crazzzycomet

[crazzzycomet]

Dried Roses

joel miller x fem!reader

You can be his girl for now. For this moment - for as long as he fucks you - you can be his girl. 

Tags: 18+, MDNI, au no outbreak, age gap, one night stand, smut, sassy!joel, mentions of death and grief, porn + plot, joel is clearly pining for you lol, angst, lots n lots of tension, flashbacks of drunk sex, he loves pushing it, teasing, praise kink, fingering, denial of feelings, joel can't take it anymore

this is chapter 3 of dried roses - there are currently 5 chapters uploaded on ao3 <3

chapter 1 link

chapter 2 link

wc: 4.5k

a/n: i highly recommend reading chpt one and two for context reasons - especially for the tension snap at the beginning of this chapter, but feel free to do whatever you like! thank u for reading 💫

--

“Keep going,” you breathe. 

That’s all the confirmation he needs.

Your head empties as he wraps an arm around the small of your back, shushing you as he pushes a thick finger into your warmth - slowly and meticulously - watching your pinched expression melt like wax down the side of a candelabrum. 

“I know, baby. Needed this bad, huh?” 

A broken sigh is the only response you’re able to offer as you arch your back into his forearm and lift your hips, asking without words for more depth. More friction. 

“Gotta ask nicely, sweet girl - like I know ya can.” 

“More,” you pant, folding into his chest. 

You grab fistfuls of his shirt, attempting to pull him closer - push him deeper. 

“C’mon, darlin’,” he teases, his wrist pumping at a dreadfully steady pace. “Know damn well you can do better’n that. Lemme hear those manners ‘a yours - just like before, yeah?” 

Of course he wasn’t going to make this easy for you. 

You’re not going to beg - not after you’d already told him you had no recollection of begging for anything that night after the bar - not when he’s punishing you for your little white lie now. 

The truth is, you do remember. You remember all of it. Saying please when he’d asked you to; for his cock, for him to go faster, slower, harder, deeper.

You begged for all of it. Like a good girl. 

Like his good girl. 

But you’re not his girl, and you refuse to acquiesce to this asshole’s power-trip.

Instead, you reach out and place your hand over the solid bulge that’s pressed firmly against his jeans - cupping him through the thick denim.

“Fuck,” he growls, snatching your wrist away and lacing his fingers through yours to keep you from trying again.

The loss of stability from his forearm has your back pressed against the counter, warming the chilled marble as you desperately attempt to reach for his zipper with your free hand.

He chuckles at the despondent whine that falls out of you. 

“Mm-mm,” he hums. “Ain’t no avoidin’ this one, babygirl. You want more? Ask nicely. Want you to remember beggin’ for it this time.” 

This motherfucker.

You writhe underneath his hungry gaze. Your hand still trapped in his own.  

Your pathetic, frayed string of pride splits in two the moment you realize he’s not going to budge.

This is Joel Miller you’re talking about. He’s not exactly the poster child for pity or grace. Not when he’d rather watch you suffer— desperate and fucking needy for his touch and attention.

And you are suffering. Desperate. Needy.  

“Please, Joel.” Your voice wavers as you concede. “Please. I need more.” 

“There’s my girl,” he coos, slipping a second finger inside. “’S the sweet girl I remember.” 

You can be his girl for now. For this moment - for as long as he fucks you - you can be his girl. 

A soft cry escapes your throat as your walls adjust to the stretch of his fingers. 

“S’alright,” he drawls. “Know what you need, sweet girl. Gonna give it to you.” 

His fingers are soaked, covered with your slick up to his knuckles. 

Your jaw goes slack when he starts pumping faster, letting go of your hand to pin your mid-section down.

It barely registers that he's got you splayed out for him in the middle of the day - your bikini still damp and blades of grass still sticking to the sunscreen on your skin.

You attempt to lift your hips, whimpering hopelessly when he doesn’t budge. 

“Words, baby. Use your words f'me.” 

“Want you,” you whine, grabbing at his hand splayed over the width of your pelvis. “Fuck. Want you - ngh - need you closer. Please, Joel.”

He says something that you can't hear over the pleasure rapidly building inside of you. He slides his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his body once more.

Your eyes roll back at the warm swell of his cock pressing against your thigh.

