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badwolfvexa · 22 hours ago

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Another one couldn’t hurt… right? pt. 3

WC 11.9k - you tell daddy Joel, but not in that way… that he’s gonna be a daddy again.

NSFW 18+ MDI!

warnings/content: no outbreak!au, fluff, domestic bliss, parenthood, established relationship (husband/dad!joel x wife/mom!reader), age gap relationship, some physical descriptions, results of childbearing, mentions of pregnancy, mild language/swearing, unprotected p-in-v, oral sex (m & f receiving), breeding/pregnancy kink (even if your eyes are wide open, you don’t need to squint), multiple orgasms, so sweet it’s almost sickening.

pt. 1 | pt. 2 / main masterlist

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

pt. 3

It had started earlier in the week. Just little things, subtle shifts in the air of your body.

Your mouth tasted metallic first thing in the morning. You’d get waves of nausea around the same time, like clockwork.

And the smell of bacon? Joel made it Saturday morning and you’d nearly cried. Not from nausea. From joy. You swore it never smelled that good before.

By Thursday, you’d had enough unofficial confirmations, even if you’d already had an idea based on your missed period and the potential implantation bleeding you’d had.

You made the appointment. First thing Friday morning, your doctor confirmed what your body had already been whispering to you.

You were pregnant.

You were four weeks along, which seems so much sooner than you’d known than the last times, but you and Joel had been persistent, and also right about the general day it’d stuck.

You sat in your car for a long moment, hand resting over your lower stomach, the envelope in your lap practically glowing with proof.

Your heart was full. So full you thought it might spill over. With joy, with nerves, with love.

You didn’t hesitate to call your husband to share the news, and Joel picked up on the second ring.

“Hey, baby,” his voice rough with that mid-morning work rasp he always had. “Everythin’ alright?”

You smiled softly, biting your lip. “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s… good.”

There was a pause, and then his voice dropped even lower, knowingly, “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” your voice caught just a little. “I saw the doctor this morning.”

Joel went quiet again. You could picture it, him going still, bracing his forearm against whatever surface was closest, pressing the phone tighter to his ear.

“And?”

“And it’s real,” you whispered. “We’re having another baby, Joel.”

You could hear the breath leave him. A choked sound of disbelief and something more tender, “Darlin’…”

“I wanted to tell you in person, but I couldn’t wait,” you laughed quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he murmured, voice rough and full. “Thank you for callin’.”

You closed your eyes and sighed deeply, “I can’t wait for you to come home.”

“Gimme a few hours,” he promised. “Don’t lift a finger until I’m there. We’re stayin’ in with the kids tonight.”

—

You spent the rest of the day a little floaty. Having taken the day off from work, you spent the day with the kids, well, mostly Ellie until you picked up Sarah and Artie from school. The kids now entertained with each other and their toys as you kept watch, your belly warm with your favorite tea as you curled up with a book you couldn’t focus on. You tried to nap while the kids had their quiet time and failed, then you thought about cleaning, but Joel would’ve scolded you. Your mood was too soft to want that.

You’d just started dinner when you heard the truck pull into the drive, you were already waiting at the door.

He stepped out with a paper bag tucked under one arm, flowers in hand. You didn’t even have to ask, he’d remembered everything.

Pickles. Green apple gum. That weird organic ginger ale you swore helped with nausea.

And the flowers were sunflowers, with a few wild sprigs of lavender tucked in, because he knew you liked those best.

Joel climbed the steps slow, watching you with that soft, awestruck smile that never failed to make you feel like the only thing in the world.

“Hey, mama,” his eyes dropped to your stomach as he stepped into your space. “You keepin’ my baby warm?”

The way he smells the second he steps close— earth and cedarwood, the faintest bit of gasoline and soap, and him. That familiar undercurrent that’s always been uniquely Joel, something sharp and grounding and warm. It hits you like a punch to the chest, stealing your breath and making your knees feel like jelly.

You take a step closer like you’re being pulled, pressing the ultrasound envelope to his chest as your other hand fists in the front of his shirt.

“You smell so good,” you murmur, eyes fluttering shut as you lean into his chest. “God, you reek of testosterone right now.”

He chuckles as he kisses your forehead, then your lips, then drops the bag on the counter to wrap you up in both arms, “You okay?”

“No,” you admit, your nose buried against his collarbone. “You smell like home and maybe a little bit like you should pin me to the nearest surface.”

He laughs again, louder this time, one hand slipping around your waist and dragging you flush against him. “That the hormones talkin’, or just you?”

“Does it matter?”

His thumb strokes along the side of your ribcage like he’s memorizing the feel of you again, and his other hand finally takes the envelope you’d pressed to his chest.

“What’s this?” he murmurs.

You lift your head just enough to watch him peel it open, calloused fingers careful and slow. His eyes scan the blurry little bean-shaped silhouette, and you watch the way his throat bobs when he swallows.

He stares at it for a long moment before whispering, “That ours?”

You nod, lip trembling.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, brushing his nose against your temple, “I’m gonna be a daddy again.”

You’re just about to melt into his chest when—

thump-thump-thump—

“Daddy’s home early!”

You barely have time to react before the sound of running feet echoes down the hall, and then three small bodies collide with Joel’s legs.

He grunts softly but chuckles, already crouching to catch them, “Hey, hey— slow down, ya little heathens.”

“Daddy, guess what!” Sarah says breathlessly, climbing halfway up his knee like a monkey. “We saw a frog in the puddle and it jumped so high and we didn’t even scream, okay maybe I did but it was just one time…“

Then Artie tugs at Joel’s bootlace, determined for full attention, “I drew you somethin’! It’s you, but you have a sword!”

Joel’s eyes flick to yours over the tops of their heads, amused and overwhelmed in equal measure. “A sword, huh?” he says, reaching into the grocery bag to hand them the snack he stashed there, a small pack of gummy bears each, “I love it, bud, I’ll hang it up on the fridge.”

Artie beams, practically vibrating with pride, and Sarah immediately peels open her bag like it’s the greatest treasure in the world. Joel’s still kneeling when a soft, sleepy voice pipes up from behind them.

“Daddy…?”

Little Ellie stands at the edge of the hallway, thumb in her mouth, curls tousled from her nap. She’s still in her footie pajamas, dragging her favorite blanket behind her like a lifeline.

Joel’s whole expression changes, he melts.

“There’s my girl,” he says, voice going quiet and syrupy sweet. He stretches one arm toward her and she toddles over, clinging to his shoulder as he pulls her into the mix.

“Were you sleepin’?” he murmurs into her hair, rocking her gently while the other two bicker about who gets the red gummy bears. Ellie doesn’t respond, just burrows closer with a subtle nod of her head as her little fingers curl into the collar of his shirt.

You lean against the doorway, watching them with a fluttering heart, watching him. He’s a mess of children and exhaustion, but there’s nowhere on earth he looks more at home.

He shifts his weight, still crouched low with Ellie tucked into one arm, his free hand smoothing over Artie’s wild hair as the boy chatters on about frogs and swords and a dream he had last night where Joel turned into a dragon. Joel hums through it, listening, nodding when he should, but his eyes meet yours again and something in them softens even more when he sees you standing there watching him. Like he can feel what you’re feeling, like your heart’s spilling right into his chest.

It had always been this way with him. From the very beginning, when he first told you, voice barely above a whisper, “I want all of it with you. The house, the babies, the mess, the love, we ain’t half-doin’ this.”

And you’d believed him. Because he meant it. Because he never said anything he didn’t plan to give his whole damn soul to.

Joel had always been meant to be a daddy. You knew it in the way he held Sarah for the first time, how his hands shook with awe instead of fear. You knew it in the way he rocked Artie on nights he couldn’t sleep, humming some old country lullaby under his breath. The way he let Ellie curl into him like a barnacle, so content just being close. And you know it now, watching him crouched in your hallway, half-crushed beneath the weight of your children and still looking at you like you were the greatest gift of all.

Sarah’s now halfway on his back, gummy bears forgotten as she wraps her arms around his neck from behind and rests her chin on his shoulder. He tilts his head to nuzzle her cheek, murmuring something that makes her giggle, that open-bellied kind of laugh only kids know how to make. Causing her to lose her grip and double over in a fit of giggles.

You watch the way his fingers curl protectively around Ellie’s tiny back, the way his thumb absentmindedly traces the hem of her blanket like it’s instinct. How even when his shoulders slump under the weight of the day and the weight of them, all of them, he carries it like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

Your heart squeezes tight.

He glances up through the mess of his curls and kids, eyes dark and warm like strong coffee. And when he sees the look on your face, like you’re falling in love with him all over again, his mouth lifts into a quiet smile, barely-there but full of knowing.

“Hey,” he says gently, voice just for you in a room full of chaos. “Come ‘ere.”

You cross the room, stepping around a plastic truck and a stray sock, and Joel rises slowly with a child in one arm and the other two clinging to his legs, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He shifts his weight and wraps his free arm around your waist, pulling you in close, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.

You sniff, pressing a kiss to Ellie’s curls before cupping Joel’s cheek in your hand. He leans into your touch like he needs it, as he always has.

“Missed you,” he murmurs.

You press your face into his shoulder, one hand cupping Ellie’s back where she has her face mushed against him, the other resting just beneath his ribs.

Joel breathes you in, like the scent of your skin alone is enough to ground him. His nose brushes your temple as his lips graze your hairline, pressing gentle kisses to it, slow and lingering. Like he’s been waiting for this all day. Like this, you, pressed in close, wrapped around the weight of your family, is the only home that’s ever made sense.

“I missed you too,” you whisper.

Joel hums low in his chest, content and full, and then—

CRACK.

A sharp, plasticky snap draws your attention toward the floor just as Artie gasps.

“I didn’t mean to!” he cries, holding up the now two halves of what used to be his toy sword. “I was just showin’ Daddy!”

Joel sighs into your hair, the sound fond and exasperated all at once. “Alright, alright, no one’s in trouble. Just lemme see it, bud.”

Artie sniffles and shuffles closer as Joel squats down again, the movement making Ellie shift and blink blearily against his neck. “We can fix it, can’t we?”

“Yeah, we can fix it,” Joel says, inspecting the toy. “I’ll glue it after dinner. You’ll be back to fightin’ dragons by bedtime.”

That earns a quiet, “Yessss!” complete with a dramatic fist-pump from your son.

Meanwhile, Sarah’s tugging at your shirt now, her voice climbing higher with her excitement. “Mama, guess what? Guess what?”

“What, baby girl?”

She bounces on her toes like she can barely contain it, “I- I counted to a hundred today. By tens! Ten, twenty, thirty, uh… all the way! Miss Lewis said I was on fire!”

You laugh, brushing a stray hair from her cheek, “You’re on fire every day, baby.”

Sarah beams up at you, her missing front tooth making her grin look even bigger, “And we learned about mammals too! Whales are mammals, did you know that? Even though they swim!”

Joel huffs a soft laugh from where he’s crouched, glancing over at you like ‘you hearing this?’ In a soft, prideful ‘our kid loves learning’ type of way. You nod back with a fond smile.

“She told the whole class you love whales,” he murmurs, straightening with Ellie tucked against him and Artie’s arms still wrapped around his leg. “Said it was genetic.”

Sarah practically bounces out of her shoes, “Miss Lewis said I must be just like you!”

Your heart tugs a little, “That’s the best compliment I’ve ever heard.”

Joel chuckles, shifting Ellie to his other shoulder and reaching to ruffle Sarah’s hair. “Just wait ‘til she starts tellin’ people I’m the one who likes glitter.”

“You do like glitter,” you tease.

“Like hell I do,” he mutters under his breath, though his eyes are soft and gleaming as he watches all three of your babies orbit you like planets.

“C’mon,” you say, nudging Sarah’s back gently. “Let’s go wash up for dinner, little star student.”

She spins around dramatically, announcing to the room, “I’m gonna count the soap bubbles!”

Joel chuckles as he follows behind, Ellie still sleepily clutching the collar of his shirt.

You move to the kitchen, the floor warm beneath your feet as the last of the evening light pours across the counter. The table’s already half-set, the big pot of your favorite pasta sauce simmering low on the stove. A loaf of bread waits to be sliced, butter softening nearby.

Joel gently adjusts Ellie in his arms as he turns toward the hallway bathroom. “Alright, gremlins,” he calls, ushering Sarah and Artie ahead of him. “Let’s get those sticky little paws cleaned up before dinner.”

Sarah speeds off like it’s a race, and Artie happily obliges to the challenge and dashes after her. Ellie clings tighter to Joel’s neck, who mumbles something soft and unintelligible as he brushes a kiss over her temple.

“C’mon, baby girl,” he murmurs, nudging the door open with his foot. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

You hear the water run, the sound of Joel’s low voice guiding each child— “Palms too, Artie. Not just the backs,” and “Good job, Sarah, now dry off.” Ellie lets out a small whine, but Joel soothes her quickly, gently murmuring, “I know, sweetheart, just a little bit, we’re almost done.”

A few minutes later, he returns to the kitchen with a trail of kids behind him. Sarah’s already narrating her bubble count results, Artie excitedly babbling about a new dinosaur he learned about this week, and Ellie with her blanket now dragging behind her freshly clean feet. Joel crouches to guide each of them to their booster seats and chairs at the table, pressing kisses to each forehead as he goes.

Then he straightens with a groan, rubbing the small of his back, and finally turns his attention to you.

“Alright,” he says softly, catching your eye with that little smile that only ever belongs to you. “My hands are free, darlin’. Whatcha need?”

You gesture to the grocery bag and flowers that were left on the counter with a fond, teasing look, and he chuckles, walking over and picking up the bouquet, sunflowers and sprigs of fresh lavender bundled together like a warm-weather prayer. He holds it out to you, that crooked smile tugging at his lips, boyish and soft.

“For you,” he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to give you every beautiful thing he finds. A flush creeps up his neck, coloring his cheeks, and there’s something so endearingly bashful in the way he stands there, like he’s young again, asking you out for the first time.

You take them gently, fingers brushing his, and that small touch sparks something between you, something electric and familiar. Your smile deepens, the kind that reaches your eyes and then sinks deeper, curling around your ribs like smoke. “They’re perfect,” you say, voice a little breathier than intended.

Joel exhales through his nose like he’d been holding that moment in. His eyes track you as you move toward the sink, filling a vase while the early evening light paints the kitchen in gold. He watches the curve of your shoulder, the slope of your neck as you lean forward, and his hand drifts instinctively to the back of your waist like a tether.

“Wasn’t sure if you still liked the lavender,” he murmurs, stepping in close behind you, the warmth of his chest pressing to your back. “But I remembered you said once it helped when you were feelin’ queasy with Ellie.”

You pause, heart tightening, and glance back at him. “You remembered that?”

Joel nods, brushing his lips to your temple. “Of course, darlin’.”

His hands don’t wander far, just a palm splayed wide across your belly, thumb stroking gentle circles over the fabric of your shirt. It’s reverent and slow. His fingers curl protectively like he’s already cradling the life you only just confirmed, like his body is remembering what it was like to hold you swollen and glowing and made for this.

The tension isn’t rushed. It simmers low. It builds in the weight of his hand on your stomach and the press of his breath against your skin. The scrape of his stubble as he nuzzles into your neck and lingers there.

“Joel,” you whisper, fingers now grasping the wooden spoon, giving the pasta sauce a final stir.

“Mhm?” he hums, lips brushing your hairline.

You glance up at him, his hand still pressed low and warm over your belly. “We’ve got kids to feed.”

His nose grazes your cheek as he leans in, voice dark and honeyed with something unfinished. “I know. But don’t think for a second I’m done with you.”

You feel his words everywhere—low in your spine, deep in your belly. His hand slips away slowly, dragging across your waist as he finally steps back, eyes catching yours with a spark that promises later. A promise that curls heat through your body even as you turn toward the kitchen table.

He reaches for the plates while you grab the bread. “How many meatballs for Artie?” he asks, the quick change of tone never failing to leave you reeling.

“Three,” you answer, trying to keep your tone level as you pass him the serving tongs, “but he’ll say four, and then eat one and a half.”

Joel smirks as he spoons the specified helpings onto each plate, falling into step beside you like it’s second nature, which it is. He’s already sliding cups into tiny hands and catching the stray spoon Ellie tries to toss when she gets too excited. The soft clatter of dinner unfolding around you becomes its own rhythm. The soft thud of Sarah’s feet swinging under the table and against her chair’s leg, Artie’s constant sound effects, Ellie babbling sleepily between bites.

But even in the warmth and noise and scent of garlic bread and tomato sauce, you can feel him, his attention lingering. His touches stay just a little too long when he brushes past you for the butter. His gaze drifts over the curve of your hip when you lean to grab napkins. His voice lowers when he says your name, the way it always does when he wants to kiss you more than breathe.

Dinner starts with giggles and sauce-smeared chins and stories from preschool and first grade. But Joel hasn’t stopped looking at you like he already knows exactly how he’s going to finish what he started.

And god, you hope the kids fall asleep early.

Dinner winds down in a tangle of crumbs and giggles, pasta sauce smudged at the corners of tiny mouths and a nearly empty bread basket that Joel swears he only got a single piece from. Ellie is curled sideways in her booster seat now, humming softly to herself between little bites, her cheek smushed into one pudgy hand.

“Artie, don’t lick your plate,” you warn gently, already reaching for a napkin. “It’s not that kind of clean-up.”

“But it’s good,” he insists, licking one more stripe across the porcelain as Joel chuckles quietly into his water glass.

Sarah leans forward with the intensity only a six-year-old can muster. “Can we play outside before bath? Pleeeease? I’ll even help Ellie with her jammies after.”

You raise an eyebrow and glance at Joel, whose hand finds the small of your knee under the table like he can’t not touch you.

“Alright,” you say. “Before it gets dark.”

Cue a full-on cheer squad as chairs scrape back and the kids barrel toward the back door, leaving behind a table that’s still littered with crayons and a half-eaten carrot stick shaped like a dinosaur. You help Ellie out of her booster seat and she finds a burst of energy from who knows where and chases her older siblings out the door. You turn to follow, but Joel’s hand doesn’t move.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and only for you as the screen door bangs open and you hear the sound of bare feet hitting grass.

You turn your head just slightly, your shoulder brushing his chest, the heat of him at your back like a pull.

Joel’s lips graze the shell of your ear, “That little dress you got on’s been drivin’ me insane since I walked through the door.”

Your breath catches.

His palm shifts higher on your back, fingers splayed wide now across the curve of your waist, thumb brushing just beneath the hemline, slow and possessive. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, mama, and you’ll be gettin’ more than a bedtime story once they’re down.”

You bite back a smile, warmth flooding your chest and sinking low, pooling between your thighs. “Mm,” you hum, steadying yourself with a hand on the counter like your knees didn’t just threaten to give out. “Then I guess you’re on bubble duty tonight, daddy.”

Joel chuckles, low and throaty, and gives your hip a playful swat before turning toward the door. “Deal,” he tosses over his shoulder, the screen creaking open. “But then you’re mine, darlin’.”

Joel steps out onto the porch and the back door creaks closed behind him. You follow barefoot, the soft swish of your dress brushing against your legs as you descend the steps beside him. The wood beneath your feet is warm from the day’s sun, the scent of fresh-cut grass and tomato vines thick in the air.

Sarah shrieks with delight somewhere near the garden bed, leaping from a rock with her plastic sword raised high. “I’m Queen of the Frogs!”

