your gaze with something softer hidden behind a thick wall of trepidation. Something a little kinder, a little tired, a little thankful.

“Thank you,” he says, and its like the words take effort to pry from his chest. “For saving her.”

You feel uncomfortable under his gaze, reminded of your nightmare. Where his face replaced who you were so used to seeing every night. It’s a change that makes you nervous, wondering what it could mean, a change that makes your throat feel tight whenever you look at him. There’s something you see in him, maybe, that you empathize with. A loss. A tight-coiled anxiety that only came from being in the worst place at the worst time, when the outbreak started.

He broke a routine, showing up in your dream, and you felt yourself breaking the biggest rule you had for yourself because of it. A swirling dread in the pit of your stomach, a string tugging on your insides pulling you to the man you saw yourself in, for some reason. Your fists clench and your ring feels cold against your palm.

Don’t get curious.

“Just keep your kids on a shorter leash, next time,” you say to them, and leave.

You feel Joel’s stare on your back the whole way up until the door closes behind you.

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76bookworm76 · 1 month ago

Text

Chapter 3: Steps

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: T. Chapter Summary: You've been preparing him for this moment for weeks. The exercises you help him through, strengthening his legs, rebuilding his muscles that had begun to weaken during his bedridden days. He’s been determined to regain what was taken from him, no matter how much it hurts. Chapter Warnings: HEAVY SPOILERS FOR S2E2, FIX IT FIC, pov switching, joel survives abby's encounter, injuries, healing, domesticity in the apocalypse, joel teaches you wood carving, first steps, maria seeing things before everyone else, beard trimming, so much pining and yearning (promise it pays off next chapter) Words: 4,030

A/N: It's been SO HARD staying away from smut, but the slow burn has been so fun. Though, I'm not giving too much away for next chapter.... the rating WILL turn to E. Thank you to @mothandpidgeon, @schnarfer, and @for-a-longlongtime for all of their help and plotting.

Healed Masterlist AO3 Link Masterlist

—-

He wonders how it happened. Why he survived. Why he was saved.

How, out of all the people in the apocalypse, you were the one fate chose to pull him back from the dead.

How you’ve become more than just his doctor.

How the lines between caretaker and something else have begun to blur beyond recognition.

The questions circle endlessly through his mind. Questions too large for him to hold.

He settles himself the only way he knows how to now. By looking at you.

You’re sleeping in the recliner, the same chair he used to rock alone in and wonder just how silent his life could stay, once Ellie moved to the garage. He tries to look away from you, but you look too peaceful to ignore. Your breaths come out in small puffs between your slightly parted lips, your features softened as you’re unburdened now by the weight of keeping him alive.

He thinks he’s only here because of you.

Because you never gave up.

Because you heal him every day, piece by piece.

—-

Everything feels more alive as Joel’s health improves. The days seem brighter, the sunlight shining in through the windows stretches farther across the floors, as if the beams are following his progress.

You’re learning more about him every day, as he gets better. He’s a contradiction. His gruff, sometimes intimidating exterior is a shell that holds in his gentle ways.

There’s been a constant low thrum of tenseness since the bathing incident, neither of you have mentioned it—but there is a new kind of awareness between you.

There’s now a familiar sound of Joel’s wheelchair gliding across the hardwood as he masters navigating his home with it.

As expected, there are hiccups.

You’re in the kitchen, peeling potatoes for dinner, when a loud crash of ceramic shattering across the floor makes you jump.

“God damnit,” Joel growls from the living room.

He’s there, gritting his teeth and shaking his head as he surveys the broken lamp on the floor.

You immediately spring into action, doing what you’ve been doing for the last few months, fixing his problems. The broken lamp is quickly swept up as you reassure Joel it’s not a big deal, things like this are going to happen.

He gives you a look of understanding and acceptance, before telling you “thank you” in a low voice that sends goosebumps across your body.

Soon, Joel spends all evening in the dining room where Tommy has set up a small workshop for him to pass the time. Tiny animal figures line the tabletop, some as small as a few inches.

He sits in his wheelchair at the table, leaning forward and focused, holding a small knife, his large hands guiding the blade over a piece of pine. Wood shavings pile on the tabletop. His brows are furrowed in concentration, eyes narrowed and focused behind his reading glasses as he turns the small block of wood.