“Such a good girl when I’m fuckin’ you - askin’ so nicely,” he whispers against the shell of your ear, his stubble scratching against your cheek.“Don’t know how to act when I’m not inside ‘a you. Not with that fuckin’ mouth ‘a yours.” 

“Fuck—“

You gasp at the delicious curl of his fingers inside you. 

“—fuck you.” 

“You don’t mean that, angel. Not when you’re so close,” he drawls, kissing your chin as you tip your head back. 

You are close. Close and too blissed out to try and push it. 

Your muscles contract around both of his fingers, reaching you deeper than you could ever get your own when you’d lay in bed at night imagining they were his. 

“Thought about this perfect fuckin’ pussy all goddamn week, y’know that?” he grits. “So wet f'me, pretty girl. Makin’ a fuckin' mess ‘a this counter.” 

Your strained moans warm the crook of his neck as you grasp the base his curls with zero pretense of being gentle - drawing low, breathless groans from him.

You both catch the sound of the water heater shutting off, and the faint patter of footsteps above you. 

Your stomach tightens as the heat in your core threatens to spill into every nerve ending. 

“You gonna be quiet 'f I let you cum, darlin'? Or do we gotta save this for next time?” 

“No,” you squeak. “No, I’ll be - shit - I’ll be quiet.” 

“Good girl." He adjusts his grip, pulling you even closer - practically holding you up himself. 

You wrap your legs around his waist, fucking his fingers while he whispers praises into your hair.

The pad of his thumb finds your swollen clit, tracing tight circles that have you biting his shoulder, looking for any way to stifle the noises he’s pulling out of you.

“That’s it,” he coaxes. “Let go, baby. Fuck. Wanna feel you cum all over my fingers.”

It's intimate, the way he’s holding you. Talking to you. It feels just like it did with him before - tangled with him in your bed, biting your lip to keep from telling him how much you needed it - the praises and the affection. The warmth.

Your orgasm washes over you, cumming around his knuckles to the lull of his familiar, silky drawl - the same one that had talked you through it last time. 

You tremble, coming down while his hand tangles through your hair. Joel presses you tight into his chest - muffling his name as you repeat it through broken, fucked out moans. 

The gentle kiss he places on your forehead is almost imperceptible as you slowly float back to earth. If it weren’t for the way it made your stomach flutter, you’re not sure you would’ve noticed it at all. 

He’s about to say something when you both flinch at the sound of a door slamming upstairs. 

“Fuck,” you breathe, partially at the sudden loss of his fingers.

Footsteps grow closer, descending each stair with a loud stomp.

Joel helps you off the counter, your knees threatening to buckle as you sprint to the other side of the island, adjusting your bikini and preening at your flyaways. 

He’s stood behind you, your slick still glistening on his fingers.

You don't have time to look back before Romy flies down the stairs like a bat out of hell, trudging straight ahead without a single glance toward you or Joel before she’s heaves open the sliding door to the backyard.

“Lu! Did you get into my makeup while I was gone?”

Lulu’s shrill scream fills the stinging silence between you and Joel. 

You place your head in your hands, rubbing at your eyes as a silent curse exits your mouth. 

“This was a mistake,” you say without looking behind you. “You should go.” 

He doesn’t say anything. No questions. No protest. 

Just the thud of his work boots on the wood floor, followed the rusted creak of the front door’s hinges, opening and shutting behind him. 

————

“So he…”

“Yes.” 

“And you-"

“Uh-huh,” you answer, pouring a cloud of steamed milk over a shot of espresso while Maya lingers over your shoulder. 

She sweeps her platinum-dyed hair behind her ear, seemingly unfazed when the bluntly trimmed strands fall right back into place, following you to the front counter like a lost puppy. 

“Anything else I can get you, Wes?” you ask the older gentleman in front of you, handing him a delicately painted ceramic mug, brimming with the same hazelnut latte he orders every day. 

His translucent skin grows more wrinkled when he flashes a stained smile. 

“Could I trouble ya for some toast? Rye, buttered on—"

“Both sides,” you and Maya harmonize like song-birds in love. 

“Don’t know what I’d do without you girls.” 

“Wes,” Maya lays a gentle hand over her heart, “I would rather die before I serve you toast buttered on one measly side.” 

He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath while he shuffles over his usual table. 

You both make quick work - Maya passing you the toasted bread while you begin slathering butter, making sure to spread it evenly on both sides and adding extra before he inevitably asks for it. 