“Correction,” Artie yells back from under the swing set, “You’re Queen of the Frog Butts!”

Joel chuckles under his breath, shaking his head as he watches them, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Real poets, our kids.”

“They get it from you,” you nudge him with your shoulder. He turns just slightly, and you catch that look again, his eyes hooded and warm.

“You’re really tryin’ to start somethin’ in that little dress,” he murmurs low, just for you, lips barely brushing your ear.

You smile, sweet and dangerous, and keep your eyes on the kids, “Just existing, hun.”

He lets out a slow breath like he’s measuring his restraint second by second.

Across the yard, Ellie plops herself down in the grass and begins pulling at dandelions with quiet concentration. You head over first, grabbing the picnic blanket from the porch railing and shaking it out before spreading it near her. Joel follows behind, grabbing the bottle of bubbles and tossing it gently onto the blanket.

The kids settle into their rhythm— Sarah giving a passionate monologue to a clump of ants, Artie blowing bubbles with his whole body, Ellie quietly humming to herself as she rests her cheek on Joel’s knee. He’d sunk down behind you on the blanket, one leg stretched long beside you, the other bent for her to lean against. His arm curls instinctively around your waist when you sit, pulling you in close.

You rest your head on his shoulder, watching the golden light catch in the wisps of Ellie’s curls.

“This is nice,” you whisper.

Joel hums, dipping his chin against your temple, “Yeah, it is.”

Your fingers tangle with his over your belly, slow and absent. The soft murmur of the kids, the chirp of crickets waking up with the dusk.

By the time the sun dips low behind the trees, casting long golden fingers across the backyard, Sarah’s spinning in dizzy circles and Artie’s shirt is mysteriously soaked.

Joel stretches, “Alright, ya little mud monsters, it’s bath time.”

The chorus of nooo! rises immediately, followed by giggles as Joel lifts Artie into the air like a sack of potatoes.

You scoop Ellie into your arms with a playful sigh, “I swear she gets bigger every day.”

Ellie tucks her head under your chin and murmurs, “No baff… jus’ cuddles.”

“You can have both,” you promise, kissing her temple and carrying her inside.

Joel herds Sarah along, who’s trying to negotiate an extension to her outdoor reign, and the five of you funnel into the warm glow of your home, barefoot and sun-kissed and brimming with life.

The hallway bathroom is already half-steamed from the hot water you started running, the sound of splashing and bubble requests filling the space. Joel gets Artie ready first, lifting him into the tub while you peel off Ellie’s footie pajamas, her little curls sticking to her forehead.

“Duckies,” she demands, outstretching her arms towards where they sat on the shelf behind him.

Joel obliges, tossing in the yellow army while Sarah supervises.

You perch on the edge of the tub with a towel draped over your shoulder, sleeves rolled up, one hand splashing water gently over Ellie’s arms as she sits contentedly between her siblings. Joel kneels beside you, sleeves pushed back, working shampoo into Sarah’s hair while she chatters on about whales and classroom pets and how she’s going to “be the first paleontologist astronaut ballerina.”

“Ambitious,” Joel murmurs, glancing up at you with a crooked smile.

You bump his knee with yours under the tub and glance down at the three soaked, soapy little ones. Ellie has a duck in each hand, chewing thoughtfully on one. Artie’s humming to himself, already drowsy. Sarah’s recounting the exact moment she realized counting by tens was “basically magic.”

Joel wets a washcloth and dragging it lovingly down Ellie’s back, “They’re gonna crash hard tonight.”

His voice dips just enough to make you glance sideways.

He doesn’t look at you right away, just keeps his eyes on the kids, on the way Ellie’s lids are already fluttering and Artie’s head is tipping toward Sarah’s shoulder. But there’s a pull at the corner of his mouth, a slight shift in his tone that’s all for you.

Your heart skips.

There’s no need to ask what else he’s insinuating. Not with the heat curling low in your belly from the way he said it. Not with the way his hand slides along the edge of the tub, fingers brushing yours. Not with the way he looks at you now… steady and full of all that slow-burning hunger he’s been holding onto since you told him the news.

You two finish rinsing your soapy kiddos off.

Joel squeezes the water from the cloth and lays it gently over the edge of the tub, rising to his feet with a quiet grunt, “Alright, c’mon, little raisins. Time to get out.”

Sarah groans dramatically, “But I’m not even pruney yet!”

“Yes you are,” you say, reaching for a towel and unfolding it, “You look like a baby grandma.”

She gasps, delighted. “I do not!” But she lifts her arms anyway, letting you wrap her up in the soft towel and plant a kiss to her forehead before helping her put on her jammies before sending her off toward the hall.

Artie’s next. Joel coaxes him up with a gentle hand under his arm, bundling him in a fluffy towel and rubbing his damp curls dry and hands him off to you to put his jammies on.

Ellie resists the most, she’s still chewing on the duckie, half asleep. Joel scoops her out with practiced ease, cradling her against his bare forearm as you hand him a towel. She curls into him without protest, thumb finding her mouth, her damp curls sticking to his chest.

You watch them, heart aching a little with the sight of it. Joel presses a kiss to the crown of her head, then glances over at you with that same look from earlier, low and smoldering and already thinking about what comes next once the house is finally quiet.

You handed him her set of jammies and she complied sleepily, sticking her little arms and legs into the soft fabric and then cozying back into her daddy’s arms.

You and Joel move through putting the kids to bed like a dance. Artie’s scraped knee gets a bandaid and kissed, Ellie fights off the slumber she’s been inching towards all evening until you hum softly in the rocker, rubbing her back until she melts against you. Sarah wants one more story and Joel obliges, letting her pick a chapter book and sitting on the floor next to her bed while he reads to her.

Artie’s breathing soft and even, one arm flopped over his stuffed rabbit. Sarah is curled beneath her favorite quilt, her eyelids already fluttering. And Ellie has fallen asleep across your chest as you rock gently in the nursery chair, her little hand fisted in the collar of your shirt.

Now Joel stands in the doorway after getting a glass of water which Sarah had requested yet forgotten in the haze of sleep. He’d already made sure the nanny cam was on and connected. Now, he was just watching.

After a moment, he crosses the room quietly, kneeling down beside you so he’s eye-level with Ellie, brushing his knuckles gently over her cheek.

“She’s out,” he murmurs, his voice the kind of quiet you feel more than hear.

“She fought it,” you whisper. “Like always.”

He smiles then leans in to kiss her forehead, then yours, gently shifting her into his arms and taking her to her bed.

He crosses the room again, slower this time. And when he reaches you, he doesn’t speak, he just offers his hands, tugging you up from the rocker with care. His fingers linger at your hips, eyes searching yours for something he already knows the answer to.

You don’t look away or say a word, you just let him lead you down the hallway and into the soft hush of your shared space.

When he closes your bedroom door behind you, it’s like the rest of the world falls away.

You stand there for a moment, close but not touching, the silence between you thick with everything that’s been building since you’d called him that afternoon to share the news… tenderness, longing, the slow ache of wanting him again, always.

Joel steps into your space, hands coming up to cradle your face, brushing his thumbs along your jaw like he needs to feel every part of you.

“Y’alright?” The question is soft under his breath.

You nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “I just… love you.”

His gaze softens, lashes lowering, “Yeah, baby,” his voice thick with affection, “I love you too.”

He kisses you like it’s the first time again, deep and warm and steady, like a promise. His hands find your hips, pulling you in until there’s no space left.

You breathe against his mouth, lips brushing his, “You always smell like coffee.” The scent clung to his shirt, it was faded, but there. His long days on the site and a couple cups of coffee throughout the day always lingered in some way.

He huffs a soft laugh, his hand sliding just beneath the hem of your shirt, “yeah, I know y’like my coffee breath, hun. You’ll get it in the mornin’, promise.”

You reach down between you, fingers tugging at the waistband of his jeans, your fingers sliding to unbutton them and unzip them slightly, just enough to make him groan.

“I like it when you’re like this,” you whisper, mouth brushing his jaw. “Warm and soft. All domestic and sweet… and a little bit dirty.”

His hands tighten at your hips, “Sweetheart, if you don’t stop talkin’ like that, I’m gonna bend you over the dresser and make the bed wait.”

You gasp, mock-offended, smiling into his mouth, “You’d make love to me on the carpet?”

“I’d make love to you in the fuckin’ pantry if you asked nice enough,” his lips trail down your neck, “but the bed’s softer. You deserve soft.”

“But I like it hard, baby…”

That makes him groan again, his fingers flexing against your hips like he’s holding back everything that’s already threatening to spill over.

“You say shit like that,” he mutters, voice thick and husky, “and you’re surprised I can’t keep my hands off you?”

“You never could,” you arch just enough to press your chest to his, teasing your mouth along the slope of his neck. “Not when I beg for it… not when I don’t.”

His hands slip beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he walks you backward toward the bed. “That’s ‘cause you’re always fuckin’ beggin’,” he growls against your skin, “even when you’re quiet about it.”

He sets you down by the edge of the bed, taking off your dress in one smooth motion, his eyes darkening like it physically hits him to see you like this every time. That familiar awe, that heat.

“Jesus, you’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers, almost to himself.

You reach for him in turn, pulling his shirt off, letting your hands drag along the strong lines of his chest, the soft edges of time carved into him. Your fingers trail low, through the line of coarse hair that disappears beneath his jeans, teasing at the waistband again.

He pushes you back gently onto the bed and kisses down your chest, your stomach, pausing just above your navel.

His breath fans hot over your skin as he lingers just above the waistband of your panties, hands spreading over your thighs.

“You know I’ve decided that I hate when these are in my way,” he mutters, snapping the elastic of your waistband gently against your skin.

You lift your hips in invitation, “Then do something about it.”

His fingers trace lightly up your inner thigh, you gasp when his hand finally presses where you need him most, fingers teasing just enough to make you arch. His mouth trails lower, kisses growing messier as he goes, like he’s losing control by the second.

He smirks and shakes his head lazily, then hooks his fingers under the waistband, dragging them down slowly. His eyes stay on yours the entire time like he’s daring you to squirm.

Once they’re halfway down your thighs, he pauses to press a kiss to your hipbone, then murmurs against your skin, “Always so fuckin’ eager f’me…”

He finishes peeling your panties down your legs and tosses them somewhere behind him without looking. Then his attention shifts to your bra, your chest heaving beneath it.

You arch your back and begin to reach behind you to unhook it, but he grabs your wrists, pinning your hands gently above your head, the grasp of his hand fitting both of yours in his grasp.

“Uh-uh,” he murmurs and shakes his head, voice thick. “You know better, ‘s my job.”

You let your arm fall back with a soft grin, watching as he reaches behind your arched back with that practiced ease and undoes the clasp. He drags the straps off your shoulders slowly and reverently. The moment your breasts are bare, he groans, actually groans, and dips down to mouth at one immediately, tongue flicking over your nipple before he sucks it into his mouth.

Joel lifts his head a beat later, lips glistening, voice rough. “You keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m never gonna make it past your tits.”

You grin, slow and lazy, eyelids heavy, “I don’t see the problem.”

He growls, the sound low and real in his chest, and suddenly his mouth is on yours again— hot, commanding, hungry. His tongue slides deep, claiming, his hand on your breast still teasing the peaked nipple between two fingers.

When he pulls back, you’re breathless and dazed, and his hand wraps around your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“Be good,” he murmurs, soft but firm. “Hands up. Wanna see you.”

You obey instantly, arms stretching over your head, back arching just enough to make his gaze darken.

“There she is,” he says, eyes raking over you. “My sweet girl.”

He kisses your ribs, your stomach, trailing lower, pushing your thighs apart with a slow, familiar pressure that makes your core throb.

“Can’t get enough when you always let me have you like this,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, eyes fixed between your legs like he’s starved for it. “Laid out all pretty… arms up, legs open, fuckin’ soaked…”

His palms slide beneath your thighs and hook around your knees, spreading you wider, and his mouth waters at the sight of you already glistening and dripping for him.

His lips brush the inside of your thigh. Then again, higher. He takes his time, drags it out, teasing kisses and soft bites as he works his way in. You squirm, trying to tilt your hips toward his mouth, but his grip tightens.

“Uh-uh,” he says, voice low. “You stay still for me. Let me take care of it.”

Your whole body burns. And then he licks you, one broad stroke from your entrance to your clit, and you shudder.

“Yes…”

He hums like it’s the best thing he’s tasted all week and dips in again, this time sealing his mouth over your clit, tongue moving in circles while his fingers squeeze your thighs, holding you open.

Your hands twitch above your head, but you obey. You’re good for him, just like he asked, and it only makes him moan harder into you.

“Always so sweet for me,” he groans, pulling back just enough to speak. “You know how fuckin’ good you taste?”

You sob— yes, sob, because it’s too much. The pressure, the pace, the way his mouth moves with purpose and not teasing anymore. He’s a man on a mission.

Joel shifts, sliding two fingers inside you without warning, curling them perfectly while he keeps his mouth on your clit.

You cry out, hips jerking, but he growls into you, it’s possessive, dominant, and protective even in the way he holds you down.

“That’s it,” he rasps against your skin. “Cum on my tongue, sweetheart. Want you shakin’.”

Your thighs clamp around his shoulders and your body locks up as the orgasm slams into you, sharp and full and completely his. You gasp his name, eyes squeezing shut, your whole body trembling under the intensity.

Joel keeps going. Licks you through it, groaning like a man who doesn’t give a damn about anything except finishing what he started.

Only when your legs start to twitch uncontrollably does he finally slow down, kisses gentler now, featherlight and adoring.

He pulls back, lips wet, beard glistening, looking at you like he’s proud of what he just did.

“My good girl,” his voice reverberated through you as if you’re a livewire, hanging on his every word of praise, your chest blooming in pride and satisfaction. “Did so fuckin’ good f’me.”

And he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, the same goddamn thing he’s done for over a decade now, so perfectly fine-tuned to your every desire and never failing to make you melt against him and around him.

Your orgasm is still buzzing through you, thighs trembling as Joel finally pulls his mouth away from your soaked core, lips slick and beard damp, his expression absolutely wrecked with satisfaction.

He sits back on his heels, breath heaving, and drags his hand up your inner thigh before letting it drift over your stomach to your breast then up to your jaw.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice rough with restraint, “you look so fuckin’ good like this.”

He leans in to kiss you and it’s deep and lingering, the taste of you thick on his tongue… and then he shifts back, rising onto his knees and then stepping off of the bed.

He pushes his jeans down, just enough to free himself, his cock hard and flushed, already leaking. His hand wraps around the base as he strokes himself once, slow and deliberate, watching the way your eyes darken at the sight and the way your mouth instantly waters.

He strokes himself once, watching you. “Look at ya,” he says, wrecked. “You think I ain’t gonna give it to you good when you’re lookin’ at me like that?”

You smirk, lazy and breathless, watching the roll of his forearms, the flex of his stomach as his hand works over his cock. “Oh, I know you will,” you murmur. “You always do.”

He groans at that and crooks two fingers towards him, commanding now, “Get it wet then, baby, show me how badly you want it.”

You drop to your knees slowly in front of him, never breaking eye contact, the corners of your mouth curling up just enough to make his cock jump in anticipation.

Joel’s broad and flushed over you, but completely at your mercy, his cock thick and heavy in his hand as he watches you settle in front of him. You rest your hands on his thighs first, fingertips dragging up the denim covered muscles before you slide your mouth over the head of his cock.

His entire body jerks.

“Jesus, sweetheart…” His voice is already unraveling, one hand reaching out to cradle the back of your head.

Your mouth is warm and wet and perfect around him, tongue swirling as you take him deeper, your eyes fluttering shut as you let him fill your mouth. You hum, and he swears under his breath.

He watches, completely enraptured by the way you take him deeper into your mouth, breaching the gag reflex of your throat and nearly taking him to the base, “Fuck, darlin’, jus’ like that…”

He grips your hair tightly and pulls you from him, saliva dripping from your mouth as you’re so rudely disrupted from one of your favorite pastimes.

“Can’t give it to ya the way you need if I cum down your throat now, can I?”

You blink up at him, lips swollen and breath shaky, spit still glistening on your chin. You look utterly wrecked, and so fucking proud of it.

“Well,” you rasp, licking your lips, “you better fuckin’ fix that, Miller.”

Joel growls at that, the sound deep and primal, his jaw tight as his hands haul you up off the floor like you weigh nothing.

“You got a mouth on ya, Mrs. Miller,” he mutters, tossing you onto the bed with a roughness that makes you gasp and smile all at once.

He grabs your waist, turning you easily, one hand pushing your upper back down until your elbows hit the mattress, your ass in the air, waiting for him.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, hair a mess, chest rising fast, “You married it.”

Joel kicks off his jeans the rest of the way, gaze dragging hot and heavy over every inch of you. He presses both hands to your lower back, hovering over your ready, wanting body, then leans in to press a slow kiss to your shoulder.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “And I just can’t help but keep knockin’ ya up.”

His hand drags up the back of your thigh, palm warm and possessive, spreading you open with a grip that borders on brutal. “You carryin’ my baby again, sweetheart… fuck, best bad decision I ever made.”

You laugh breathlessly, your whole body already pulsing with anticipation. “Thought you said I was the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“I did,” he murmurs, pushing your knees even further apart, “Same thing.”

He lines himself up, and doesn’t waste any more time. He slides in slow, groaning as he fills you, inch by inch, until his hips are flush with your ass and your head tips back and a broken moan falls from your lips.

He stills, fully seated inside of you with his hands braced on your hips. “What’s that, baby?” he pants. “Where’s all that back talk now?”

You gasp, “Shut up and fuck me.”

Joel chuckles, but there’s no amusement behind it, just hunger. He pulls out halfway and slams back in, making you cry out, your forehead dropping to the bed. His hands grip your hips, bruising and greedy.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he mutters, breath rough against your spine. “Mouthy ‘til I’m buried inside a’ya.”

You whimper, trying to push back against him, but he tightens his grip and stills you. Control. He knows you love it when he takes it from you.

“Stay just like that. Let me take care of ya.”

He starts to move again— hard and deep, with no hesitation. Every thrust hits home with the kind of precision only he could give you. He knows your body too well. The angle that makes you whine. The speed that makes you shatter. His name’s already slipping from your lips in pieces.

Joel leans forward over your back, his chest brushing against your spine, the sweat of his skin warm on yours. One hand slides up, curling over your shoulder, holding you there while he drives into you, over and over, thick and relentless.

“You feel that, darlin’?” he breathes against your neck. “This pussy… you were made f’me.”

Your response is a broken moan, your fingers fisting the sheets.

He grunts as you clench around him, the rhythm faltering for just a second as he recovers. Then his hand finds your hair, fingers weaving into the strands and tugging just enough to pull your head back.

“So fuckin’ beautiful like this, my good girl, takin’ it so damn well.”

You gasp at the praise, at the rough way he holds you while still pressing kisses to your shoulder. It’s brutal, but it’s beautiful.

He adjusts his angle just slightly and you cry out, the sound ripped straight from your chest. You can feel his heavy balls slapping rhythmically against your clit and it makes you whine at the sensation,

“There it is,” he groans, pounding into that spot over and over, his voice dropping low. “Right fuckin’ there, huh?”

Your body’s shaking, you’re so fucking close, and he knows it, can feel it. He brings his arm around you and slides a hand down between your thighs, fingers circling your clit with that same confident pressure he’s used on you a thousand times before.

“Come on, baby,” he growls. “Cum f’me...”