You've been watching him from your chair in the living room, too fascinated by this side of him to look away. You find yourself watching him a lot, not just to make sure he’s doing okay, but because you can’t help yourself. There’s something that mesmerizes you… The way his calloused hands move with such confidence and precision despite their size.

"What are you making?" you finally ask, getting up and moving closer to see the small sculpture taking shape in his hands.

Joel looks up his glasses perched on the end of his nose, as he turns the wood over in his palm, examining it.

"Bear," he rumbles.

“He’s so tiny. You’re really good at that.”

Joel shrugs, thumbing away a splinter. "Used to do it a lot. Before..." He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to. Before. Before the attack. Before you saved his life. Before everything changed.

"Can I watch?" you ask.

He nods, gesturing to the chair beside him. You pull it closer, sitting close enough to feel the heat radiating off of his body, to smell the scent of pine and cinnamon, and something distinctly Joel.

You lean even closer and watch as Joel's hands move, the knife peeling away thin layers of wood to reveal the features of the bear.

His eyes flick up to yours, then back to his work. His knife pauses mid-stroke. "Want to try?"

The offer catches you off guard. Joel Miller, who bristles at help, who growls at vulnerability, is offering to teach you something.

"Sure.”

He pulls out another piece of wood and a small knife from a storage box next to him. Tommy must have brought his entire collection down from upstairs. Joel places them on the table, sliding them toward you.

"Here. Start with something simple. Maybe a duck."

“Oookay,” you sigh, turning the wood in your hand, unsure where to begin.

"Think of the shape, and just start. Like this," Joel instructs, demonstrating on his bear. "Always cut with the grain and keep your fingers clear of the blade."

Your blade catches the wood on your first cut. You try again, cutting against the grain, your knife skidding across the wood.

Joel watches, letting you try and fail a few times before he sets his bear down. "Here," he says, leaning a bit closer. "Let me show you."

His hand covers yours. He’s so warm. You can feel the strength in his fingers as he positions your hands on the knife.

"Hold it like this," he says. He’s so close you can feel his breath against your ear. "Thumb here, against the handle for control."

You have to tell yourself to breathe as Joel adjusts your grip. His other hand covers yours on the wood, angling it for you.

“Be gentle," he guides your hand, helping you make a smooth cut along the block of wood. "See? Let the knife do the work."

You nod, finding it difficult to speak. His hand guides yours in a slow, smooth motion, and a curl of wood peels away.

"Good," he praises when you make a particularly nice cut. "You're getting it."

He doesn't pull away. He leans in closer, watching you work. Your whole body is heating under his attention and closeness, but you focus on carving, holding the wood tight with as steady of hands as you can muster.

“Now,” he rumbles next to you, removing his hands from yours. “Try on your own.”

Curled and thin wood shavings gather on the table. Joel leans back, watching you with the almost-smile of his you’ve been seeing more often.

Soon, a shape resembling a duck begins to take shape thanks to Joel's occasional instructions.

He hums an approving noise. "Took me months to get cuts that clean. You're good with your hands.”

“I’d hope so,” you reply, without looking up from your duck. “I have to be. I'm a surgeon, remember?"

The sound that comes from Joel startles you—a chuckle. It’s the first time you’ve actually heard him laugh.

"Keep going," he says softly, nodding toward your carving. "You're doing good."

A comfortable silence settles between you and Joel as you both work together. Occasionally, he glances over, giving you a nod of approval. When you’re all done, something resembling a duck sits on the table amongst his lineup of carved animals.

"Not bad for your first try,” he admires.

You snort, trying to keep your smile at bay. “You don’t have to be so nice.”

“No, really,” he says. “Pretty good for your first try.”

“I guess I owe you, I’ll have to teach you knitting now.”

He turns and looks at you, his brown eyes staring into yours. “You’ve already done enough for me.”

Not nearly enough you think to yourself, as you feel the tension settle heavily between you.

—-

As the cherry blossom tree outside trades its petals for leaves, Joel’s ready to walk again.

You've been preparing him for this moment for weeks. The exercises you help him through, strengthening his legs, rebuilding his muscles that had begun to weaken during his bedridden days. He’s been determined to regain what was taken from him, no matter how much it hurts.

All for these first real steps.