“So,” Maya continues to pry, “right on the counter, huh? Broad daylight?” 

“Yep.”

“And he actually made you-"

“Yes,” you rasp, wiping your butter-infested hands on your waist apron, the yellow gingham already muddy with coffee splatters and spots of grease. 

“Like - without you even having to—"

“Jesus, Maya." You push past her. “Yes."

You make your way to Wes and his lonely table, where he sits quietly, reading the Sunday paper - Maya still sputtering and nipping at your heels. 

“And you kicked his ass out after that? Are you fuckin’—"

“Let me know if there’s anything else, Wes.”

You place his extra soggy toast next to his little old man hat and his little old man latte. 

“Thank you kindly, ladies.” He folds a corner of his paper down to give you both a wink. 

You nod, and Maya says something you tune out as you meander back to the front counter. 

“Are you fuckin’ stupid?” she hisses the second she catches up to you. 

You glance at the table in the right corner, where your siblings are sat together. Bear swings his cleats back and forth, sharing the last bite of French toast with Lulu, all while Romy teaches them how to play M.A.S.H. on a piece paper ripped from your notepad. 

It’s Sunday. And like every Sunday, Bear had a soccer game way before any normal person would ever wake up. It also meant you having to rush to Sweet Pea’s in order to catch the rest of the breakfast rush.

“Last week I was a dumb bitch - now I’m an idiot. Make up your mind.” 

“Well.” She places her hands on her hips. The iridescent glitter painted on her lids twinkles with a raise of her brow. “Stop being an idiot then, you dumb bitch.” 

“Someone’s passionate today,” you say flatly. 

“Y'wanna know why I’m so passionate—"

The bell above the door chimes. 

“Hi! What can we get started for you today?” Her switch in tone is diabolical. 

You eavesdrop the woman’s order, getting started on her drink while Maya fakes the appearance of social skills.

She’s glued back to your side before you’re even finished tamping the coffee grounds. 

“I’m passionate because - incase you forgot - I was at the bar that night.” 

She reaches over you, wiping away the grounds you’d lost.  

“And if you recall,” she continues, “I was the one telling you to go for it.” 

“And?” The hiss of the espresso machine drowns out the hostility in your tone. 

“And-” she pauses, scrunching her freckled nose while she steams the skim milk this lady so desperately needs in her cappuccino. 

“I saw the way you looked at him,” her manicured nails clink on mug you pass to her. “Saw the way he looked at you too.” 

“So?”

“So? God, you piss me off, ” she mutters.

“Cappuccino for Margaret!”  

You offer Margaret a plastic smile, waiting till she’s finally out of earshot.

“What does it matter, Maya? I can’t do this with him right now.” 

“It matters 'cause if a guy looked at me like that - especially a guy like him - I wouldn’t be sulking around like you are.” 

“I’m not sulking-"

She points at your sunken posture.  

“Shut up,” you roll your shoulders back. “Is there a point to this?” 

“Yes.”

She hands a napkin to a man approaching the counter before he’s able to ask.

“The point is,” she lowers her voice to a whisper, “you have a hot, older guy who’s practically on his knees for you. The man literally had to finger-fuck you in the middle of the day just to get some reprieve.”

You shush her with a quick smack on the shoulder. 

“Plus, now you find out he only lives a few blocks away. That’s, like, the definition of easy access.” 

“I know,” you groan. 

“So, what the hell’s stopping you?” .

“Maya?” Bear’s little voice carries over the counter. 

You and Maya snap your heads to the front where Bear stands, peeking into the basket of cookies by the cash register. 

“What’s up, Teddy Bear?” Maya asks all sweet, leaning over the counter to pinch his cheek. 

“May I have a cookie?” His eyes glisten as they lock on the cellophane-wrapped chocolate chip cookie towards the top of the pile. 

“Sorry, buddy -“ 

“Take it and run, Bear,” Maya cuts you off. “Hurry, go!”

He beams, grabbing the cookie and scampering back to the table in the corner, his cleats clacking like hoof beats on the tile floor. 

You shoot her a disapproving glare. 

“What? He asked nicely.” 

“You wanna know what’s stopping me?”

You gesture over to the table where your siblings are sat, splitting the cookie into even bits, smiling like mad. 

You’re ninety-nine percent sure they strategically orchestrated this whole cookie heist, knowing Maya’s soft spot for Bear. 