And god, you do, your orgasm tearing through you, white-hot and blinding, making your whole body clamp down around him, white fists whitening at the harsh grip you have on the sheets as he fucks you through every wave of your release.

Joel groans deep in his chest, his rhythm faltering as he pushes in once, twice more before spilling inside you with a ragged breath, pulsing thick and warm as he fills you.

He stays there, buried deep, bent over your back and panting, one hand still between your legs, the other wrapped around your waist like he’s trying to anchor himself to you.

After a moment, he presses a kiss to your shoulder and murmurs, softer now, voice warm and reverent…

“You know I’ll never get tired of this, of you like this, right?”

You smile, cheek pressed to the mattress. “You better not. I’m your favorite bad decision, remember?”

Joel laughs, breathless and wrecked, then leans in and kisses the back of your neck. “Yeah, baby. You always will be.”

You’re still catching your breath, forehead pressed to the mattress, when Joel finally moves, easing out of you like he’s afraid to hurt you, even though he just split you open in the best way.

He exhales hard, then leans over your back to kiss your shoulder again. Then the space between your shoulder blades. Then the curve of your spine. One hand runs down your side… but then his eyes catch sight of his cum already beginning to ooze back out of you, warm and thick down your thighs.

You blink up at him over your shoulder, flushed and dazed, but your breath hitches when you feel his fingers trailing down between your legs.

“Joel—”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, kissing the small of your back. His other palm flattens across your lower belly, wide and protective, and you feel the shift in him instantly. “Fuck,” he whispers, reverent. “You’re really carryin’ my baby again…”

Your breath catches.

You twist just enough to look over your shoulder at him, and what you see floors you… his eyes glassy, jaw tight, his hand still firm on your belly like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

Then two of his thick fingers are sliding back inside of you.

“There we go,” he breathes, watching the way your body reacts to him, how easily you take his touch, even when you’re already spent. “So fuckin’ good for me. Always are.”

“I know this body so fuckin’ well,” he murmurs, kissing the curve of your spine, fingers stroking just right with each slow press. “Know every little sound you make. Know how to touch you, how to get you to fall apart f’me.”

Your breath catches, his tone intense and intimate. You fucking loved the way he talked to you… you pulsed around his fingers as they curled against the perfect spot inside of you.

He drags his fingers out just far enough to make you gasp, then sinks them back in slow and deep. Just that steady, unbearable rhythm that always ruins you.

“Joel…” you whimper, finally finding your voice again, your hips twitching and body shivering from the aftershocks and the way he won’t stop. “I can’t…”

“Yes, y’can,” he says, voice like gravel and honey. “Y’always say that, but y’always give it to me. Let me have it, baby.”

He curls his fingers again, dragging them right over that spot inside you that makes your knees go weak, and you keen, arching into his touch even as your body trembles with overstimulation.

“Come on, darlin’,” he whispers, lips ghosting over your shoulder. “Wanna feel your tight pussy clench down around me again.”

You cry out, legs shaking. “Joel, please…”

“That’s it…”

And when it hits, hot and bright and bone-deep, your entire body curls around it, your breath caught in your chest, your hands fisting the sheets again as you come undone for him all over again.

He doesn’t stop moving his fingers until he feels every last pulse of it, until your body is slack and spent and whimpering into the pillow.

Then, finally, he pulls his hand from between your legs and kisses your lower back, soft and slow, before wrapping his arms around your waist and guiding you gently onto your side, his chest warm against your back.

You can feel his smile in the kiss he presses just below your ear.

“Goddamn,” his voice thick with love and pride. “Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than you fallin’ apart like that. You spoil me, darlin’.”

You laugh weakly, a breathy, broken thing, your chest still rising and falling in uneven waves. Eyes fluttering closed for a beat, you let your head fall to the side, turning your body, your cheek brushing the warm pillow as you lay your head down and just look at him.

Joel’s lying beside you, heavy and golden in the soft light, his skin flushed and slick with sweat, muscles relaxed in that post-release sprawl. One arm tucked beneath his head, the other draped across your hip, his hand splayed wide against your lower belly, a possessive gesture he’d adopted every time he’s knocked you up or was in the process of doing so, it was like a magnet kept drawing his palm to that same spot, every time he had access to it.

There’s a crooked little smile tugging at his lips, lazy and so fucking pleased with himself.

“You’re awfully proud of yourself,” you murmur, voice hoarse and wrecked but tinged with that familiar teasing edge.

He hums and leans in close, nuzzling your shoulder with his scruffy jaw, his stubble scraping gently as he breathes you in.

“Can you blame me?” His nose trails the curve of your neck, breath hot as he murmurs against your skin. “You’re the mother of my babies. My whole damn world.”

He kisses your temple gently, “And now we’re doin’ it all over again.”

His hand curves tighter over your belly… gentle, protective, and proud. And when you glance down, you catch the way he’s looking at it, that soft focus in his eyes, like he’s picturing it already. The way you’ll swell. The way he’ll get to watch you grow all over again.

“I can’t wait to see you pregnant again, baby,” he whispers. “S’when you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your throat tightens. Your hand covers his, lacing your fingers over that same spot, holding him there like you always do.

His body shifts beside you, so broad and warm, all heavy limbs and slowing breath, the faint scent of sweat and cedar clinging to him like second skin. The bed dips beneath his weight as he props himself up on one elbow, casting you in the long shadow of his frame.

You crack one eye open and roll it, even as your lips pull into a smirk, “You’re insufferable when you’re smug.”

Joel chuckles, low and content, and trails a finger lazily over the sensitive skin of your stomach, “And yet here you are, still wearin’ that fucked-out smile I put on you. And pregnant with my baby, gonna be all swollen and sensitive…”

“You are the worst,” you breathe, voice thick with affection, your smirk deepening.

“Mmm,” he hums, dipping his head to mouth at your jaw. “You keep sayin’ that, but your thighs were shakin’ a minute ago, so I ain’t exactly convinced.”

You swat at him, laughing through your exhaustion, but he catches your hand easily, and threads your fingers with his again, pressing them to the mattress above your head.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes dark as they trace your face, then lower, lingering on your kiss-bitten lips. “You look too damn pretty to tease and not expect consequences.”

Your breath hitches, because of course he knows. He always knows when your mood shifts, when desire returns, subtle and slow like a tide rolling back in.

He kisses you then, long and unhurried, just mouth and breath and weight. His lips are warm and full and a little chapped, and he kisses like he touches, like he means it. Like this is just another way he says I love you.

Your arm slips around to his back, fingers pressing into the hard muscle at his shoulder blade and massaging there, he lets out an appreciative groan.

When he finally pulls back, his voice is a murmur against your lips, “That mouth still got somethin’ to say?”

You smile and brush your thumb along his jaw, “Not right now.”

Joel kisses you again, but doesn’t deepen it, just content to be against you like this. Mouths molding against each other’s, his tongue sliding against yours in that rhythmic dance only the two of you knew.

“Carryin’ my baby again,” He shakes his head in disbelief, his forehead pressed against yours, “Don’t think I’ll ever get over that.”

Your eyes flutter closed, and your fingers trace a slow, aimless pattern across his back.

“People get a visual of how bad we are at keeping our hands off of each other for the last time.”

He huffs a laugh, warm and low in his chest. “Yeah, well… I like makin’ sure people know what’s mine, I’ll make that known one way or another.”

Your nose nudges his, and your laughter is soft, but it tumbles out helpless and giddy, “You’re insatiable.”

His hand slides to your belly again, splayed wide and possessive. “Damn right I am. Look at ya,” he says, voice dropping, eyes roaming like he’s already picturing you bigger, rounder, glowing. “Can’t fuckin’ help myself when you’re like this.”

“I’m not even showing yet,” you tease, breathless from the look in his eyes alone.

“Don’t need to be,” he growls against your skin, kissing just below your ear. “Your scent changes, your skin gets warmer… you start lookin’ at me like you wanna make me ruin you all over again. Drives me outta my damn mind.”

Your breath hitches, lashes fluttering as he mouths along your throat, slow and deliberate. He’s not rushing… no, this is worship. Like he’s already mourning the days you’re about to outgrow. The last time your body will carry an additional life. The last time he gets to see you like this. On the cusp of change, of becoming, of motherhood once more.

“You keep saying this’ll be our last baby like that’s supposed to make me calm the fuck down,” he mutters, voice thick with heat, “but all it does is make me wanna memorize every moment of ya like this.”

His hand cups the underside of your belly now, gentle as ever, reverent in that way only Joel gets. “Wanna remember what you feel like before you start showin’. Then again when you do. And again when you’re round as the moon and swearin’ at me that I’m the one who did this to you.”

“You are the one who did this to me,” you whisper, laughing softly even as your voice shivers.

He growls, mouth tracing the curve of your jaw, his hips instinctively rolling closer, “You think I’ll ever let you forget that?”

His other hand ghosts over your thigh, down the back of your knee, pulling you closer until there’s nothing left between you but heat and heartbeat. His palm glides up, tracing the slope of your ribs until it’s resting just beneath your breast.

“I know you’re barely even pregnant yet,” he murmurs, voice dipped in something darker now, “but they’re already gettin’ heavier…”

You shiver as his thumb brushes over your nipple, gentle but deliberate, the sensitive bud tightening under his touch. You’re not even sure when they got sore— only that suddenly, you’re aching for more. Needy and warm and already so fucking wet again, even with his cum dripping out of you, you could tell you were getting even wetter somehow.

His gaze flicks down, jaw tight as he watches the way your breath hitches, the way your back arches for him without even thinking.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “These tits always drive me crazy.”

His thumb swipes again, slower now, circling until your nipples pebble and your thighs shift instinctively, trying to relieve the pressure building there.

You reach for his wrist, but not to stop him. To ground yourself against the heat that starts rolling off his body in waves.

“You get so worked up when I’m pregnant,” you whisper, half in awe, half teasing.

Joel’s already leaning down, already mouthing at the swell of your breast, his stubble scraping your skin. “Can’t help it,” he says, voice muffled against your skin. And when his mouth closes around your nipple, sucking gently, everything in you tightens. Your hips roll without thinking, thighs brushing his. You feel the press of him between your legs, hard again, and getting harder by the second.

He groans against your skin, a sound thick with hunger. “Jesus, baby…”

He doesn’t need your words. He’s already shifting between your thighs again, one hand braced beside your head, the other still cupping your breast.

You barely get a gasp in before he’s lining himself up again, one hand on your hip, the other fumbling beneath your thigh, opening you to him again.

“Joel,” you try, breathless.

But he’s already slipping back inside you, one hard, greedy thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

“I just…” he frowns in concentration as he bottoms out and stills for a moment, letting you adjust to him around you again, “just need you, baby… can’t fuckin’ help it.. need..” his words are stuttering out now as your walls flutter around him and he can’t stifle the groan from deep in his chest.

You cry out, head tilting back, and he follows, burying his face in your neck as he fucks into you without a shred of restraint, hands everywhere… gripping your ass, cradling your thigh, pawing at your chest like he needs to worship every part of you.

Your legs lock tighter around him in answer, heel digging into the small of his back, anchoring him to you.

Your hands roam over his back, down the ridge of his spine, nails scraping lightly as you murmur broken, and reverent things against his skin.

Your mouth finds his shoulder, teeth grazing the skin there, and he groans, rutting harder, coming apart from the feel of you alone.

One of your hands cups his jaw, tilts his head up just enough so you can kiss him messily. You taste him like you own him as his tongue meets yours, frantic and hot, and your bodies slam together again and again like they need to break apart to be whole again.

He groans against your mouth, raw and needy, then pressed his forehead to yours as if grounding himself in the press of your skin. You feel every tremble, every stuttered breath as he ruts forward, desperate and greedy for more.

“Fuck… baby, please,” the words spill out, broken and helpless, barely held together by breath. His hips move without rhythm now, his hands everywhere, gripping your thigh, dragging down your waist, fingers splayed wide across your sweat-slicked skin like he can’t get enough.

Your hands find his hair, tugging hard, and he shudders. Mouth dragging down your throat, across your shoulder. “You feel so fuckin’ good,” he pants, hips grinding in hard and deep. “Always so hungry for my cock, so needy… droolin and beggin for ‘im to split ‘er open. ”

You whimper as he talks to you so filthily, you can feel your walls pulsing around him, “Joel, don’t stop, please, don’t stop…”

His rhythm is messy now, nothing slow or patient in the way he takes you. Every sound out of his mouth was wrecked and reverent.

“Need you to cum, baby,” he mutters against your jaw, words barely strung together.

Your body, always eager to give him whatever the hell he wants, breaks open for him, body seizing with a cry caught in your throat as your walls tighten and pulse around him. Your nails dig into his back with the intensity of it.

“There,” he groans, thrusts faltering, gasping against your neck. “That’s it, fuck, such a good girl f’me.”

He finishes with a strangled moan, spilling inside you, body collapsing against yours, all heat and weight and trembling limbs. His breath stutters against your skin, heart pounding against your chest.

You both lie there for a moment, a heap of tangled limbs and spent breaths, your heartbeat thudding in your ears.

Joel lets out a low, dazed laugh against your neck. “Been going for doubles lately, knockin’ you up makes me feel young again.”

You giggle, too spent to lift your head, “You sound about a hundred years old right now.”

“M’gonna take that as gratitude,” he mumbles into your shoulder, kissing the slope of it with an exaggerated groan, "I still got it.” He slowly slips out with a mutual hiss escaping from your lips.

You hum, smug. “You got something, alright. Probably need a damn chiropractor after that.”

His hand slides over your ass, giving it a lazy squeeze, “Ain’t heard you complainin’.”

“I blacked out a little.”

He grins, lips dragging across your skin, “Yeah, I felt that.”

You sigh, boneless, stretching slightly under him. “Well, congratulations, again, daddy.”

His chest rumbles as he shifts, propping himself up on one forearm so he can look down at you. There’s sweat on his brow, pink still high on his cheeks, and his hair’s an absolute mess, but he’s glowing. Pure adoration written into every line of his face.

“Last one,” you repeat, as if you needed to remind yourself and him.

Joel leans in and kisses your forehead, your nose, then your lips, “Then I better make this count.”

You laugh, breath catching as he rolls onto his side and drapes his arm around you, tugging you in close.

“Don’t worry, old man,” you murmur against his chest. “You already have.”

“I love you,” he says, quiet but certain. “So damn much.”

You squeeze his hand back, breath catching for a beat.

“I know,” you whisper. “I love you too.”

And then, everything’s still. Just your heartbeats, tangled legs, and the soft, rhythmic rise and fall of your breath shared in the dark. The sound of home.

—

The morning light spills golden through the kitchen windows, catching on syrup-smeared plates and a half-finished second pot of coffee. The kids are outside already, shrieking and thundering through the yard, leaving a brief hush behind them like the house exhaled.

You rinse the last plate in the sink, and before you can reach for the dish towel, Joel’s already behind you, easing it from your hand and tossing it aside. His arms circle your waist, chin resting heavy on your shoulder.

“You’re in a good mood,” you murmur, smiling as his nose brushes your cheek.

“Might’ve had somethin’ to do with last night,” he drawls, voice all honey and gravel.

You huff a quiet laugh, leaning back into his chest. “Is that right?”

“‘S your fault,” his lips brush the curve of your neck as he mutters against you. “You walk around this kitchen in my shirt as if you don’t know how it makes me feel.”

Your hands come up to hold his forearms, warm and solid around you. “I let you sleep in and made your favorite pancakes.”

“Yeah,” he says, swaying you both gently side to side. “Pretty sure I married up.”

He kisses your temple, then the space just behind your ear. His stubble grazes your skin and you feel it low in your belly, all flutter and warmth and the ache that never quite leaves you when he’s this close.

You twist in his arms until you’re facing him, and he doesn’t hesitate, his lips find yours instantly.

When you pull back, your fingers are still toying with the hem of his shirt, and his are resting, of course, low on your belly. You swear he was obsessed with that part of your body now, as if he was willing the bump to start showing, for the baby to grow faster so he could witness it.

You glance down at where he’s touching you, then look up again, your voice quieter now. “You still wanna wait? Before we tell anyone?”

Joel’s eyes soften. His nose bumps yours, “I like it bein’ just ours. For a little while longer.”

You nod, lips brushing his again. “Me too.”

Joel’s thumb strokes slow across the curve of your belly, his eyes are still on you like he’s seeing more than just the here and now, like he’s picturing everything ahead.

His lips just barely touch yours again when the brief moment of peace was inevitably interrupted.

“Mooommy! Daddy! Sarah locked me out!!”

Artie’s muffled yell slices through the quiet like a siren, followed immediately by the screen door slamming, tiny footsteps pounding toward the kitchen like a herd of buffalo.

Joel sighs into your mouth, forehead falling to your shoulder, “So much for a quiet moment.”

You laugh softly, brushing his hair back with your fingers. “You got thirty uninterrupted seconds. That’s practically a miracle.”

Sarah barrels in first, beaming. “I didn’t lock him out. There is no lock on the playhouse.”

Artie storms in behind her, face scrunched with betrayal. “You held it shut!”

Joel lifts a brow, “This true, Sarah?”

Ellie waddles in last, wearing a sparkly skirt over her pajama shorts, one rain boot on and a cookie clutched in each fist, “I didn’ do anyfing.”

You blink. “Why are you holding cookies?”

She shrugs. “Found ‘em.”

Joel mutters under his breath, “We really need to hide snacks better.”

You start rounding up the troops, brushing crumbs from Ellie’s face, smoothing Sarah’s hair, helping Artie yank a twig out of his curls. Joel watches the chaos for a second, then steps in beside you, reaching for his coffee.

As the kids chatter and bicker and pull at your sleeves, he leans down, mouth near your ear, “Still glad we’re doin’ this again?”

You glance at him over your shoulder, your smile slow and sure. “With you? Always.”

His grin is boyish and a little cocky, “Damn right.”

And with that, he sets down his mug and hoists Ellie under one arm like a sack of sugar, her cookie still clutched victoriously as she squeals.

You linger there a second, hands stilling. The hum of the fridge, the creak of the screen door, the light filtering golden across the floorboards, all of it blurs behind the slow thrum in your chest.

God.

You never thought life could feel like this.

This kind of love… it crept in quiet, threaded through grocery lists and toy-strewn floors, through baby giggles and tired kisses and the rasp of his stubble brushing your cheek at the end of the day. It stitched itself into every ordinary moment until it wasn’t ordinary at all. Just yours.

You reach for the dish towel again, smile still ghosting your lips. He always says you’re the one who spoils him, but the truth is he spoiled you every moment he as yours.

That soft Texas drawl. Those hands that always know where to land. That unshakable way he looks at you, like you’re still the best thing he’s ever done, even after all these years and stretch marks and sleepless nights and three kids with now a fourth on the way.

You press your palm to your belly without thinking, protective and reverent all at once.

You still can’t believe it. This new life. This quiet little secret just the two of you are holding for now.

His hand was there just minutes ago, splayed wide, protective and possessive, as you knew it would be for months to come.

You sigh, your whole body humming with it. With the fullness of everything you’ve made together. The chaos and the comfort. The hunger and the hush. The way he always reaches for you like you’re it. Like you’re home. The same way he is.

You glance up in time to catch him looking back at you from the doorway, Ellie still in his arms, Sarah climbing his leg, Artie tugging at the hem of his shirt.

And despite the noise and the mess and the ache in your lower back from standing at the sink too long… your heart could burst with how much you love him. How much you like him. How lucky you still feel.