"Remember," you say, handing him the cane. "We're not rushing this. If it’s too much, we stop and try again tomorrow."

To hell with that.

He’s tired of not being able to help, of not being able to shoulder some of the burden of his injuries.

He’s ready.

Now, he sits on the edge of his recliner, knuckles white around the handle of the cane.

Joel grips the cane tightly. Too tightly. He lifts himself from the chair, fighting a rough sound tearing from his throat, his body trembling as he balances on his good leg.

He hates this. Hates the struggle, hates the slow progress, hates the way you hover in case he falls. Most of all, he hates the weakness. But you, he looks at you, your eyes wide, a proud smile lifting your lips. He wants to make you proud. He wants all of your efforts to be worth it. He wants to be worthy of your pride.

He takes a deep breath, his chest rising with the effort of it, then forces his left foot to move. It barely moves, but it’s just enough to send a spike of pain through his leg. His whole body protests. His knees almost buckle under the stress, making him stumble.

You’re there instantly, reaching out and helping him stabilize himself before he falls. He’s grateful for your help, but the embarrassment and frustration escape before he can stop it.

“Don’t need help,” he grunts.

You ignore him, like you always do.

"Again," he says, shrugging off your hands as soon as he's stable.

"Maybe rest a minute—"

"Again," he repeats, more firmly this time. "I've had months of rest."

His second attempt goes better. He manages three steps before needing to rest. You stay beside him, hands hovering just inches from his back, ready to support but not interfere.

"Good," you encourage. "That's it."

He’s going to make you proud, he’s going to prove to you that all of your care and dedication have paid off. It’s what gets him halfway across the room before his strength dissipates. When his balance begins to falter again, he reaches for you on his own this time, his hand gripping your forearm as he steadies himself.

“I got you,” you comfort. He doesn’t know why his heart is racing, if it’s from moving so much for the first time in months, or the way your hand runs up and down his back soothing him.

And then, he pushes off and moves again, all the way across the living room, your voice cooing soft words of encouragement to him, giving him the strength he needs.

With only five steps, he can be at the kitchen table. He pauses, breathing heavily. He’s exhausted and sweaty, but his eyes remain fixed on his destination. With a final surge of determination, he covers the remaining distance.

His free hand grips the back of a kitchen chair. Made it.

He sways slightly, catching his breath before collapsing into the chair with a deep exhale.

“Joel,” you say, a huge grin lighting your face, "you did amazing.”

He knows now why his heart is shattering against his chest… it’s all because of you. He’s made you proud, he wants to make you prouder.

"Tomorrow,” he says. “We go further.”

—-

Joel keeps his word, and he goes further every day. He moves, then rests. Moves, then rests. And so it goes.

With each new day, he adds a few more steps to his count. Always, you’re there with him, ready to help if he stumbles, yet still allowing him the dignity of trying on his own.

He struggles some days, breathing hard, stopping and resting his weight against the wall or a chair. Sometimes you notice him glancing towards you, taking in your reaction, his breathing evening whenever he sees your encouraging smile.

You fall into a familiar routine.

In the morning, you stretch his tired limbs, helping him build his muscles.

During the day, he moves as much as he can before it’s too much for him to stand. You help him settle into his bed, rubbing salve all over his aching limbs, trying hard to ignore the sound of his soft grunts before he takes a nap, letting his body and mind recover.

Lonesome Dove sits unfinished on the table next to the recliner you sleep in. Now, your evenings are spent together differently, both of you in the dining room at the table across from each other as you knit and he whittles.

You look forward to it. The companionship. Sometimes you talk, other times it’s silent, save for the sound of his knife against the wood and your needles clicking against one another.

It’s all so domestic, so comforting.

It’s all beginning to feel like Joel’s more than just your patient.

—-

“So,” Maria begins, combing through Joel’s hair with gentle fingers, “how are things going with you and your doctor?”

He shifts uncomfortably in the dining chair she’s placed in the center of the living room. A towel drapes his shoulders, snippets of his hair falling onto it with each clip of her scissors.

“Hm?” he grunts, trying to calm his racing heart at the thought of you being called his.

“Tommy says you’re getting stronger every day. My guess is she can move out soon.”

He tries to hide the tenseness that overcomes him.

"Move out?" The words come out sharper than he intended.