“Oh, c’mon,” Maya rolls her eyes. 

“What?” 

“Don’t play the dead parent card right now.” 

“I can play it whenever I want - it’s legitimately the only upside to having dead parents.” 

“Fine. But you can’t just whip that shit out whenever you’re too pussy to go for something that might actually be good for you.”

“Their parents are dead, Maya. They only have me now. I can’t afford to fuck up with them. Can't afford to bring someone like Joel around, just for him to leave.” 

She scoffs, crossing her arms as she rests a hip on the counter.

“Look - I don’t expect you to get it,” you start.

“I know.” She holds a hand up. A silent plea to stop the lecture before it starts. “I know there’s no world in which I could ever understand any of this, but I think sometimes you forget that you lost your parents too. You’re allowed to fuck up sometimes. You’re allowed to be selfish once in a while. That’s what your twenties are for, anyways.” 

“They didn’t sign up for a some fuck up in their twenties to raise them.”

“Neither did you,” she points a manicured nail at you. Like it’s a threat. “You didn’t ask for any of this.”  

You swat her hand away. 

"I know," you mumble. 

“Besides, your parents aren’t even the reason you’re not gonna go for it. You’re just scared it won’t work out for some other reason you can’t blame on anything or anyone else.” 

Fucking, ouch.

Maya always read you like her favorite novel, and sometimes - like right now - you couldn’t stand how goddamn right she was. 

Too much of a coward to just simply ask Joel if he wanted you for more than just sex- if he preferred you for your company or your cunt. 

Too weak to come to terms with the fact that these past two years had left you more damaged than you care to admit.

If you thought about it too hard, it made you feel like you should check yourself into a psychiatric facility. At least then you’d get a nap and some grippy socks.

“I don’t even know how he feels about me. He’s probably just using me to curb his mid-life crisis or something.” 

“Oh, I think he made it pretty crystal how he felt about you yesterday with your little romp in the kitchen, don’t you? Seemed like the only crisis he wanted to curb was the one between your—” 

“I’m telling you,” you interrupt, “it wouldn’t work anyways. There’s too much working against me.” 

She whips you with a dirty rag. 

“Ow!” you wince. “What the hell?” 

“So, what? You’re just gonna pretend you don’t have feelings for him?”  

“I don’t have feelings for him,” you say through lowered brows. 

Liar.

“Dude,” Maya laughs, “you totally have feelings for him.”

And who the fuck wouldn't after he's been inside you saying the things he said?

So what if you're not above it?

“Why do you care so much?” you gripe. 

“Because if you don’t put yourself first once in awhile, you’re gonna end up alone at seventy years old - coming to the same café everyday to order the same fuck-ass rye toast, buttered to all hell, sipping the same damn latte loud enough to warrant a fucking arrest for disturbing the peace, and reading the obituary section of the paper just to see what your friends have been up to.”

You look at Wes, straightening out his paper before slurps his wet toast, washing it down with a sip of coffee, loud enough for anyone in a twelve-mile radius to hear. 

“Wes is nice.”

She grips both your shoulders and looks you dead in the eyes. Her irises are flecked with greens and browns that remind you of your mom's favorite Willow that stood in the park near your old neighborhood. Its weeping branches, extending their deepest sympathies during your last visit, just before the move to Austin.  

“Wes is sad,” she says with emphasis. “I know you love those kids. And I know you’re in, like, the world’s shittiest position - but you need to put yourself first once in a while. Before you start resenting them for the choices you never allowed yourself to make.” 

Her weeping willow eyes dart between yours before she points to the old man.

“Otherwise - you’ll have that to look forward to.” 

A visceral chill trickles down your spine.

“That’s dark, Maya,” you mutter, breaking free of her grip on your shoulders. 

“Hence, why I care so much.” 

“Too fuckin’ much, if you ask me.” 

“Hey - you’re the one who decided it would be a good idea to confide in me. This is your cross to bear.” 

“Lesson learned.”

The bell above the entrance chimes again.

“Just do me a favor. Think about it. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if you gave into something you wanted for once. I just wanna see you happy - maybe a little less uptight.” 

“Why the hell does everyone keep calling me that?”  

Maya snickers, giving you a tap on the nose before donning her customer-service mask for the family nearing the resister. 

The rest of your shift zips by, the way it always does with Maya.

The two of you are a well-oiled machine when she’s not trying to convince you to fuck the old guy down the street. 