He grins. That soft, crooked, unbearably Joel smile.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Sorry this took so long to get edited, going back to school in a month! So I’ve been very busy and a little brain dead but more is coming in all regards!

I love this little family, and I doubt I’ll stop here with them, buckle in for the ride!

231 notes · View notes

badwolfvexa · 23 hours ago

Text

Love You Anyway (3) | Andrew Cody x Brother's Best Friend ! Reader

Andrew Cody x F ! Brother’s Best Friend ! Reader

Summary: You get your college acceptance letter and go to the Cody house to tell Deran—but he’s not there. Instead, you spend the afternoon with Andrew. It’s easy and unexpected… until you return to the house and realize things aren’t as normal as they seemed.

Word Count: 8480

Warnings: Nine-year age gap (late teens / late 20s) — Andrew Cody x reader are NOT together in the “Then” timeline

Author’s Notes: omg sorry guys. i had major writers block and then got busy. but part 3 is here. unfortunately my summer is coming to an end and i have to start up my job again BOOOOO. (crying i dont wnat to go back) so i'll prob be updating whenever I can, sorry. oh i finally made it to season 3 of animal kingdom yuhhhh, but last half of season 2 was so good i was on the edge of my seat. Anyway, here's part 3!!! Enjoy! - Ryn

THEN: ACCEPTANCE LETTER 2008

You biked as fast as you could to the Cody house, the midday sun beating down on your back. You gripped the letter in your hand as you grip the handle bars of your bike.

You didn’t want to wait.

Not until dinner. Not even another hour.

You just wanted to tell someone—wanted to see Deran’s face when you said it out loud.

You roll into the driveway, pressing the handle bar breaks to slow down your speed and hop off your bike. You roll your bike towards the open garage, noticing Andrew working out on the workout equipment.

Andrew was shirtless, wearing jeans that hung low on his hips, his back sweaty. He was focused, jaw tight, arms flexing as he pulled down on the cable machine with steady rhythm.

“Hey,” you called, still a little breathless as you leaned your bike against the garage wall.

Andrew glanced over his shoulder. His eyes landed on you briefly before he turned back to the machine.

You’d been around more since the day at the beach—seen Andrew a handful of times since then—but things between you hadn’t changed. He kept his distance. Every interaction was brief or clipped. You only spoke to each other when you had to; otherwise, you stayed out of each other’s way.

Baz and Deran, on the other hand, had been more welcoming. They talked to you, included you in whatever they were doing when you came around to hang out with Deran. But Andrew still held back, like there was an invisible line you weren’t supposed to cross—and he wasn’t about to let you forget it.

“He’s not here,” he said, voice low but clear—already knowing who you were here for.

“Oh…” You pushed your hair back, trying to catch your breath. “Do you know where he went or when he’ll be back?”

He didn’t pause. Just pulled again, the weights clanking softly. “Nope.”

You stood there, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. The excitement that had propelled you here was starting to fade, caught in the silence between his reps.

“Okay… is anybody else home that could tell me where he is?”

Nothing.

“I’ll take that as a no, then…”

You glanced down at the envelope in your hand. Its edges were crumpled from how tightly you’d been holding it.

“I got my letter back. From one of the colleges I applied to.”

Andrew's rhythm of his reps slowed. A subtle adjustment, like he’d finally stopped pretending not to listen. He remembers you mentioning how you applied for different colleges.

You looked up at him again, searching for some reaction. Still nothing. Just the steady rise and fall of his shoulders as he continued to pull the handles down.

The envelope suddenly feels heavier in your hands.

“I don’t know why I came here,” you said with a quiet laugh, mostly to yourself. “I guess I just wanted to share it with someone… with Deran.”

Andrew didn’t say anything, but the pause between his reps stretched a little longer this time.

You thumb the edge of the envelope. “He’s the one who kept telling me to go for it. Said I’d get in, no problem.”

Your voice wavered just a little. Not enough to crack—just enough to reveal the truth beneath it.

You had been nervous about applying. Nervous about even wanting something that far away. A school that meant starting over, leaving behind everything familiar.

But Deran hadn’t laughed, hadn’t shrugged it off like you half-expected him to. He’d just looked at you and said, “Why not you?” Like it was obvious.

That stuck.

So you’d done it. And now the letter was here, trembling just slightly in your grip, and the one person who told you to take the leap… wasn’t.

“It’s the college I really want to go to,” you added, trying to fill the silence.

Andrew huffed, not quite a scoff but close, still not facing you. “You don’t want to open this at home? With your family?”

“My parents are busy with work,” you muttered, voice low. “I didn’t even tell them I applied… to a university outside of California.” Your eyes are still on the letter.

“I was gonna tell Deran in person,” you added after a beat. “But since he’s not here…”

You stepped forward, lifting the envelope slightly. “I guess you’ll do.”

You hesitated, suddenly unsure if this was something you should be sharing with Andrew. Deran was the one who encouraged you, who believed in you when you were too afraid to believe in yourself. Maybe you should’ve waited—waited to open it with him.

But the anticipation was gnawing at you, tightening your chest. You couldn’t wait any longer.

Your fingers tore the seal open before you could second-guess yourself. You pulled out the paper, unfolding it with shaky hands, eyes scanning for one word. Just one.

Then you saw it.

Congratulation

You gasped. A laugh broke from your chest.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, your hand flying to your mouth. “I got in—I got in!”

You shrieked, joy bursting out of you like a firecracker. You jumped up and down, spinning in place as you waved the letter in the air, barely able to hold onto it.

Andrew paused, his hands still gripping the handlebars of the exercise machine. His shoulders rose and fell with quiet, controlled breaths as he turned to look over his shoulder at you. He let go slowly—arms dropping to his sides

You hadn’t realized he was watching.

He watched your reaction—your spinning, your laughter—and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. A quiet chuckle slipped out before he could stop it.

“Good for you,” he said.

You heard that much. By the time you calmed yourself, his smile was gone. You didn’t catch how his smile lingered, genuine and quiet, drawn out by your happiness and the excitement you couldn’t contain.

You pressed the letter to your chest, breathing hard, cheeks flushed.

Andrew stepped away from the machine, grabbing a water bottle from their outside refrigerator. His expression had already settled into something more neutral, but there was still a softness in his eyes if you looked closely enough.

“Where to?” he asked, taking a sip.

You tell him the name of the school. “It’s on the east coast”

He lowered the bottle, recapping it slowly. “Far.”

Good, he thought. You’ll be away from all their bullshit.

“I know,” you said, practically bouncing with a mix of nerves and excitement. “But it’s exciting!”

Your heart raced at the thought of taking the leap — scared, but ready.

He went back to the machine grabbing his towel that was draped over the bars on the workout machine.

“You can stay… wait for Deran, I mean,” he said, wiping his face, then tossing the towel over his shoulder.

He didn’t know why he said that. It came out before he could stop it—quieter than usual, not gruff or sharp. He wasn’t even looking at you when he said it, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor, like offering that kind of invitation cost him something.

You were surprised. Of all the things you expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them.

You nodded quickly, hopeful but trying not to seem like it. “Yeah. I’ll wait. If that’s okay.”

Andrew gave a short jerk of his head toward the house—a wordless cue: go on in.

You hesitated just long enough, thinking he might say more. When he didn’t, you took the side door and headed toward their house.

He stood there a moment longer than necessary, watching you disappear, towel still resting on his shoulder. Then he tossed the towel aside, turned back toward the machine, and started working out again.

—

You moved into the living room and sat on the couch, the envelope still in your hands. You sank into the couch, left alone with the silence. For a moment, you thought Andrew might follow you inside—but he didn’t.

After a few minutes, you pull out your flip phone. The screen was smudged, the battery half-dead. You flipped it open and hit Deran’s number.

It rang a couple of times before going to voicemail.

“Hey! I’m at your place—sorry, I should’ve called first to check if you were home. Andrew said you were out, but I got my acceptance letter in the mail! I wanted to tell you in person. Sorry… I opened it. It couldn’t wait, but I got in! I’m going to the East Coast! Call me when you get this”

You hung up, leaving the voicemail, then snapped the phone shut with a soft click.

Now you wait.

Time dragged. Twenty minutes. Then thirty.

Andrew came back out, freshly showered and dressed. He was in a clean T-shirt and jeans, towel still in hand as he ran it through his damp curls. He stopped in the space of the living room

“No word?” he asked.

You toyed with a loose string on the throw pillow clutched to your chest. You shook your head, “He’s probably busy.”

You stood from the couch, smoothing your hands down your legs just to give them something to do. “I should get going.”

Then added you, “If you see him… can you tell him to call me?”

Andrew didn’t say anything. Neither did you. There was no goodbye.

You stepped past him and made your way back outside the house. You grabbed your bike from where you’d left it against the garage wall and started rolling it up the driveway toward the street.

Andrew came out a moment later, keys in hand, heading toward his truck parked just a few feet away. He didn’t say anything, just walked in silence, unlocking the doors with the fob.

You were halfway up the drive when he said,

“C’mon.”

You stopped in your tracks, caught off guard.

“What?” you asked, turning to look at him.

“Let’s go.”

“But—”

“Leave your bike and get in the car,” he said, climbing into his truck. You knew with Andrew, he never asks—he tells.

You weren’t sure what was happening, or why he wanted you in his truck, or where you two were going, but you did what he said. You rolled your bike and left it leaning against the outside of the garage, then climbed into the passenger seat of his truck. The engine was already running, the car humming softly.

“Seat belt,” he said.

“Right” You mumbled as you reached for it, pulling it across your chest and clicking it into place just as he shifted the truck into reverse.

He backed out of the driveway in one clean motion, then turned onto the street. The gate closed behind you with a mechanical hum, triggered by the clicker in his hand.

You glanced at him once, but he didn’t say anything. Just kept his eyes on the road.

You stared out the window as the truck moved down the street, houses blurring past. Every few seconds, you felt the urge to say something—ask where you were going,

The silence wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it wasn’t easy either.

“So…” you said finally, the word slipping out quieter than you meant it to.

Andrew didn’t look at you, but you saw his fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel.

You waited, but when he didn’t follow up, you added, “Where are we going or better yet… where are you taking me?”

You shifted in your seat, not sure if you were annoyed or just anxious. Maybe both.

Nothing.

“Andrew,” you said, a little firmer this time, trying to keep your voice steady despite the frustration bubbling under the surface.

He shrugged nonchalantly, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Relax.”

“Relax?” You blinked, incredulous. “How am I supposed to relax when you’re basically kidnapping me?”

He furrows his eyebrows, a flicker of disbelief crossing his face, but he doesn’t look over. “Kidnapping? You got in the car willingly.”

You crossed your arms, leaning back against the seat. “Only because you practically ordered me to. You didn’t exactly give me much of a choice.”

He finally glanced your way, expression unreadable. “I didn’t force you. You have free will. You could’ve just said no.”

You let out a breath, part exasperated, part amused. “Yeah, well, when someone’s voice sounds like a command, saying no doesn’t exactly feel like an option.”

“You don’t have anything better to do,” he said flatly.

You raised a brow. “How do you know? Maybe I had plans.”

He gave you a look, dry and pointed. “Did you?”

You hesitated, then muttered, “That’s not the point.”

“It kind of is.”

You rolled your eyes and looked out the window. “God, you’re infuriating.”

He drummed his fingers once against the steering wheel. “And yet you got in the car.”

You turned your head, shooting him a glare. “Because you made it sound like it wasn’t up for discussion.”

You turned to look out the window, watching the blur of palm trees and strip malls pass by.

Then, quietly, “Would it help if I said I didn’t want you sitting around by yourself?”

Andrew didn’t want you to be alone. Your parents weren’t home, and neither was Deran. There was no one around to celebrate with you. Sure, you could celebrate later—but it wouldn’t be the same. Nothing compared to sharing the moment while it was still alive, still buzzing in your chest.

That caught you off guard. Your head turned slowly back toward him.

He wasn’t looking at you—his jaw tight, eyes ahead—but the tension in his shoulders had softened, just barely.

You blinked. “So this is… what? You playing chauffeur out of pity?”

“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Not pity.”

You waited, but he said nothing else. Just kept driving, hands steady on the wheel.

“I’m hungry.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

“I thought you might be too.”

You stared at him for a second, trying to make sense of it. Was… was he taking you out to eat? That couldn’t be right. Not Andrew. Your best friend’s older brother. The one who always kept his distance, who made it painfully clear he didn’t want anything to do with you—or have you hanging around. That Andrew was now driving you somewhere for food?

It didn’t make sense.

“You’re taking me to get food?” you asked slowly, raising your eyebrows in disbelief, trying to figure out if there was some sort of ulterior motive.

His jaw tightened just slightly, like he was already regretting saying anything. Then he muttered, “Seemed like a decent way to mark the occasion.”

You paused.

That’s when it clicked.

This wasn’t just about food. Andrew was taking you out—it wasn’t random. It was intentional. A quiet, awkward way of showing he cared, even if he couldn’t put it into words. He wasn’t going to say “congratulations,” No grand gestures, no speeches—just this simple act that said more than he ever would aloud. This was his version of showing up.

And even if he couldn’t say it out loud, you could feel it.

You didn’t know what to say. It was… sweet. Simple. Thoughtful, even—that he’d go out of his way to do this for you.

His truck pulled into a small parking lot, easing into a stall right out front. High Tide Diner was painted across the large front window in a faded retro font, the kind that hadn’t been updated in decades but somehow still felt timeless.

You climbed out of the truck, the door creaking slightly as it shut behind you. Andrew didn’t say anything, just nodded toward the entrance, and the two of you headed inside.

A bell above the door jingled as you stepped in. The place smelled like coffee, salt, and something fried. Vinyl booths lined the walls, cracked in places, and the floor tiles were uneven from years of foot traffic. It wasn’t fancy, but it was warm. Familiar.

It wasn’t crowded—just a handful of people and families scattered here and there throughout the diner, low conversations humming beneath the clatter of dishes.

Andrew stepped past you and slid into an empty booth tucked away near the back, far from everyone else. Typical. Always picking the quietest corner like he needed distance to breathe.

You followed and slid into the seat across from him, the vinyl sticking slightly to your legs as you settled in.

“This place is good. We don’t have to eat here. We could go somewhere else—”

“No, no, this is fine. Really,” you said quickly, cutting him off before he could protest. “I like it”

You reached for the menu and scanned the beat-up plastic laminate in front of you. The corners were worn, peeling a little from years of use. The food options were exactly what you expected—greasy, oily, unapologetically comforting. Burgers stacked high, loaded fries, grilled cheese, milkshakes thick enough to bend a straw. No frills, no health section. Just pure, deep-fried Americana.

“This place has personality,” you said, more to yourself than to him.

Across the table, Andrew shrugged, like that was the point. “The food's good. That’s all that matters.”

You looked up at him, watching the way he leaned back against the booth like he’d been here a hundred times. Like he fit.

“Do you come here a lot?”

He shrugged again, eyes still on the menu he hadn’t even picked up. “Used a lot when I was a teenager. With… Julia sometimes. But I come around every so often”

“Julia…” you repeated softly, the name unfamiliar on your tongue.

He glanced up, just briefly. “My twin sister.”

You blinked, surprised. “You have a twin?”

Deran hadn’t mentioned he had an older sister. In fact, no one in the family had ever mentioned her—not once.

“Been a while since we’ve seen her,” he said, almost too casually—but there was a tightness in his voice that said more than the words did. He didn’t elaborate.

You hesitated, unsure if you should say something else, asking what happened. But the way he was staring past you now, like he was seeing a memory and not the diner, made you pause.

Instead, you just nodded. Quiet. Respectful.

“There’s so much on this menu,” you said, your voice lighter, pulling things gently back to the present. “I might need, like… a solid twenty minutes.”

Andrew didn’t smile, exactly, but his mouth twitched like he almost could have. “Pick something greasy. It’s what they do best.”

An older woman came over with two glasses of water balanced in one hand and a notepad in the other. Her name tag said Deb, and she gave you both a polite nod.

“Hi there! Are you two ready, or need a few minutes?”

“Double Cheeseburger. Everything on it. Extra pickles. Fries. Chocolate shake.”

Deb jotted it down and turned to you.

You hesitated for a second, then said, “I’ll have the same thing he’s having… but strawberry shake.”

Andrew looked over at you, one brow lifting.

Deb gave a smile. She took the menus. “Alright, I’ll get that in.” She turned and headed toward the kitchen, the order slip already in her hand.

You glanced back at Andrew as he stared at you. “What? Your order sounded good…”

Andrew’s brow twitched slightly, amusement flickering behind his eyes. “Didn’t peg you for the copy-my-order type.”

You shook your head. “It’s not copying—my order is different from yours”

He scoffed. “Just swapping the shake doesn’t make it different.”

You glanced at him with a smirk. “Didn’t peg you for someone so territorial about food. Are you always this dramatic over an order?”

Andrew shook his head and rolled his eyes, then muttered, “Should’ve stuck with chocolate.”

“Strawberry’s better.”

Andrew gave you a sideways glance. “Better, huh? That’s… questionable.”

Silence falls between the two of you.

Andrew rested his arms on the table, fingers tapping against the table top as he stared out the window.

You noticed his knuckles were almost healed. The scrapes had faded into thin, reddish scabs—the kind that stuck around after the worst was over. You remembered how bad they’d looked at the beach, when he came back to Baz’s truck. Bloody, raw.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” you said quietly, the words spilling out.

Andrew glanced at you, his brows knitting together. “Do what?”

“The surfer. At the beach.”

His eyes narrowed, like he might deny it, might brush it off with some half-answer—but you cut him off before he could.

“I’m not stupid, Andrew.” You sighed “I know what you did.”

His tapping stopped as he caught you staring at his hands. He didn’t say anything—just slowly moved his hand from the table to his lap.

For a long second, he didn’t say anything. Just stared past you, jaw tight, like he was weighing the cost of answering.

Then finally, he said, “He was out of line.”

“That’s it?” you asked, not bothering to hide your frustration. “He was out of line, so you beat the shit out of him?”

His eyes met yours. Steady. Unapologetic. “Yeah.”

There were a dozen things you wanted to say—about how messed up it was, about how you weren’t his problem, about how that’s not how normal people handled things.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

Because part of you wanted to yell at him.

But the other part—annoyingly louder—just felt that same strange twist in your chest. That not-quite-fear, not-quite-comfort thing.

So instead, all that came out was, “You didn’t have to.”

“He dropped in on you, didn’t he? When you were surfing?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“And he hit you.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said. “It was an accident.”

“That guy could’ve seriously hurt you, out in the water and Then he ran off like a coward after he hit you”

You swallowed. “And you took it personally?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You got hurt. I don’t care who started it or what excuses anyone gives. That shouldn’t have happened.”

You blinked.

“And that justifies everything?”

“Maybe not,” he said finally. “I wasn’t thinking about right or wrong. But I’d do it again.”

It knocked the breath out of you—not because it was shocking, but because of how easily he said it. Like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t even a question in his mind.

That shut you up.

Because he meant it. Completely and without regret.

You stared at him, trying to make sense of it. Of him.

And maybe that should’ve scared you.

But somehow… it didn’t.

“Well…Thanks,” you said—quiet, measured. Nothing more, nothing less.

You left it there, even if you didn’t agree with how he handled it.

You didn’t say it was okay. You didn’t pretend it made sense.

But you also didn’t take it back.

He didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just studied you for a moment, like he was trying to decide whether to say what he was thinking or keep it buried like usual.

“Here we are—two cheeseburgers with everything on ’em, extra pickles, fries, one chocolate shake, and one strawberry,” Deb announced as she approached, balancing the tray like it was second nature.

She set it down in the center of the table with practiced ease.

You both murmured a “Thanks,” nearly in unison.

Deb gave a nod and a quick smile. “Holler if you need anything else,” she said before turning and disappearing back toward the kitchen.

You dug in, taking a big bite of the burger and let out a muffled groan. Your eyes flutter shut for a second. “This is so good,” you mumbled around a mouthful, barely pausing between bites.

Across the table, Andrew watched you with a mix of amusement and disbelief. A quiet chuckle slipped out as he took in the way you were devouring your burger like you hadn’t eaten in days.

“You gonna breathe at some point?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “You know—maybe in between bites?”

You held up a finger, chewing furiously, and pointed at the burger. “Too good,” you said, barely intelligible. “Not my fault.”

Andrew took a big bite of his burger, enjoying the juicy flavors. As he chewed, a bit of ketchup slid from the bun and landed right on his nose. He didn’t notice.

You caught it instantly and snorted, covering your mouth with your hand to keep from laughing mid-chew.

“What?” he asked, mouth half-full, tone flat.

“You’ve got—” You broke into another giggle, motioning vaguely toward your own face. “Ketchup. On your nose.”

He frowned and tried to see it, his eyes crossing slightly, which only made it worse. You practically wheezed only made you laugh harder.

“I got it, I got it,” you said, still laughing as you reached for a stack of napkins from the dispenser.

You leaned across the table. “Hold still.”

He didn’t move. Just sat there watching you with that calm, unreadable expression.

You were suddenly aware of how close you were—close enough to catch the faintest trace of his aftershave and the subtle heat of his gaze on you. You dabbed at the smear of ketchup on his nose, biting back a smile as he let you do it, silent and still, his expression flat but clearly unamused.

Your hand lingered a second longer than it needed to before you finally pulled back.

“There,” you said softly.

“For that,” you added, reaching over without hesitation, “I deserve a fries.”

You snatched a couple off his plate and popped one into your mouth before he could protest.

“Hey,” he said, half-amused, half-indignant. “You’ve got your own.”

“I saved your nose,” you shot back. “If it weren’t for me, you’d still be looking like Rudolph.”

He shakes his head. “One smear of ketchup and suddenly you're a hero.”

You grinned, already reaching for your milkshake “Damn right I am.”

—

After finishing up at the diner, the two of you ended up driving aimlessly with no real destination in mind.

There was no rush. No plan. Just the road stretching out ahead and the quiet comfort of his presence beside you.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gearshift. You leaned your head against the window, watching the world blur past—quiet neighborhoods, aging gas stations, wide-open lots bathed in the soft gold of the setting sun.

At a red light, he glanced over at you. “You good?”

You nodded. “Yeah. This is nice.”

He gave a small smile—one of those rare ones that didn’t quite reach his eyes but meant something all the same. “Yeah. It is.”

As he drove, the two of you did nothing but talk. And it was different—unexpectedly so. Easy in a way that caught you off guard. You’d been talking—really talking—and somewhere along the way, Andrew’s walls, usually built so high, had lowered without ceremony. Without either of you even noticing when it happened.

For the first time, it felt like you were beginning to truly know him—not just the version everyone else saw. And maybe, just maybe, he was starting to know you too. There were still parts of him kept carefully out of reach, tucked away behind familiar silences, but that didn’t bother you.

And, strangely, he didn’t seem to mind you seeing him like this. Not tonight.

Eventually, you found yourselves at the beach near the pier, the truck rumbling to a stop just as the sun began to dip low on the horizon. The sky was brushed in soft shades of orange, pink, and fading lavender, the last light of the day stretching long across the sand. The breeze off the ocean carried the scent of salt and something faintly sweet—maybe kettle corn from the boardwalk nearby.

Shoes in hand, you wandered the shoreline together, the sand cool beneath your feet. The tide rolled in gentle and steady, lapping at your ankles. Andrew kept to the drier sand away from the water, watching you with that same quiet expression—as if he was memorizing the moment, even if he didn’t know why.

“You think you’re gonna get homesick when you’re on the East Coast?”

“Maybe,” you admitted with a shrug. “But I guess that’s part of the point—learning how to deal with it.”

“I can’t wait to get out of here—away from my parents, on my own. All I’ve ever known is California, Oceanside. I’m just excited to experience something new, though it is daunting.”

He stood standing, eyes fixed on the shoreline where you walked splashing in the water.

He was envious—of your freedom, your clean break. The way you had the opportunity to leave and actually go. He could do his own thing in theory, but in practice… he couldn’t. Not really.

Even as an adult, hardened by everything he’d been through, Andrew was still tethered to Smurf. No matter how far he tried to pull away, that invisible thread always snapped him back. She had a way of pulling him in, of making sure he never drifted too far. He was loyal to a fault.

Watching you—so full of hope and momentum—was a stark contrast to his world. You, who grew up in a stable, middle-class home. Two loving parents. Consistency. Safety. Unconditional Love. Things he never had. Things he didn’t even know how to trust.

In his world, nothing was handed over willingly. Everything had to be taken—stolen, hustled, fought for. They didn’t work to earn in the traditional sense. They planned, schemed, and survived. And when they got what they wanted, they didn’t celebrate—they braced for whatever came next.

You were everything he wasn’t. Everything he’d never be in this lifetime.

It was better that you were leaving—going off to college, to the East Coast, to anything that wasn’t this. Better you got out before you had the chance to really see what he and his brothers were. What they did.

He glanced over at you then, eyes catching yours for just a second before flicking away again.

“You’ll be good out there,” he said quietly. “You’ll figure it out.”

You moved slowly along the shoreline, letting the waves chase your toes. Every now and then, you’d glance back at him, and he’d give you that faint, unreadable smile of his.

“You gonna get your feet wet or what?” you called over your shoulder, teasing.

He smirked, but didn’t budge. “I’m good right here.”

You turned back to the ocean, the breeze tugging gently at your clothes. A particularly strong wave rolled in and soaked your calves, making you gasp and laugh as you jumped back. You heard him chuckle behind you,

“Come on” You kick some water at him

“Hey stop that!”

You giggle as you continue splashing through the water, coming to flick some back at him just to get a rise out of it.

“Angel, quit it—” he says, voice low but amused.

You freeze for a second, the nickname catching you off guard.

They all called you that—Angel. Baz had started it that day at the beach, half a joke, half a dig. After that, they hardly used your real name at all. But Andrew?

He never used it. Not once.

Until now.

And it felt different coming from him. Not careless or mocking. Not something he said just because the others did. His version was quieter. Almost gentle.

You didn’t know why it made your chest feel tight, or why you wanted to hear it again—just not with the usual teasing behind it.

“Boo, you’re boring!”

“Oh, yeah?” he said, an eyebrow lifting, just before he stepped forward and scooped you up like it was nothing.

“Andrew—wait! No, no, no—”

But it was already too late. He was already walking straight into the ocean, steady and unbothered, even as you squirmed in his arms.

“Andrew—!” you kicked your feet in protest, laughter bubbling up despite yourself.

He didn’t slow down. Just kept moving forward, water lapping higher—first at his knees, then his thighs. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck tighter, clinging to him as tightly as you could.

“Andrew, don’t you dare—”

He smirked. And then he leaned.

“Oh, don’t you dar—!”

Too late.

With one swift movement, he dunked you both under.

You shrieked as the cold water swallowed you whole, salt stinging your nose, your laughter muffled in the splash. You surfaced with a gasp, hair plastered to your face, eyes wide, and already laughing so hard it made your chest ache.

Andrew came up behind you, shaking the water from his curls, completely soaked. His clothes clung to him, heavy and dark with seawater, and he ran a hand through his hair, flicking droplets everywhere.

Andrew just grinned, smug and unapologetic. “Totally worth it.”

You swiped your soaked hair out of your face, still laughing. “Says the one who wanted to stay dry!”

“And then you started kicking water at me like it was gonna do anything.”

You scoffed. “I barely got you wet!”

He gave you a look, eyes narrowing like he couldn’t believe you were still pretending. “My jeans were damp. That was a violation.”

You grinned. “Oh, poor you.”

“I had to restore balance,” he said solemnly. “Full submersion was the only way.”

You splashed him again. “You’re such an asshole. Where’s the logic in that, by the way? You didn’t want to get wet, so you decided to throw yourself into the ocean—with me?”

He shrugged, completely unfazed. “I didn’t say it was good logic.”

—

Andrew’s truck pulled into the driveway. He stepped out, door slamming shut behind him as he headed over into the garage.

The brothers were mid-count—money spread out across the workbench in uneven stacks, jewelry glinting under the garage lights. A gun sat openly beside a half-zipped duffel. They were too hyped to care.

Craig glanced up first.

“Dude, where the hell have you been?! We’ve been calling you—” Craig’s voice was loud, half-laughing, charged with adrenaline and whatever trouble they’d stirred up all day.

“You guys did a job?” Andrew’s voice cut through the room, sharp and disbelieving. They’d gone out and done something—without him. Without even telling him.

If he’d known, he never would’ve brought you back to the house—not with the heat still fresh, with evidence still laid out in plain sight. At the very least, he would’ve warned them, told them to clean up, to stash the bags and play it cool. But now? It was too late for any of that.

Andrew’s stomach dropped. He was pissed, sure. They’d cut him out, made a move without him. That stung, and he’d deal with it later. But right now? None of that mattered. All he could think about was you.

“Dude, why are you all wet?” Baz asked, staring at Andrew with a raised brow as he stepped up from the beach.

Andrew didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked over his shoulder—to the car, to the door he knew was about to swing open.

“Get rid of it,” he said sharply.

“What?” Baz blinked, thrown.

“Get rid of it. Now.” he tells his brother

And then you stepped out of Andrews truck.

Still damp from the ocean, sand clinging to your legs, hair a tangled, wind-blown mess. You were brushing sand off, not even aware of the storm you’d just walked into.

Four sets of eyes locked on you, and just like that, the air in the garage turned sharp, still, and heavy.

Craig’s grin evaporated as he stared, blinking like he wasn’t sure if he was seeing you or some kind of mirage.

Deran froze halfway through shoving bills into a bag. “Wait—Angel?”

Even Baz, usually the smoothest at holding his expression, faltered for a beat. His gaze landed on you, then flicked to Andrew. His jaw clenched, subtle but visible.

Then they moved.

Fast.

They quickly managed to stuff everything away. The jewelry was swept off the table in hurried, careless motions. Bundles of cash were stuffed back into the duffels with practiced, frantic efficiency. Craig cursed under his breath as he knocked something over—a watch clattered to the concrete floor, its face cracking sharply. Without missing a beat, he kicked it out of sight.

By the time you came into the garage, there was no evidence left—no sign of what had just been there.

“Hey guys!” You beam. Your voice was cheerful, easy—completely unaware of what they just did. The room looked almost normal, but the tension hanging in the air told you otherwise.

Craig froze mid-zip, then straightened with a crooked grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Angel! What’s up?”

Baz was already standing in front of the table like he’d just happened to be leaning there all along. “Didn’t expect to see you around,” he said, tone smooth but eyes still calculating.

Deran tilted his head, eyeing you with a mix of confusion and something else you couldn’t quite place. “Uh… what are you doing here?”

His voice had that weird edge to it—trying to sound casual, but it didn’t quite land.

You smiled, trying to keep it light. “Nice to see you too. I stopped by earlier—you didn’t get my voicemail?”

He shook his head. “No, I didn't see anything.”

“Well, I came to open my acceptance letter.”

Deran’s eyes widened. “Wait—the one from the college on the East Coast?”

You nodded, grinning now. “Yeah. I got in.”

“Angel, that’s awesome!” His whole face lit up. He stepped forward and pulled you into a hug, lifting you slightly off the ground even though your clothes were still soaked.

“Congratulations!” Deran says as he sets you back down.

Baz brows raised. “No shit? That’s big. Congrats, Angel.” His voice was casual, but there was a flicker of genuine pride behind it, the kind he didn’t hand out often.

Craig grinned from where he was crouched by a bag, wiping his hands on his jeans before getting up. “Hell yeah! That’s huge! You better throw a party before you leave. Better yet, we’ll throw you one” He pulled you into a one-armed hug, not caring about the wet clothes.

“Thanks, guys,” you said, a little overwhelmed by their rare, unfiltered support.

You glanced toward Andrew. “Yeah, Andrew and I hung out today—”

Craig cut in before you could finish. “Wait, you and Andrew hung out?”

That stopped everything.

Baz’s gaze flicked from you to Andrew, then back again. Deran raised an eyebrow.

The three of them stood there, silent now, their attention sharper—focused in a way it hadn’t been before.

Craig’s smirk had faded into something more curious. Baz didn’t bother hiding the suspicion in his eyes.

You gave a nervous laugh, trying to brush it off. “I came by to hang out with you,” you said, nudging Deran lightly in the chest. “But you weren’t home.”

You shrugged. “Andrew was around. So we hung out. No big deal.”

But it felt like a big deal now—with the way they were all looking at you.

“Why are you guys wet?” Baz asked, eyebrows raised, voice careful now.

“Beach,” you and Andrew answered at the same time.

Your voices overlapped, perfectly matched—flat, casual, a little too in sync.

Craig snorted, more amused than anything. “Cute.”

Baz leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Didn’t know you two were going on beach dates now.”

“It wasn’t a date,” you and Andrew said in unison.

You knew they were teasing, but seriously—you and Andrew? No way. That wasn’t what this was. He was Deran’s older brother. It would’ve been weird. Messy. Off-limits for so many reasons.

You scrunched your nose and made a dramatic face like you were physically repulsed by the idea. “Ew. No. Gross.” You waved your hands as if to push the thought far, far away. “He’s like…ancient”

Andrew glanced at you clearly unimpressed. “Wow. Thanks.”

“I’m just saying,” you said, mock-defensive. “You’re basically halfway to forty.”

Craig burst out laughing. Baz smirked. Deran didn’t laugh at all.

It wasn’t a date—at least not by any definition either of you would use.

But it was something.

You weren’t sure what Andrew had expected when he told you to get in the truck. But today felt... different. Not romantic, not even close to it—but it was rare. Easy. The kind of connection that didn’t need to be explained.

Craig, sensing the shift but not knowing what to do with it, let out a breath and offered a weak grin. “Well, sounds like you two had fun,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “That’s... cool.”

You are taking in the scene. The guys look worn—sweaty, out of breath, exchanging looks that say more than words. Your gaze shifts toward the workbench. One of the duffel bags is sitting there, the zipper slightly open.

You tilted your head. “So… what’s with the duffels?”

The question hung in the air.

Craig’s head snapped toward you, eyes wide for a beat. Baz didn’t move, but his jaw tightened. Deran’s fingers twitched like he was seconds away from grabbing the bags and chucking it out of sight.

Deran says “Nothing important.”

You arched a brow. “Looks important. That one’s practically bursting at the seams.”

You took a step forward, curious.

Baz moved fast—subtle but firm—as he casually shifted into your path, blocking your view with that practiced, easygoing grin. “It’s not,” he said smoothly. “Just moving some stuff out of storage.”

“Yeah,” Craig added, nodding way too hard. “Cleaning house. You know how it is.”

Baz says “Just old crap we’ve been meaning to toss. You know how Smurf is—keeps everything.”

Your eyes narrowed a little, suspicion stirring—but not enough to press.

Behind you, Andrew shot them a look. Cold. Sharp. A silent warning not to screw this up.

You lingered for a second, gaze drifting toward the duffles again. Something didn’t sit right—your gut told you there was more to it than “old crap,” but you couldn’t put your finger on why. The way they all moved. The way they watched you. It was too… controlled.

Still, you let it go. For now.

“Right.” You dragged the word out, still not convinced. “Well, Andrew said I could use the shower, so…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Craig said quickly, waving you off like everything was totally normal. “You do that.”

“You can borrow my clothes—help yourself,” Deran said as you passed him.

“Thanks,” barefoot and still damp as you padded around them towards the side door of the garage.

You glanced back at Andrew. “Oh… and thanks for today.”

His eyes lingered on you, unreadable.

You gave him a quiet smile before turning away and heading inside, leaving the boys where they stood.

None of them said another word until you were out of earshot.

Deran scoffed, disbelief flashing across his face. “Are you serious right now? What the hell are you doing with Angel? So what now—you’re just hanging around my best friend?”

He shot back, voice sharp. “Don’t act like this is all out of the kindness of your heart. You’ve been weird about her for months—saying to keep her away. And now? You’re all buddy-buddy with her?”

Andrew didn’t flinch. “This isn’t about being buddy-buddy. I’m here because someone has to look out for her. And if that means being around her, so be it.”

Andrew stepped forward, voice colder now. “You’re the one pulling her into it without even thinking. You bring her around like this shit isn’t dangerous—like she’s immune to it, but she’s not, Deran. None of us are.”

Deran scoffed. “You’re such a goddamn hypocrite.”

Andrew turned, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“You’re always telling me to keep her out of this,” Deran says. “To keep her safe. You act like you’re above it—but look! She almost saw us going through our shit!”

Andrew’s voice cut back, defensive. “How was I supposed to know you guys did a job? None of you told me.”

Craig threw up his hands. “We tried calling!”

“I didn’t answer one time and you all went off without me?”

Deran’s voice dropped, cold. “Don’t turn this around like we’re the problem. You’re the one who brought my best friend home—with duffels wide open and a gun sitting out.”

Andrew’s jaw tightened. “You wanna talk about me bringing her around? Fine. Let’s talk about how many times you almost dragged her into shit then”

Deran’s expression twisted. “Don’t put this on me—”

Andrew snapped “But you let her crash here with stolen merchandise in the guest room and a duffel full of guns in the hall closet. She almost found both—just looking for a blanket. You think about that?”

Baz’s jaw tightened. He remembered.

Andrew kept going. “She borrowed your truck—the glovebox wasn’t cleared. She was two seconds away from opening it. Loaded piece inside, cash under the seat.”

Deran opened his mouth to speak, but Andrew cut him off and didn’t stop.

“You leave your burner lying around. She almost answered it once—could’ve ended up on the phone with someone who wouldn’t blink before pulling the trigger.”

Craig shifted but stayed silent.

“You’ve had her this close to shit she never signed up for,” Andrew shouts “And you’ve got the nerve to look at me sideways?”

Deran’s jaw clenched.

Andrew didn’t back down and got in Dearn’s face “You don’t get to lecture me. You’ve had more close calls with her than I ever have. I’m not the one leaving doors open.”

Craig hovered nearby, watching the two of them like they might come to blows. “Alright, can we not do this right now?” he muttered, half to himself, half to keep the peace.

“She’s not just some girl, Pope,” Deran said, voice rough. “She’s mine. My best friend.”

He shook his head, the anger in his eyes cracking into something raw. “She’s the only person who doesn’t see me as a screwup. She thinks I’m smart—like I could actually be more. More than what everyone expects me to be. She believes in me. And that means something.”

Andrew’s voice cut in, low and sharp. “And if she saw you now—how we really are—what then? Do you honestly believe she’s gonna think that when she finally catches on—when it’s not just some close call, but the real fallout? Then what? You think she’ll still believe the good guy story you’ve been telling yourself? Because right now, all I see is someone who’s setting her up to get hurt.”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy.