Maria's hands pause in his hair. "I mean, she's been here for months. I figured once you're mobile enough..."

Joel swallows, his throat suddenly dry. "Right."

He hadn't considered it. Hadn't let himself think about what happens after he heals. About an empty house again. About waking up without the sound of your soft humming from the kitchen, or evenings without you sitting across the table from him.

Maria resumes cutting, her voice careful. "Unless you want her to stay?"

He doesn't answer; his silence says enough.

“Joel,” she sighs. “You’re allowed to want things. To have things.”

Before he can even respond, the front door swings open, you’re lit by the bright afternoon light shining in, holding a small tote with a wide smile across your face.

“I traded a scarf for a steak!” you exclaim proudly as you make your way to the kitchen. “Biscuits and steak for dinner tonight?”

A scarf. You created something, and here you are trading it for a steak—something he can’t remember having in ages. All just for him. He wants to tell you that you didn’t have to do that, but he knows the look you’d give him. He knows you’d insist, because that’s the type of person you are.

Joel nods. “That sounds great,” his voice cracks at the end, torn between gratitude and guilt.

“Good,” you pause. “I’ll go tell Ellie, and we’ll celebrate you getting all cleaned up. Leave the chair there, I’ll trim your beard once I get the biscuit dough made.”

The smile you send him makes his heart race even faster.

He can feel Maria’s shrewd, knowing eyes flicking between him and you before she goes back to cutting his hair.

“Or she can just stay here with you,” she murmurs just loud enough for him to hear.

—-

"Comfortable?" you ask, draping the towel around Joel’s shoulders.

He nods, his brown eyes following you as you pick up the scissors. Maria’s haircut has already done wonders for him, his dark, salt and peppered waves now sit just above the collar of his cream colored button up.

“Ready?”

Joel nods. His long, scraggly beard with wiry white hairs has become unruly. Despite your combing and applying oil, it's grown into too much of a tangled mess during his recovery.

"Going to trim it first. Then shave. How do you want it?"

"Used to keep it trimmed. Not this wild."

"Like in Ellie's drawing?” you ask, tilting your head towards the fireplace.

His face softens when he looks over at the paper propped up on the mantle. "Yeah. Like that."

You nod and step closer, positioning yourself between his spread knees. All of a sudden, the living room feels too small and intimate, as you quickly realize just how close you are to Joel. You've been this close to him countless times during his recovery—changing bandages, helping him bathe, supporting him as he gained his strength—but this time it feels different. More deliberate.

"Tilt your head back.” Your fingers gently tilt his chin, positioning his head before you make your first cut.

Dark brown and silver clippings fall onto the towel and floor as you work the scissors around his face, slowly revealing his handsome face beneath the tangled wilderness of his beard.

Soon, his beard is trimmed to just a few inches long. You step back, trying not to let Joel see the way your breath catches as you take in just how handsome he is beneath all that hair.

“How’s it look?” he asks.

"G-good,” you say so low it’s almost to yourself. “I mean, a lot better. I can actually see you now.”

His brown eyes darken as they stare into yours. You clear your throat and reach for the small bowl of shaving soap you made earlier.

“I made this soap to help your skin,” you say, trying to focus on anything else besides the intensity of his gaze. “It’s made from aloe and yarrow.”

“You didn’t have to do that, I don’t need anything fancy like that.” “Your skin does,” you counter, dipping your fingers into the soap. “It’s been through enough.”

You try to hide your trembling fingers as you begin to lather the soap over his face.

Alive and vital. His pulse beats steadily against your fingertips as they glide across his warm skin. It still amazes you after seeing him so close to death.

Joel's eyes flutter closed as your fingers move through what’s left of his beard, massaging the soap against his skin.

“Feel good?” you ask.

"Hmm," is his only response, a low rumble you feel more than hear.

You rub the soap into his skin slowly, stretching out your time to be able to touch him so freely while also letting Joel melt under your touch.

“I’m going to shave you now, okay?” you say quietly as you wipe your hands on the towel.

"Hmm," he hums again, fluttering his eyes open and sitting up straighter.

You reach for the straight razor Tommy sharpened for you on the side table.

“You’re going to need to hold very still for me,” you say, your voice soft. “I don’t want to nick you.”

“Right.”