Baz finally stepped in, arms crossed. “Okay. Everyone shut up. She’s inside. She hears this, it’s over.”

No one said anything.

Andrew just turned, jaw tight, and walked off toward the house.

Deran didn’t follow. He stayed where he was, chest rising and falling, the line between protectiveness and guilt blurring fast.

—

You were in Deran’s room, fresh out of the shower and already changed, towel still in hand when you saw it—and froze.

The duffel bag.

The same kind the guys had in the garage earlier. Scuffed black canvas, worn straps, the zipper just slightly askew. Now it was here, half-hidden under the bed, the corner barely tucked in.

It hadn’t been there when you came in earlier to grab clothes. You were sure of it.

A slow chill crept down your spine as you stepped closer, towel slipping from your fingers and landing on the bed in a damp heap.

They’d said they were cleaning. Getting rid of old stuff.

So why move one of the bags into this room?

You knew you probably shouldn’t look. But your gut twisted. Your fingers moved before your brain could stop them.

You dropped to your knees and pulled the zipper back.

The first thing you saw was the gun—matte black and heavy-looking, nestled against rolls of cash, thick and uneven, banded in rubber and duct tape.

Then something else caught the light.

Jewelry.

Not just one piece—several. Tangled chains, a gold bracelet, a small velvet pouch half-open with what looked like diamond earrings spilling out.

Your breath caught.

You stared down into the bag, heart thudding so hard it almost drowned out the quiet hum of the house around you. The room felt colder now, heavier.

You zipped it shut fast—too fast—but carefully, like if you messed up even one detail, someone would know you’d seen it.

Your hands were shaking.

You stood slowly, knees stiff, mind spinning. You didn’t know what this meant—not exactly—but you knew it wasn’t nothing.

You’d seen it.

The gun. The cash. The jewelry.

And you couldn’t unsee any of it.

The sound of the door clicking shut made you jump. You picked up your towel and moved like you were drying your hair.

Deran looked at you “You good?”

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just got out.”

Your voice didn’t sound right. You knew it. He probably did too.

Deran lingered in the doorway a moment longer than necessary, his gaze drifting—briefly—to the spot under the bed.

For a split second, his eyes flicked to the duffel bag, half-hidden and poorly tucked away. He realized he hadn’t done a good job hiding it, but said nothing. Figured you probably didn’t notice.

You held your breath.

Instead, he walked in slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey… sorry I wasn’t here earlier when you came by with your acceptance letter.” He trailed off, not quite meeting your eyes. “Sorry I didn’t answer your call. If I had checked my voicemail, I would’ve called you back.”

You nodded, unsure what to say.

“But I’m proud of you,” he added after a beat, softer now. “College on the East Coast? That’s huge. You deserve it. We should celebrate—I’ll take you out sometime this week.”

Your throat tightened. “Thanks.”

He offered a small smile—genuine, but tired. “Your bike’s in my car, by the way. I figured I’d drop you off. Whenever you’re ready.”

You swallowed hard, that bag still sitting beneath the bed like a ticking clock.

“Okay,” you said, managing a small smile. “Yeah. That’s cool.”

Deran looked at you a second longer, like he wanted to say more. Like he was trying to read something on your face.

Then he nodded, grabbed a clean shirt from the dresser, and headed for the hallway.

“You sure you’re good?” he asked again, pausing in the doorway.

You hesitated, just for a breath. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He nodded slowly, eyes narrowing a fraction like he didn’t quite believe you—but he let it go.

Then he disappeared down the hall.

As soon as he was gone, you let out a shaky breath. Your chest felt tight, your thoughts racing.

You didn’t know what scared you more—the weight of the secrets hidden in that duffel bag, or the sinking feeling that maybe you didn’t really know your best friend and his family at all.

You tried to gaslight yourself, telling yourself it was nothing. Just stuff. Nothing to worry about.

But your instincts screamed otherwise—there was more here than met the eye. Something buried deep and dangerous, just waiting to surface.

LYA Tag: @obfuscateyummy @princesssunderworld @jumpingjackalope @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @alexandrathegreat3 @cozyfanficnook @livingavilaloca @oldmanbunnylover @trustme3-13 @qardasngan @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @child-of-the-amis @cheekeym8s @aj3684 @sunfairyy @ravenouswild @feverxxdream @naxxsstuff

Love You Anyway | Then (1) (2) (3)

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badwolfvexa · 1 day ago

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Shawnstown: A Transitional Object - Sammy Bryant x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @badwolfvexa @whatdoesntkillyoumakesyoustrange @mossthedevouring

The premise of Shawnstown...

Summary: Sammy reflects on how far Nate has come since the move to Shawnstown.

Masterlists:

Andrew Pope Cody

Sammy Bryant

Charlie Reid

Clayton Emerson

Jack Abbot

Companion piece to:

Custody- Tammi makes one last ditch attempt to regain custody of her son before Sammy leaves LA for good.

Sammy wakes up to a slap in the face.

A literal tiny palm impacting against his cheek as he lays spread out across the double bed on his stomach. His eyes flicker open, still blurry from the couple of hours sleep he got last night. His gaze seeks out the alarm clock, the digital numbers flashing in dim light.

The time is 5.30am and Nate has climbed out of his toddler bed… again.

His kid, he raises with the sun these days which means so does Sammy.

Before he can respond to the slap, thick plush fur is shoved in his face. Nate’s baby smell clings to it, a combination of milk, powder and something entirely unique to his son.

It takes him a minute to figure out that it’s Wolfie, giving him kisses. It’s a new game that Nate likes to play with the plush dog they bought at a gas station on their way into town. They’ve been here over a year now and he still clings to the damn thing like it’s a security blanket.

It’s a ‘transitional object’ the therapist had told Sammy when he brought up Nate’s attachment to it. She thinks having Wolfie with him helps him to regulate his emotions, feel secure with all the new things that have been going on around him.

“He’s been through a lot.” She’d reminded him, flicking through Nate’s file. “If Wolfie helps him, let him keep it. We can re-evaluate it down the line if it becomes an issue but for now it’s a step in the right direction, it means he’s starting to become a little more independent from you.”

That’s good news, he knows it is. It means his son is starting to heal from the damage that Tammi did to him, that he’s starting to become more resilient. Theres still moments though, like these daybreak hours when Nate needs both his daddy and his Wolfie to make him feel safe.

“Alright kid.” Sammy says, leaning over the edge of the mattress to scoop up his son. He tumbles the two of them back into the sheets, making Nate wail with delight as he waves Wolfie in the air. Sammy buries his face into the fur pretending to howl and Nate’s laughter erupts from his chest like the sweetest song he’s ever heard. He loves that sound, there wasn’t too much of it when they first got here but now he hears it all the time.

Shawnstown has been good for Nate, it’s been good for him too. He feels better than he has in years, mentally, physically. He didn’t realise until he left LA how much that city was destroying him, eroding his soul day by day until he was struggling to see the good in people.

Being here, it’s restored his faith in humanity, given him a purpose that doesn’t involve chasing gangbangers through poverty stricken streets.

It’s the change they both needed because Lord knows they couldn’t survive much longer in LA.

Already Nate’s starting to settle. He’s draped himself across Sammy’s chest, Wolfie resting on the space where Sammy’s heart resides. His palm rubs over his son’s back, soothing him as his lips brush over his featherlight hair. His breathing starts to even out and Sammy’s body starts to relax back into the mattress as his eyes start to close.

It’s the funeral today, and Nate and Sammy, they’re gonna need all the rest they can get.

Love Sammy? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the Shawnstown taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

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badwolfvexa · 1 day ago

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yall have no idea what this did to my ovaries

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badwolfvexa · 1 day ago

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the quiet | one | Boston to Jackson Joel Miller

wc: 1,5| rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Boston QZ to Jackson Joel Miller x reader

summary: you don’t speak. not since outbreak day stole your voice and everything that mattered. when a smuggling job gone sideways leaves you in the care of Joel Miller and Tess, you don’t ask for help, you don’t want it from the powerful woman and intimidating man. but Tess sees something in you, pulling you close, showing you warmth. her partnerJoel keeps his distance and you prefer it that way, you’ve learned not to trust men. Joel doesn’t want to get involved with you, not when his loyalty already belongs to Tess. but feelings don’t listen to reason and as tension builds between the three of you, so does the quiet pull between you and Joel; dangerous, unwanted, impossible to ignore.

the OC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely physically described aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab. she has a back story.

tags/warnings: family trauma/abuse, alcoholism, slow burn, sexual tension, descriptions of violence, enemies to lovers-ish, love triangle, boston to Jackson Joel. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

the quiet | one

The world was a terrifying place.

You knew this in your youth when you'd hide under the kitchen table, knees drawn up to your chest. A sanctuary for the bogeymen that hid in corners and the witch that was rumoured to live next in the old trailer next to yours.

Her name was Miss Cunningham. She wore a gingham kerchief around her head every day rain or shine. It pushed back the dark, scraggly hair that reached her mid back. She was always collecting herbs and other items for spells and potions, the older kids in the park told you. The ones who smoked and said fuck like you said darn.

You watched her through the warped glass of your trailer, eyes following her twitchy form as she hummed to herself, plucking things from her garden, murmuring to her large black cat, Raven. Raven scared you too. Long twitchy tail and yellow eyes that followed you when you went to the nearby park. When he stretched you could see his long, black claws.

However back in those days your father's drunken ire was the scariest thing of all.

Never turned on you, not his sweet petal who brought him beers and laughed at his silly jokes. But your sweet, quiet mother? The one who scurried from room to room with meals? The one that scrubbed your RV on her hands and knees after he smashed plates of spaghetti or empty beer bottles in anger?

He didn't call her petal. He called her things like bitch and cunt. He gripped her wrist to drag her around, pushed her shoulders, and slapped her beautiful face.

Bitsy your stuffed tiger was always there, so worn that one of her button eyes was missing. Under your arm, in your bed, beside you when you watched television eating fruity pebbles. Bitsy was your guard, your confidant, your best friend.

And the violence and the name calling became normal to you. A child raised by wolves will grow up howling. You barely flinched when he screamed at her, your focus on your colouring pages. It all became background noise.

When your mom came out of the bedroom one morning with a black eye you said nothing. You got good at saying nothing. So much so that you just stopped talking unless necessary. Your parents didn't notice.

You had no idea just how much worse it would become. That bogeymen and monsters would be made flesh, no longer imprisoned in your fertile imagination. That creatures angrier and more vicious than him would spill from the earth.

You were young when Outbreak Day happened. Too young to comprehend why your mom was crying or why your dad came home early from work and demanded your mother help him find all the guns. But you were old enough to understand you should be alarmed.

You followed your parents from room to room holding your Bitsy, watching them gather weapons onto the bed.

"Get outta the fucking way!" Your dad shouted, shoving you out of the way with his boot, trying to get to the bathroom.

You fell; shocked at the treatment, scared at how frenzied he looked. He didn't stink of alcohol, not like he usually did. This evening he was sober and that was more terrifying than expected.

"Go to the other room, honey," your mom half begged with tears streaming down her cheeks. "Please."

You nodded and hid under the kitchen table, your stuffed tiger a sentry at your hip. The old familiar safety.

"I don't understand," your mother's strained voice was saying in the next room. "You come home from work and--",

"Where's the rest of the fucking bullets? We need more ammo."

"For what? What the hell is out there?"

"I don't have time to explain this to your fucking pea brain. I need to get all the guns." There was more rustling, the sound of shutting drawers. "Listen to the fucking radio if you don't believe me."

You heard the switch, the dial adjusted and the static sound of the radio humming. Voices were speaking rapidly, animated, but you your young ears it resembled only a bee buzzing.

"Jesus," your mother gasped. "What are they... What the hell is happening?"

"Where's the fucking ammo?"

You could hear your father's anger rising with every slam, could feel the heat of his fury like a fire against your face. And you could hear your mothers anxious footsteps, her slippers sliding over the carpet.

"Shouldn't we go somewhere? Take the truck and drive to my brother's? Maybe he-"

"Your fucking religious nut job brother? Are you outta your mind?"

You heard more slamming of doors. The sound of guns being removed from wardrobes, the metallic sound of bullet casings. And through this you heard your mom's fearful voice.

"But staying here? Is it safe?"

"We got guns don't we?"

"But those things sound... I just... I think we should leave."

"I'm defending my fucking home. It's my right."

You heard your mom's quiet reply, an unintelligible murmur then the unmistakable sound of your father's heavy boots moving over carpet. The very boots he wore to the auto shop he worked at, the ones that cracked your mom's ribs one drunken night.

"Stop just standing there and hand me the gun you dumb fucking cu-"

Your father's voice cut off sharply as an unfamiliar sound rang out, like a slap on skin but more booming.

The kind that rattled bones.

The bedroom door creaked open in the now eerily silent trailer. You saw your mother's fuzzy pink slippers shuffle your way. She spilled something on them red nail polish maybe.

She knelt next to the table, lowering her face. The smile she wore was unsettling. Her eyes were black and she spilled the polish all over the front of her house dress. Red bits were all over. She smelled funny too, sharp and metallic. Despite this you still reached for her, your heart fluttering.

"It’s okay, it's okay," your mom whispered, pulling you out, dragging your tiny body off the linoleum and into her arms. She bundled you into the passenger’s seat, blanket and pillow.

You didn't ask where your father was. You think even then you knew.

She threw bags into the truck bed, her hands shaky. It wasn't until she was pulling away from the trailer you called home that you realized Bitsy was missing. You were twisted in your seat, tears streaming down your face as you cried for him.

"We can't go back, I'm sorry we can't," your mom said as she threaded through the trailers. “I’m sorry honey.”

You knew that your cries would fall on deaf ears. Hiding your emotions was, safe and expected. Your father taught you that.

"Put your head down," she urged, squeezing your knee in that comforting way she always did as she drove. "Get some sleep."

At any other point you would have argued against that, fighting sleep as a knight would a dragon. But tonight you knew she needed to be obeyed.

Your eyes were trained on your mom's face as you nestled into the seat. She gave you a watery smile.

"Everything is going to be okay, honey. I swear."

She lied.

Because you weren't even five minutes out of the trailer park before another truck slammed into yours sending you skittering across asphalt and flipping your vehicle.

It was so fast you didn't even have time to scream. There was a loud scratching noise like fingers on a chalkboard, the crunch of metal; the scent you would later learn was burning rubber.

The car kept dragging, like your feet when you tried to stop the swing at the park. Eventually it groaned to a stop.

And then silence save for the drip drip drip next to you. The blood coming out of your mother's mouth, dropping into the crumpled interior roof of the car. You reached for her, your body half floating out of your seat, tethered in only by your safety belt.

Her neck looked funny and even though her eyes were open she wasn't looking at you. She too sat half suspended, body tucked under the safety belt, arms limply above her head. That same metal smell from before was back.

And that drip drip drip.

You didn't want to look at your mom. Her face was all wrong. Somehow even at your young age you seemed to understand that something was very wrong.

You faded in and out of consciousness, the pain in your head going from a sharp pain to a dull throb. There was noise, the sound of footsteps and you whimpered in terror, eyes searching the dark interior of the truck.

You couldn't get out of the seat to escape and find help, couldn't release the safety belt because each time you tried your hands screamed in pain.

And for the first time in so long your voice was there, scratchy and frantic and ultimately useless. You screamed and screamed until you blacked out, body hanging limply once more.

That's when they found you.

authors note: i know i normally write cute and happy things but i want to try a more gritty story as well. i never see enough boston era joel miller x reader on my dash.

💋💋💋💋

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badwolfvexa · 2 days ago

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Shawnstown: The Crafty Fox - Andrew 'Pope' Cody x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @akotafi @yousigned-upforthis @cowardlycandy @storiesaplenty

The premise of Shawnstown...

Summary: Three years after his release from prison Pope has made a home for himself in Shawnstown.

Masterlists:

Andrew Pope Cody

Sammy Bryant

Charlie Reid

Clayton Emerson

Jack Abbot

Stan Rosado

Companion piece to:

Chapter One: The Map That Leads To You - Freshly released from prison Pope decides to start his new life in honor of the woman he lost.

There’s a scratching at the workshop door.

The sound of tiny white paws raking against the wood as the creature tries to get inside.

Pope sighs, setting the paintbrush back down into the heather grey paint can before he forces himself to his feet. He promised himself last night, and the night before that he wouldn’t do this again but here he is opening the door to the beast.

A red fox streaks in through the gap, heading directly past the paint can to the dust sheet he’s tossed in the corner underneath the infrared ceiling heater. It pads the rough fabric with it’s feet before settling down and yawning.

“Alright, just come in like you own the place.” He mutters to Franco, leaving the door ajar so that the animal can leave when it wants to. The fox yips at him and Pope rolls his eyes as he picks up a handful of peanuts from the bag on the work bench before tossing them to him. He snuffles the first one, crunching it between his jaws before he sniffs out the rest.

“We’re running out of these things.” He tells Franco as he holds up the plastic bag for the fox to see before sealing it. “We’ll have to get some more from the store tomorrow, maybe we’ll mix them up with some roasted cashews, give you a little treat before the winter sets in.”

The fox eats another peanut in response to Pope’s words and Pope nods his head.

“That’s a yes on the cashews huh?” He says before placing the bag on the highest shelf above the workbench so Franco can’t get to it.

He learned that lesson the hard way last year when the fox first showing up at his door. The wily thing managed to climb up onto the workbench using the stool and torn the plastic open with his teeth, scattering them everywhere. Pope had ended up yelling at the damn animal because his carefully controlled domain had devolved into chaos and Franco had slinked off into the night, not returning for almost a week.

In the end Pope and become so desperate for company, he’d started to leave a trail of peanuts from the edge of his property leading up to the workshop where he spent most evenings working on the orders that came through for his woodworking skills.

Building shit had started off as a way to keep himself busy in the evenings. Being up here on the mountain alone gave him too much time to think especially when the darkness rolled in so he started collecting sticks from around the ten acres he’d purchased along with the cabin and workshop, turning them into birdhouses and using moss as decorations. He’d dotted them around his property, and spent mornings on his porch sipping coffee, watching chickadees and wrens darting in and out of them.

“You should try selling them.” Ray the owner of the General Store had told him when he’d dropped by after not seeing him for a couple of weeks. Pope had been sick with the flu, too dizzy to make the drive into town and then other man had brought soup. “I’ve got some shelf space opened up, I’m sure they’d go great in the spring. You mind if I take a couple? I’ll give you the cash next time you’re in town.”

“Just have them.” Pope had said gesturing to the growing pile of bird houses, that were taking up residence on his kitchen table, moss piled neatly beside them. It had been the only task he could do when he was sick because he didn’t trust himself around power tools. “I have too many of the damn things anyway.”

“Maybe you should try your hand at something else.” Ray had said, tipping his head towards the chipped coffee table that came with the cabin. “Collect some driftwood from the beach maybe, make yourself a new coffee table.”

Until that moment branching out had never occurred to Pope. He’d become fixated on the birdhouses, which was why his workshop was full of them. He’d never had a chance to explore his creativity before. Everything prior to this was always done with some purpose in mind. An apparatus to help with a heist, a vent set up to practice in. He’d never just done something because he wanted to see if he could. There’s a joy in it he hadn’t expected, which is why he now has an obscene amount of birdhouses.

When spring hits the birdhouses sell out within the first week. He doesn’t expect the phone call asking if he can bring the rest by or the wad of cash Ray hands him when they’ve sold out too.

“People are asking what else you do.” Ray informs him as he wipes down the counter. “If you take special requests?”

“Like what?” He asks as he counts the notes in his hand before calculating ten percent of the sales. He separates the cash before setting it down on the counter and sliding it towards Ray. They hadn’t made formal agreement but the old guy definitely deserves a cut for giving him the shelf space and actively selling his shit.

“Mrs Waynes would like a couple of plant boxes for her porch.” Ray informs him, taking the bills and putting them into the register. “She said to go over and chat with her when you’re ready, she can give you the measurements.”

Pope freezes then. He’s given the people of this town a wide berth since coming here, removing himself from interactions, scowling whenever one of them sidles up to him. He doesn’t know how to talk to people since Dylan’s been gone. She’d brought him out of his shell when the two of them were together and he’s regressed since her death. The only person he really knows is Ray and that’s because dealing with him was a necessity when he first rolled into town.

“It’s ok.” Ray says after a minute. “I can get my daughter to head out there, get the details. She’s the one that makes the lavender wreaths like the one you have on your front door. Mrs Wayne’s loves talking to her.”

The wreath had been a welcome gift from the town, along with a basket full of local produce. It had been so unexpected that he hadn’t known what to do with it when it arrived on his porch, he’d sat there staring at it for an hour or two before taking it inside and carefully allocating the items to their new homes. He isn’t used to the kindness of strangers. He isn’t used to kindness full stop.

His business starts to grow over unwittingly over the next three years. Word spreads that he’s the guy to go to when you want ethical, unique custom woodwork. He starts to get calls from local businesses like Hatterby Farm asking if he wants to reclaim the wood from the barn they’re pulling down for his creations. This allows him to experiment with making bigger pieces like the toddler bed for guy who owns the outdoor activity centre by the lake.

The notes that Ray’s daughter Aubrey has taken are always meticulous and detailed, handed over in an envelope that smells like wild flowers. She always adds a couple of extra things he doesn’t need to know but he appreciates anyway because it makes him feel connected to the town. Like the fact Sammy’s kid has become Houdini and keeps escaping out of his crib by shoving his ‘Wolfie’ against the side and then howling Sammy awake because he can’t get Wolfie out through the bars.

He's pulled from his thoughts by a flash of copper, he tilts his head up to see Franco running across one of the freshly painted slats of wood he has laid, leaving small fox paw prints in the heather grey as he chases after a peanut that’s escaped.

“For fuck’s sake Franco…” Pope mutters before standing above the slat with his hands on his hips to survey the damage.

The piece of wood is laid out in between two others that will form the back panel of the bed that will slot against the wall in little Houdini’s room. Pope finds he actually quite likes the addition to the design, it gives the piece a bespoke twist, perfect for a kid that loves running around in the outdoors.

“Good job Franco.” He murmurs, rubbing his palm across his grizzled jaw before glancing at the fox as he chomps down his prize. “I’m gonna have to start calling this business The Crafty Fox if you keep this up.”

Love Pope? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the Shawnstown taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

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badwolfvexa · 4 days ago

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. ᵒ .༄ JACK ABBOT x MORGUE TECH!READER CONCEPTS ! ࿔* ·˚ ༘ ┊͙ # 🥼 possible trigger warnings .' nsfw 18+ MDNI ━ including oral ( fem!recieving ) , heavy praise kink ‧ 💉 ‧ ━━ WC 1.7k

series masterlist || inbox ━━━ request here!!! * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune and @uzmacchiato !!!

⤷ ✵ ✧ . · * . · . BREATHE || requested!!! ( anon )

it started like everything between you and jack did lately : slowly. carefully. like he was afraid you'd break if he touched you too fast.

and maybe he was right.

you hadn’t meant to end up tangled with him on your bed—your safe place, the one part of the world where no one could look at you or expect anything from you. but he’d come over after shift, after checking in on you three times throughout the day with little text updates.

still alive? almost broke shen's nose have time for a coffee break?

and you’d mumbled something about being tired, and then he’d asked if he could stay. you didn’t say no.

now, the light was dim and your bedroom smelled like clean sheets and his cologne—something crisp and warm that clung to your clothes hours after he left. your back was against your pillow, your legs tangled loosely around his waist, and jack was looking at you like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to be here.

his hand slid under the hem of your sleep shirt, fingers slow and reverent against your bare thigh. he’d touched you before—but only like this. over the fabric. through clothes. never skin to skin.

you felt fevered. like your blood was too hot for your body.

“you still okay, pretty girl?” he asked, voice low.

your bedroom was the only place that ever felt remotely safe.

so when jack had pressed a soft kiss to your temple and asked, in that low rasp that always melted your bones—so quietly you'd barely heard it.

you nodded, biting your lip. “mmhm.”

you were trembling beneath him, still dressed ( if your night shirt and panties counted as dressed ), your legs open around his waist, your breath shaky with anticipation. he hadn’t even touched you yet, not really—just slow kisses and soft praise and the kind of eye contact that made your skin prickle.

he watched you for a beat too long. “that doesn’t sound convincing.”

“i’m just…” you swallowed. “nervous.”

his hand stilled. “we can stop.”

“no.” your voice cracked. “i don’t want to stop. i just—i don’t know what i’m doing.” jack smiled. soft and adoring and absolutely fucking lethal. “you don’t have to know what you’re doing. you just have to let me make you feel good.”

god.

you’d combust on the spot if he kept talking like that.

he leaned in, kissing your jaw, then your cheek, then your temple. “let me take care of you, pretty thing. you don’t have to do anything but lie there and let me spoil you a little.”

you nodded—too quickly, too shyly—and he smiled against your skin.

he kissed you properly once more—slow, thorough, the kind of kiss that made your breath stutter—and then his mouth began trailing down. your neck. your collarbone. your sternum. he whispered praise with every inch he traveled.

his fingers brushing your inner thigh. “gonna need you to breathe for me.” you nodded, but your voice wobbled. “mmhm. i’m okay.”

jack kissed the inside of your knee. “color?”

you blinked. “g-green. i’m green.”

“good girl.”

you whimpered—embarrassed, flustered—and covered your face with both hands. he chuckled, low and fond. "don't hide from me, baby, wanna see those pretty eyes." then he kissed down your thigh. closer. and closer.

by the time he reached the hem of your sleep shirt, your fingers were fisted in the sheets. you were already soaked. you didn’t want to think about how obvious it must have been when he nudged his hands up your waist, pushing the night shirt with it. leaving your panties on full view. sopping wet and clinging to your cunt.

he kissed your inner thigh first. then the other. you gasped when his stubble brushed sensitive skin, but he just hummed and did it again.

“i’ve wanted to taste you since the first time you whined my name through your teeth,” he muttered, kissing closer and closer to where you needed him most. “you remember that, don’t you? the first time you got off on my hand, grinding down on my thigh like it was instinct?”

his mouth brushed over the damp cotton of your panties. you sobbed—softly. you tried to hide it, but your body arched toward him anyway. your hips twitched again as you whispered, "oh."

jack looked up at you from between your legs. “i’m gonna take these off now, ok?" you nodded, barely able to speak. when he peeled your panties down your legs, his expression changed—went soft and hungry all at once. it was intoxicating watching him look at you like that.

“fuck,” he muttered. “so pretty.” you made a noise in your throat, small and strangled, hands still over your face. he nudged your thighs wider.

and that’s when he finally kissed your cunt. long. slow. so gentle it felt like your soul cracked in two.

your hands flew to your face again. jack didn’t stop. a long, slow, open-mouthed kiss. he dragged his tongue from your entrance to your clit, circling once, twice, before sucking—softly—just enough to make your hips jerk and a sound escape your mouth that neither of you had ever heard before.

it echoed.

loud. high-pitched. raw.

you slapped a hand over your mouth, mortified. jack stilled, then looked up, eyes dark, lips slick. his eyes were wide when he looked up at you. “baby, you okay?”

you nodded violently. “i—i didn’t mean to—i’m sorry—”

“sorry?” He blinked. then his mouth split into a crooked, wicked smile. “sweetheart, if i’d known you’d could sound like that, i’d’ve been down here weeks ago.”

you whined. “jack…”

“no. don’t hide.” he flattened his palm against your belly. “be loud for me. let me hear how good it feels.”

then he ducked back down—and this time, his mouth was more insistent. his tongue slower, firmer, focused. you felt it everywhere—your thighs trembling, your fingers twitching, your back arching against the bed.

you moaned again—louder.

jack groaned into you.

his fingers joined in—two of them, thick and curling and perfect. it sent a bolt of heat straight through you.

you were crying now.

not from pain.

from pleasure. from being overwhelmed. from being touched in a way you didn’t know you could be. you were sobbing his name, clutching the sheets, shaking so hard you weren’t sure if you were going to break apart or ascend.

“jack—jack—jackie—oh my g—”

he pressed his mouth harder against you. you whimpered into your arm.

“no hiding.” he pulled his fingers out and you whined loud. and then his palm came down, firm and steady on your belly. not rough—never rough—but grounding. his fingers were slicked with your cum and now so was your stomach where he was holding you in place. “be loud for me, pretty thing. let me hear how good it feels.”

and then he buried his mouth back between your thighs like he meant to stay there.

you had never—never—felt anything like it. his tongue was slow and deliberate, licking in deep, patient swipes that made your legs twitch and your hips lift off the bed. when he circled your clit again, it was with calculated pressure, drawing tight little figure-eights before sealing his mouth around it and sucking—

“oh—oh my god—jack—!” your voice cracked. shattered.

you reached for something—anything—and grabbed a fistful of his hair. he groaned into you like he liked it, and the sound made your thighs clamp around his head in reflex.

that only encouraged him.

he doubled down.hands gripping your hips now, holding you open like he was never letting go, licking you like he was trying to ruin you for anything else. and it was working. god, it was working. your vision blurred. your voice—usually so quiet, so careful—was cracking wide open, sobs slipping from your throat before you could even catch them.

“fuck,” he muttered, pulling back just long enough to drag his fingers through your slick again. “you’re soaked. you’re so—” he pushed a finger in, slow and firm, then a second. “—fucking tight. christ.”

“jack—please—i—”

“what do you need, baby? gotta use your words baby. 'member what we talked about.” he asked.

you nodded furiously. “more please!”

“then you’re gonna give me every goddamn sound you’ve got.”

he kissed your clit again, soft and sweet like a reward, before he started moving his fingers—slow, at first. curling them. searching.

you didn’t know what you were saying anymore. you were crying, babbling, leaking into his hand while he worked you open with slow, relentless care. and the moment he found the spot that made your spine arch? he smiled against you.

“there it is,” he murmured. “that’s it, isn’t it?”

you sobbed.

he didn’t stop.

he licked you while fingering you, every drag of his tongue perfectly timed to your cries, coaxing you closer and closer until you were thrashing—honestly thrashing—underneath him.

and when your orgasm hit, it was like your body exploded.

you screamed followed with a choked cry, thighs clamping around his head, your whole body shuddering, voice raw and loud and desperate.

loud. broken. a sobbing, hiccuping mess of sound and sensation.

jack didn’t stop—not right away. not until you were twitching, whimpering, gasping for air. he had stayed with you through it. kissed your thigh. murmured praise. and jack—jack fucking abbot—kissed your hip and said, voice low and rough : “louder than i imagined, pretty thing.”

you could barely breathe. you were shaking. twitching. your legs wouldn’t stop moving. “i didn’t mean to—i didn’t—”

“yes you did,” he said, smiling into your skin. “don’t pretend you didn’t wanna scream my name.”

you hid your face. he kissed your trembling stomach. “Next time, I’m making you scream it twice.” gently he brushed his lips up your belly, your ribs, your throat, until he was beside you again—warm and solid and safe.

you didn’t even realize you were crying until jack was kissing your inner thigh and murmuring, “good girl. that’s it. you did so good for me.”

his hair was a mess. his lips were slick. and he looked like the devil himself—smirking, satisfied, obsessed. “you’re full of surprises, pretty thing,” he whispered, kissing your cheek. you covered your face again, shaking your head.

you whined. he kissed you again. and you let him. because in your bedroom, where you were supposed to feel in control, you didn’t.

not with jack abbott.

and maybe you liked it that way.

🔖 . @princesssunderworld @mayabbot @imherefordeanandbones @arigoldsblog @oldmanbunnylover @i-mushi @autumnleaves1991-blog @lovelexi717 @peggyofoz @qtmoonies @nfwmb-gvf @britt217 @babybatreads @cheekym8s @bitteroceanlove @spooky-librarian-ghost @dr-yapper @yutasgem @keseqna @gardeniarose13 @witchbitchlovesdilfs @sotragedynut @robbyrosierobinavitch @anglophileforlife @flyinglama @reignbooks8506 @kmc1989 @sillymuffintrashflap @letstryagaintomorrow @caterpillarskimono @maiamore @chuiisi @madzleigh01 @qardasngan @imightbeinsanebutwtv

@Shadowfoxey @foolishseven @anxiousfuckupon @Lumpypoll @Coldmuffinbanditshoe @blueliketheseaa @Justfaefaeee @sweetdayme4427 @404creep @yourdaydreamerfan @ddrawers96 @m14mags @generalstarlightobject @twiddledeedumsworld @dlljdhsh @jetless @Thedamnqueenofhell @Topnerd03 @misshoneypaper @abllor @Loud-mouph @cannonindeez @nubecita040@Sabi127 @Coleground @sevenberry @idontcarenoughtonamethis @beebeechaos @cwzham @homebytheharbor @Sammiib444 @painment @namgification @Cherry_cosmos @catmomstyles3 @livingavilaloca @hello-lisa1026 @emma8895eb @thesnugglingduck

@134340-cm @amindfullofmonsters @FloofMC @moonriseoverkyoto @alldaysdreamers @karavt @beefbaby25 @cruelchants @kiwikitty13 @faerykingdom @i-get-obsessed-fast @badwolfvexa @laerrynseelie @violetswritingg @braindead-raccoon @timeofmadness @bmoplanet @high-functioning-deadgirl @silas-aeiou @BxdBxtxh @rosellerinfrost @saidinpassing @alldaysdreamers @kaiaspapayas @concentratedconcrete @blackirisesinthesunlight @JillB12 @Emmyfairy @notgothenough @timeofmadness @valkyreally @narcolepticduck @hiireadstuff @dlljdhsh @beltzboys2015 @tealcelery @madprincessinabox @fairygardensss @ahleecollaborations @pope-codys

* ✷ ⊹ * ˚ want to join the morgue tech!reader taglist??? click here!!!!

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badwolfvexa · 4 days ago

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introducing . . . MORGUE TECH!READER . ᵒ . 🥼 🩺 🩻

you ( morgue tech!reader ) are a shy, soft-spoken, and far too good for the world you work in—but dr. jack abbot wants you anyway. wants you especially because of it. he’s older, bigger, rough around the edges, and completely undone by the way you squirms in his lap and stumbles over your words.

you never had anyone take their time with you—never been praised, teased, or touched the way he plans to. and when he finds out just how untouched you really are?

he makes it his mission to teach you everything you didn’t know you needed.

this is not just a series — this is a world. this is out of body experience for morgue girl ( and the reader ). this is a life-altering. this is a soft cinematic universe built from spilt coffee, sterile fluorescents, and jack abbot's absurdly soft hands wrapped around someone who didn't think anyone would take care to notice. this is GOOD GIRL CONFESSIONS .

CHAPTER ONE — SEVEN ⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ completed ❪ 10.2k words ❫ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ follows the reluctant tension-filled evolution of jack abbott and a quiet, anxious morgue tech. it begins with exhaustion, mutual annoyance, and an unfortunate first impression. it ends ( temporarily ) in almost-confessions, broken rules, and hands brushing too long by the trauma bay sink

⋆.˚ CHAPTER ONE .' cold and predictable ⋆.˚ CHAPTER TWO .' cold storage ⋆.˚ CHAPTER THREE .' a cold shoulder

⋆.˚ CHAPTER FOUR .' too cold to touch ⋆.˚ CHAPTER FIVE .' cold cut

⋆.˚ CHAPTER SIX .' caught in the cold ⋆.˚ CHAPTER SEVEN .' cold hands

CHAPTER EIGHT — FOURTEEN ⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ ongoing ❪ tbd words ❫ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ follows post-confession. you’ve admitted too much. jack’s heard too much. and yet neither of you knows what to do with the silence that follows. you keep pretending. he keeps showing up. the hospital keeps getting colder

⋆.˚ CHAPTER EIGHT .' tbd ( coming soon ) ⋆.˚ CHAPTER NINE .' tbd ( coming soon )

jack abbot x morgue tech!reader concepts

⤷ dead on arrival ( wc 1.1k ) ⤷ a cardiac event ( wc 1.7k ) ⤷ porcelain in storm ( wc 3.4k ) ⤷ fever dream ( wc 1.3k ) ⤷ cold blooded companions ( wc 0.8k ) ⤷ *breathe ( wc 1.7k )

jack x morgue tech!reader headcanons

⤷ *part one ( wc 1.3k ) ⤷ part two ( 1.6k ) ⤷ *petnames from jack ( wc 0.9k ) ⤷ *petnames for jack ( wc 1.3k )

layout inspo ||| dividers by @cafekitsune & @uzmacchiato * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ main masterlist ||| more jack abbot ||| inbox

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possible trigger warnings * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ lowercase intended!!!! \ medical trauma \ mentions of death \ hospital setting ( graphic references to autopsies, corpses, injury, blood ) \ social anxiety \ self-worth issues \ body image insecurity ( specifically surrounding reader’s curvier body ) \ reader internalizes micro-aggressions and negative self-talk \ emotional repression \ low burn with eventual power imbalance ( not exploitative, but notable that jack is of higher rank but NOT reader's direct superior ) \ age gap dynamic \ jack is gruff and emotionally avoidant at first ( but in his bf!era dw ) \ SMUT in later chapters ( pls read all content warnings posted at the beginning of each part )

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badwolfvexa · 5 days ago

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'swept away: season two' masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Series Summary: Your return to the island for the grand opening of The Parador: Fiji holds even more drama than the first visit. Desire, love, heartbreak, mystery, and luxury await your stay.