You work carefully, gently pulling the skin taut with one hand while the other guides the blade in short strokes.

You’re so focused on the razor scraping through the soap and hair, that you don’t notice how close you’re leaning in. You don’t notice the way Joel’s openly watching you, studying you, and the way you’re biting your lip as you concentrate.

The sharp line of his jaw is slowly revealed to you. God, he’s handsome.

As you work, Joel remains perfectly still, following every instruction you lowly tell him to do.

"Almost done," you tell him, wiping excess soap from his cheek with a damp cloth.

Just a couple more swipes of the razor against his skin, and the Joel Miller from before the attack is revealed to you. The neatly trimmed beard now frames his face perfectly, lining his strong jaw. You knew he was good-looking, but he truly is otherworldly. He might just be the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen.

You swipe away the last remnants of the soap with your thumb, wanting to feel his skin against your fingertips for just a little while more.

"There," you whisper, still closely hovering over him. "Much better."

For a moment, you both remain perfectly still. His eyes lock with yours, before they drop to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze. “Thank you,” he says. His mouth is so close to your skin, you can feel his words.

You nod. "You're welcome," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. The tension is too much for you to take, finally, you pull away, and hand Joel his cane. “Why don’t you go take a look in the mirror and rinse your face off while I clean up?”

—-

He swears you can do it all. You’re a marvel. He can’t stop feeling his smooth skin. Sure, there are now a couple ridges from the new scars that lay across his face, but he’s almost forgotten what his skin felt like underneath everything. He feels so much lighter.

Once again, you’ve helped unburden him.

You’re in the kitchen, humming while you prepare dinner. Sometimes you’ll peek your head out to check on him, as he rests in the recliner with a book in his hand. Honestly, he hasn’t read a word. He’s far too busy remembering the feel of your touch against his skin, the way you bit your lip as you concentrated, how low your voice would get as you’d tell him how to move.

Seems these days all he can think of is you.

He’s so deep in thought that he nearly jumps when the front door swings open, breaking him from his reverie. Ellie breezes in, throwing her jacket haphazardly against the coat rack before she even looks at Joel.

When she does, her eyes go wide, her mouth falls open as she takes in his freshly shaved face and haircut.

“Oh shit,” she breathes. “You almost look like you.”

“Thanks, I reckon,” he replies.

You step into the living room, wiping your hands with a towel. The whole house smells delicious, he can tell you’ve been hard at work in the kitchen.

“Oh good, Ellie, you’re here just in time,” you greet. “Dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t you set the table for us?”

Ellie follows you into the kitchen without a word.

From his chair, he can hear the two of you laughing and talking. A warmth spreads through his heart at how you’re slowly making parts of his life a part of yours. It’s a feeling he never thought he’d allow himself to want, and yet, here he is, smiling to himself as he hears Ellie’s indisputable giggle floating through the house.

“Joel!” Ellie calls out from the kitchen, "Dinner’s ready!”

He stands, running a hand through his hair that he’s taken the time to slick back before he grabs his cane, pushing himself up before moving to the kitchen. He’s getting better and better every day with it.

When he walks into the kitchen, you glance over your shoulder at him, checking to see if he needs any help, but he doesn’t. It’s hard to focus on each step as he watches you do such a simple act as brushing butter on top of biscuits. He can’t imagine not having you share this home with him.

He takes a seat at the table, resting the cane against the wall. His mouth is watering, he’s not sure if it’s from the food or watching you move around the kitchen.

Ellie plops down in the chair next to him, her eyes surveying the steak, peas, and mashed potatoes on the table.

He can’t keep his eyes off of you as you bring over a basket filled with golden biscuits. You give him a shy smile as you sit across from him.

He looks at Ellie and then back at you, realizing just how much at home he feels right now, right here.

The thought hits him then, as he sits with the two people who make him feel the most at home.

He wants you to stay… especially when you pick up a biscuit, breaking it open with your delicate fingers that he just felt against his skin. He tries hard to look away, but he can’t. You bring it to your lips, eyes fluttering closed when you take the first bite.

“Mmm,” you sigh, humming with satisfaction.

His posture stiffens as you enjoy such a simple pleasure—a biscuit. He swallows hard at the thought of making you moan like that.

He needs you to stay.

—-

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