Series Warnings: no outbreak au, language, smut (18+ MDNI), food and alcohol consumption, fluff, angst, reader has a rocky relationship with parents, tammy, occasional references to sugar daddy/sugar baby dynamics, past infidelity mentioned, lots of marriage/wedding talk, references to drug use, physical violence - more warnings stated for each chapter

Status: in progress

Sequel to Swept Away

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Chapters:

Prologue: Two Rings

1: Long Time, No Sea

2: Kokomo

3: Jet Lagged

4: Oh, sugar, sugar

5: In a Tight Spot

6: No Hard Feelings

7: Come Clean

8: Adrift

9: Fresh Start

Epilogue: Wild and Free

Extras:

Moodboard by @iamladyp ❤️

Edit by @saintbitjj 😍

Please follow @punkshort-notifs and turn on notifications for fic updates ❤️

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badwolfvexa · 5 days ago

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. ᵒ .༄ JACKSON!JOEL x CHEF!READER ! ࿔* ⤷ ✵ ✧ . · * . · . smile, sweetheart ━ chapter one ⋆ ❦ ₊˚. ‧ summary in a quiet post-apocalyptic town, a sweet-faced baker/chef who hides secret bruises in silence—but now joel miller is paying attention.

series masterlist || inbox ━━━ request here!!! * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune and @uzmacchiato !!!

possible trigger warnings lowercase intended !!! \ physical, mental, emotional and verbal abuse ( from readers husband, not joel ) \ comments on reader's weight ( from readers husband, not joel ),

authors notes you are literally joel's lil cinnamon roll ( even if you are not really his yet lmao ) pictures above are ONLY for aesthetic and do not actually depict the reader. readers physical appearances are not described EXCEPT light hints at curvy!reader. i am not responsible for your media consumption. read at your own discretion.

you wake up before the sun.

not because you want to. not even because of the bakery. but because if you don’t move quiet enough—he’ll wake up. and that’s worse than the early hour. worse than the frost still clinging to the windows.

so you slip out of bed as softly as you can, bare feet touching cold floorboards, and keep your breathing light. you know where the creaky ones are. you know how to open the dresser drawer without scraping wood. you know which shirt to wear—the one that covers the bruise on your upper arm.

the bruise that isn’t technically from him.

he just grabbed you too fast. just trying to stop you from leaving mid-conversation. just a misunderstanding.

it always is.

in the kitchen, you boil water from the kettle and pour it over pressed grounds. you pour him a cup first. two sugars. one cream. always the same.

your cup is weaker. just a splash of what’s left after his. you’ve long since stopped thinking of it as unfair. it’s just the way things are. you toast the bread. add butter and canned jam. you don’t eat.

you leave his plate on the table and begin packing his lunch—rice, carrots, smoked fish. he likes it warm, so you wrap it in cloth and set it by the fire for a few minutes before tucking it into the tin. you wipe the edges clean with a dish towel before you place it on the counter.

your hands move out of habit. your thoughts stay somewhere else. he walks in just as you’re wiping your hands. “didn’t hear you get up,” he mutters, stretching. you smile. soft. practiced.

“didn’t want to wake you.”

“good,” he says. then : “is that coffee fresh?”

“just brewed.” you turn before he can see your eyes. he pours himself a cup. makes a satisfied sound. doesn’t thank you. you glance down at your mug and realize you’ve already drunk it. you don’t remember the taste.

“you make enough for the hall this morning?” he asks around a bite of toast. “almost done proofing the second batch.” you answer.

“don’t mess it up like last week.” the words are casual. but they land like weight. you nod. “of course.”

he wipes his mouth and leaves the crusts. you clear his plate when he’s done, wrapping what’s left in wax paper to give to the goats—he hates waste, just not his own.

he stands behind you as you rinse the dishes. you stiffen when you feel him close. his hand touches your waist. “that dress fits tighter,” he murmurs. “have you gained?”

your stomach knots. “no,” you say, too quickly. “could’ve fooled me.”

he lets go and walks away. whistles low under his breath as he pulls on his boots. you don’t look at him. you just keep scrubbing. the plates are already clean.

“you need to remember what people expect of you,” he says casually. “they see you laughing too much, looking too happy—they start asking questions.” you nod. you don’t trust your voice.

he comes back, presses a kiss to your cheek, too hard. grabs your chin after and tilts your face to look at him. “smile, sweetheart.”

you do.

“good girl.” he leaves with the lunch tin and a smug look.

when the door clicks shut, you finally breathe. you lean forward over the sink, gripping the counter with wet hands, and count backward from ten. then twenty. then thirty. until the ache behind your ribs fades.

you strip out of the dress he commented on. pull a different one and then put on your baking apron. pin your hair back. smear a little flour on your cheek like always.

the woman in the mirror looks almost normal. you hum. just a little. just loud enough to drown out the voice in your head. the bakery is quiet when you arrive. still cold. you light the stove and knead the last batch of dough with shaking hands.

you’re always the first one in. you used to think it was because you loved the work. now you know it’s because it’s the only place you get to breathe.

outside, the town starts to wake. horses shift in their stalls. boots scrape gravel. doors creak open. you wipe your hands and set a tray of rising rolls in the warmer.

you’ll go to the mess hall soon. help serve breakfast. smile like always. but for now—for this one moment—you sit at the prep table. you hold a chipped coffee mug between your hands, and you hum a song you barely remember the words to.

just to feel like yourself again.

the cornbread is still warm when you load it into the cart.

wrapped in dishcloths. nestled in a basket lined with patched quilt scraps. you check each tin twice before leaving the bakery—like always. your hands move by instinct now : one final glaze of butter across the tops, a dusting of cracked pepper, and then—the cinnamon rolls.

a dozen and a half. soft, golden, the frosting still setting in sweet little swirls. you hadn’t planned on making them. but after this morning—

you needed to create something gentle.

so you did.

the path to the mess hall is quiet, but not empty. people nod as you pass. some smile.

“smells good, as always,” a woman calls from her porch.

“morning,” you say softly.

you don’t stop. you keep walking. you don’t trust what’ll happen if you linger. inside the mess hall, the kitchen’s already buzzing. steam. footsteps. knives on cutting boards. laughter.

“ah! there she is,” calls marla, the shift lead this week.

she’s older than you, sharp as vinegar and twice as strong. she waves you in with a grin and a flour-dusted hand. “what’d you bring me, sweetheart?” you push the cart forward.

“cornbread. enough for the dinner stew rotation.”

“and what’s that i see?” marla peers over the tray, eyes gleaming. “are those cinnamon rolls?” you blush automatically. “just . . . had a little extra dough.”

“you spoil us,” she grins. “ain’t nothing wrong with that.” you open the cloth to let her peek at the glistening tops. the smell alone is enough to make her sigh.

“girl, you keep bakin’ like this and we’ll have to marry you off to half the town.” your hands freeze just for a second. you force a laugh. “guess i’m already spoken for.” marla clucks her tongue.

“yeah, lucky man he is.”

behind you, jason—a younger volunteer, no older than twenty—makes a dramatic sniffing sound. “if my wife ever cooked like that, i’d never let her outta my sight.”

marla swats him with a towel. “she’d never marry you, smartass.”

jason laughs. “i’m just sayin’—if i was married to her, i wouldn’t let her lift a finger.” you try to smile. you really do.

marla catches your eyes. “you alright, hon?” you nod too fast. “of course. just tired.” she gives you a long look but doesn’t press.

“we’ll get you a cup of tea. sit down for a minute before the lunch prep kicks in.” you thank her. step into the corner. breathe.

you set the cinnamon rolls on the back table—free for anyone who wants one—and step away before you can be thanked. you don’t do it for the thanks. you don’t want attention.

still, you hear the murmurs.

“damn, she’s too good to be true.”

“you think she’s really happy?”

“course she is. she’s got a house. a stable job. a husband on the council.”

they say it like you’re lucky. they say it like you don’t flinch every time a door shuts too hard.

you find a seat by the window and press your fingers into your palm until they stop shaking. across the room, a little girl is licking frosting off her fingers. her mother ruffles her curls and smiles at you. you smile back.

you don’t realize he’s entered until the air changes. you feel it. like a drop in temperature. he walks behind you. doesn’t touch you. but leans low enough that only you can hear.

“don’t forget to bring the leftovers back. you know how wasteful it looks when you give too much away.” you nod. he squeezes your shoulder just a little too hard and walks off, clapping jason on the back like they’re best friends. jason grins up at him.

“damn, man. you’re a lucky son of a bitch.” your husband laughs. “don’t i know it.” you sit with your tea and wonder if anyone will ever see past the frosting.

“you screamed.”

“i did not scream.”

joel’s voice came out flat, clipped, somewhere between a warning and a sigh. he adjusted the strap on his rifle and ignored the way ellie snorted beside him.

they were trudging down the gravel main road back into town, boots heavy with dried mud from the northern fence line, dust kicked up in little halos around their ankles. his back ached. his knees hurt. his shoulder was throbbing where he’d hit the gate latch too hard.

“okay, fine—you didn’t scream. you yelped. like a kicked dog. like a—like a wounded coyote, joel.” ellie burst into another fit of laughter, swinging her arms wide, clearly reliving it all in her head.

joel grunted again. that was the fifth time in ten minutes. he was done defending himself. “it flew in my face.”

“it was a wasp, not a grenade!”

“didn’t say it was a grenade. just didn’t want to get stung.”

“yeah, well, i didn’t want to see a fifty-year-old man do the cha-cha through a patch of thistle, but here we are.” another snort. joel’s eyes narrowed. “careful. you're real close to me takin’ your dessert.”

“you’d have to catch me first, gramps.” he didn’t bother answering that one.

the town was slowly easing into its afternoon rhythm. the sound of horses clopping toward the stables echoed faintly behind them. wind stirred the linen lines. someone was chopping firewood on the far end of the square, each thud a solid, satisfying beat.

joel’s stomach growled. ellie, of course, heard it immediately. “oh my god,” she said suddenly, lifting her nose to the sky. “you smell that?”

joel furrowed his brow. “smell what?”

“that’s cinnamon. and sugar. and maybe—maybe—some kinda angelic bread miracle.”

“you’re makin’ that up.”

“am not. i can smell it.”

she picked up the pace, her boots slapping quicker against the ground. “she’s baking again. the baker lady. she’s real.” joel had no idea what she was talking about. he shifted his weight to his better knee and picked up his feet, slower.

“the who, now?”

“the baker lady! the one who gives out cookies sometimes. i don’t know her name, but her rolls? life-changing. she’s like if betty crocker and a goddess had a baby.”

he gave her a sidelong look. “you don’t even know who betty crocker is.”

“no, but she’s on all the old boxes. with the weird smile.” joel snorted, low in his throat. “you ever actually say hi to this lady?”

“no. she’s too pretty. i just take the cookies and run.” he almost missed a step. “you’re a menace.”

“thank you.”

the mess hall came into view—a tall, barn-like structure of warm wood and salvaged sheet metal, the front steps worn smooth from hundreds of boots. people were already gathering in clusters by the benches outside, talking, gesturing, trailing the smell of smoke and something . . . sweet.

joel caught it then, too. that faint, golden scent. sugar. warm bread. cinnamon. it hit him somewhere low in the gut. not just hunger—something older. something quieter. he didn’t say anything.

ellie grabbed the door. “hello, blessed carbs!” she charged inside like a soldier storming a keep. joel followed at a slower pace, pushing his shoulders back as he stepped into the noise and warmth.

“can you act normal for once?”

“absolutely not.”

the air inside was thick with movement. boots scraped, dishes clattered, and a line snaked toward the service counter. joel joined the back of it without thinking, automatically scanning the space—habit.

no threats. no weird energy. just people. and then, he saw you.

at first, it was just your back. you moved with smooth, practiced efficiency behind the counter, turning to lift a basket of fresh cornbread and settle it gently beside the stew pot. your apron was dusted with flour, tied tight at the waist. your hair was pulled up in a low knot, loose strands curling around your cheeks.

then you turned and smiled. not at him. just at the next person in line. but joel still felt it—that flash of warmth, real warmth, not the kind people give out of politeness.

you picked up a ladle, wiped your hand on a cloth, and said something that made a child in line giggle. joel blinked. his feet moved forward with the line. “you’re starin’,” ellie whispered.

he blinked again. “no i’m not.”

“you so are.”

“pipe down.”

she smirked.

when they reached the front of the line, you glanced up again—and this time, your gaze landed squarely on his.

there was a beat of stillness. then you smiled—softer this time. almost private. “hi,” you said gently. “stew’s still hot. bread’s fresh. you want a cookie too?”

joel didn’t answer immediately. something about your voice caught him. ellie leaned over the counter like she was about to propose marriage. “yes. yes to all of that.”

“one per person,” you said with mock sternness, though your smile didn’t fade. “but if there’s extra later, i’ll sneak you another.”

“you’re my hero.”

joel finally cleared his throat. “yeah, uh . . . thanks.”

you handed him the tray. your fingers brushed the edge of his glove. he felt the warmth through the fabric, even though it was barely a second. you didn’t pull away too fast, didn’t flinch, didn’t look anywhere but his eyes.

then you turned to ellie.

“you’re the baker lady,” she said, cramming a roll into her mouth.

“that’s me, apparently. i cook too.”

“that's so cool. i’m ellie. that’s joel. he’s the guy not much of a talker.”joel sighed. “ellie.”

you laughed. just once. a quiet, honest sound. you glanced at him, eyes twinkling. “good to meet you,” you said. “you too,” he managed.

ellie dragged him away before he could say anything else, pulling him toward a window seat already half-covered in crumbs. he sat down slowly. watched steam curl from the stew. watched you pass a cinnamon roll to a little boy and crouch to fix his napkin.

your smile was small. tired. but real. joel looked down at his tray, then out the window, then back at you. he didn’t touch his food.

didn’t speak. didn’t know why the knot in his chest felt looser than it had all day. ellie had barely sat down before she noticed them. ellie was gone before joel could blink. “oh my god.”

joel looked up, startled.

“what?”

but she was already halfway out of her seat.

“cinnamon rolls, joel.”

she pointed across the mess hall to a tray set at the end of a back table—lined with soft, golden spirals, frosting catching the light like morning snow.

“she made extra. and they’re just sitting there. unclaimed. ungoverned.”

“it’s a roll, ellie.”

“it’s a miracle. guard my stew.”

“cinnamon rolls.” she yelled over her shoulder, boots already skidding across the mess hall floor.

“it’s just a damn roll,” joel muttered, settling stiffly into one of the corner tables.

he rubbed his hand down his face and rolled his shoulder. that fucking gate latch had nearly separated the thing. his back ached from patrol, his stomach was growling loud enough to draw looks, and his pride still smarted from ellie re-enacting his “wasp dance” half the way home.

now, here he was. alone. sitting in the only chair that didn’t wobble, half-listening to a bunch of teenagers talk about bread like it was a sacred relic.

he scowled down at the tray. stew. bread. a cookie the size of his palm. his stomach grumbled again. but he leaned back slightly, watching her all but body-check a teenager out of the way. he couldn’t help the small exhale of amusement. ellie’s voice rang out somewhere by the cinnamon rolls.

“i earned this with my suffering!” ellie yelled. joel grunted, lips twitching. damn kid was half wild.

he picked up his spoon and stirred the stew absently. the scent was good—real good. warm, peppery, thick with actual chunks of potato. the cornbread had that golden crust too, flecked with herbs. probably thyme. he didn’t know. he just knew it smelled like comfort.

like something you remembered after losing everything else. his eyes drifted. not consciously. not on purpose. just wandered.

back toward the counter. but you weren’t there. he scanned the kitchen again. slower this time. different girl at the ladle now. young. nervous. spilling stew down the sides of the bowl. not you.

you weren’t behind the counter. weren’t by the ovens. not wiping trays or swapping baskets or smiling at kids.

his brows creased. maybe you were on break. maybe you’d already left. he sat back. looked toward the windows. the fire exits. then there back table. left corner. shadowed by one of the big timber beams.

you.

but . . . not the way he remembered you.

you were sitting straight-backed in a too-small chair, your tray untouched in front of you. the steam had stopped rising. the cornbread sat whole. even the cookie looked forgotten, like it didn’t exist.

your hands rested in your lap. stiff. not folded—flattened. as if pressing yourself still. joel didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until his chest started to ache. you weren’t alone.

the man beside you—broad shoulders, salt-and-pepper hair, back turned toward joel—was leaned sideways, chatting easily with another guy at the table behind you.

his posture was loose. relaxed. laughing about something. joel didn’t care. because what he saw—what he couldn’t unsee—was the man’s hand.

firm. heavy. planted on your thigh. not affectionate. not playful. just there. like ownership. you didn’t move. didn’t speak. didn’t eat.

joel’s jaw locked so tight he heard it click. ellie slammed her tray down across from him, snapping him back to the room. “got two. i should not be allowed near unsupervised pastry.”

joel blinked. “she said one per person.”

“she also said ‘take one,’ and i took that as a starting point.”

she grinned, already peeling one open like it held state secrets. “joel,” she said, eyes rolling back, “this is what heaven tastes like. if i die tonight, tell everyone i went out happy.”

joel wasn’t listening. not really. he was still watching you. still watching the man’s hand. still watching how you nodded softly when he leaned closer, like you weren’t even aware of it. like it was just another reflex. like you’d been trained to do it.

joel felt something low in his stomach twist. not a cramp. not hunger. something colder. “you ever see that guy before?” he asked, trying to sound casual. he didn’t take his eyes off you.

you hadn’t moved. you still weren’t eating. ellie followed his line of sight immediately—not discreetly—and turned in her seat to squint. joel’s jaw tensed. “discreetly, ellie.”

“what? you were already starin’.”

“i was not starin’.”

“okay, you were doing that quiet brooding thing, which is just old man code for starin’.” she twisted halfway around to get a better look.

“oh. yeah. that’s him.”

“him who?”

“her husband.”

joel blinked.

his gaze snapped from you to ellie and then back again, as if something had malfunctioned in his brain. “that’s her husband?” ellie nodded like it was obvious. she tore off a chunk of roll with her teeth and mumbled around it.

“mmhmm. pretty sure. i’ve seen ’em at the bakery a bunch of times. she usually opens alone, real early, but sometimes he’s there too. brings her stuff. hangs around the back door like a stray dog.”

joel’s fingers twitched under the table. “stray dog?”

“yeah. like… doesn’t bark or bite, but just there. watchin’.”

she ripped off another bite. her tone hadn’t changed. like she was talking about the weather. “weird vibe. kinda greasy.” joel didn’t answer. his eyes were locked on the table across the room.

you were still picking at the same damn piece of carrot. the fork just barely moved it back and forth, over and over like your hand didn’t know what else to do. “why?” ellie asked, chewing slower. “you think he’s . . . i dunno. creepy?” joel’s voice came out low. measured. controlled.

“i think she ain’t touched her food. and she made half of it.” ellie blinked. looked again. this time, she really looked.

watched how you sat rigid in your seat, how you kept your shoulders from touching the man beside you. watched how your hands were in your lap, how your chin never lifted. “maybe she’s not hungry,” she said, softer now.

joel grunts but even he doesn't believe ellie's sad attempt to reassure him. across the room, your husband laughed at something the man behind him said.

he slapped the table, all smiles. you didn’t even blink. joel leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. his arms crossed tight over his chest. he could feel the tension building in his jaw, the pressure behind his teeth. his molars ached.

ellie was staring again. “you’re bein’ weird,” she muttered. “you look like you’re about to, like . . . stab somethin'.”

“m’fine.”

“you’re not fine.”

“eat your damn roll.”

“already did. it’s gone. devoured. vaporized. back to her as a thank-you tip.”

joel huffed. his arms were still crossed. still locked. ellie tilted her head, studying him. “you wanna say somethin’, don’t you.” he didn’t answer. she grinned like she’d caught him. “you got that look.”

“what look?”

“the ‘i know something’s wrong but i’m pretendin’ i don’t’ look.”

joel didn’t move. didn’t speak. he watched your husband lean toward you again and say something in your ear. joel couldn’t hear the words, but he didn’t need to. he saw how your spine twitched.

he saw the ghost of fear behind your stillness. ellie followed his stare again. “he talks to her like that a lot,” she said softly. “all low. close to her ear. never when anyone else is watchin’.”

joel felt his hands curl under the table. “that a fact?”

“yeah. i never thought about it before, but…” she shrugged, suddenly unsure. joel didn’t answer. the spoon in front of him was still untouched. his stew was stone cold.

his stomach had forgotten how to be hungry. ellie leaned forward, planting her elbows on the table. “you good?”

he didn’t look at her.

just shook his head once.

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