Not like you really needed much convincing anyways. 

————

The sunset crawls its way through the kitchen window, filling the opaque green vase in the windowsill with a burst of orange. The brittle roses crowd the inside with no water to drink, incapable of soaking in the warm glow through their crisp, hollow skeletons.  

Sarah stayed for dinner tonight, and you work on finishing up the dishes that she’d offered to help with before she headed home. 

It had been over a week since Joel had you completely undone in this kitchen - which meant it had also been over a week of avoiding him. 

It wasn’t easy, either. Not with the girls growing closer by the day. Romy was either at Joel’s, or Sarah was with you.

Not that you minded, of course. You liked having her over - Sarah was like a nicer, less intense version of Romy. She was as polite as she was witty - the sort of wit that could only be a product of growing up with Joel as a father. 

But, the problem didn’t lie within Sarah. It lied within Joel. In that fucking forehead kiss he’d given you while you were coming down in his arms. Like it was second-nature. Like he cared. 

He didn’t seem to care, though. Not now, anyway. Not with the severe lack of your presence, or when you’d only begun responding to texts regarding the girls. 

And why would he?

He’s a grown man. One with a child and a business to take care of. A business that - from what you’ve gathered from Sarah - had him coming home exhausted between 6 and 11 PM every night. 

He didn’t have time to think about whether or not you were actively trying to dodge him. 

Not the way you were - your mind reeling like a lure lost at sea since your conversation with Maya.

And maybe it was juvenile, but avoiding him had proven itself to be much easier than facing any of it. 

Soggy buttered toast and hazelnut latte, here you come.  

The sputtering faucet, aimlessly spraying into an empty sink, hauls you back into reality. 

It had been fifteen minutes since Sarah had walked home. It was getting dark, and still no text from Joel. 

You pick up your phone, wincing while you skim messages from the past week. 

Monday:

Joel: Ro’s tellin me you said it’d be okay if she stays to watch a movie. That true? 

You: Yes thanks for checking 

Wednesday:

You: I’ll grab Sarah from school today. The girls want to study for a quiz together

Joel: 👍 

Today:

Joel: Thanks for lettin Sarah stay for dinner. Won’t be off till 8  tonight 

You: No problem. She’s welcome anytime 

You sigh before shooting off another text. 

You: Sarah get home okay? 

Before you can set your phone down, it buzzes with a response. Then another. 

Joel: Safe and sound

Joel: Tellin me I need to learn to cook like you. Thanks for that. 

A smile creeps up the corners of your mouth.

For a second, you think about texting back - asking him how he’s been or what he’s up to - but your fingers catch.

Your smile drops, along with your phone as you toss it on the counter. 

With the kids bathed, teeth brushed, and in bed by 9:30 for the first time in this millennia, you weren’t sure what to do with yourself - but a scolding hot shower seemed like a good place to start. 

You must’ve been in there for forty minutes— scrubbing every inch of your skin, massaging every strand of hair with shampoo and conditioner, watching the suds rinse away, sinking down into a labyrinth of pipes.

The hot water stings your soft, freshly exfoliated skin. The hurt feels good. 

Better than thinking about Joel.

What he would say if you told him how you felt. If he would leave once he found out how fucked things really were on your end.

The stretch of his fingers inside your cunt. His tongue in your mouth. The taste of his spit. Your name on his lips. The way his big arms felt around you while he made you see fucking stars. 

Easy, baby. Good fuckin' girl. My good girl. Mine. 

God. 

You turn the faucet cold, only stepping out of the shower once the throbbing between your legs ceases and your teeth begin to chatter - training yourself with negative reinforcement like you’re some unruly dog.  

Pathetic. 

You’re shivering, wet hair clinging to your damp skin as you scavenge through your pajama drawer. You settle on a pair of Romy’s cotton pajama shorts you had stolen days ago.

You open your shirt drawer, revealing Joel’s green flannel, folded neatly at the top. 

Fuck it, you’re cold. What’s the harm in sleeping in his flannel? 

It’s not like he’ll know. It’s not like you want to wear it because - even after the wash - his scent still clung loosely to the fabric. 

You’re cold. It’s warm. Whatever. 

You fasten the three buttons at your mid section and call it good. Not even thinking about how he looked wearing it the night you two met. The way his muscles filled out the sleeves. 

No - because you still had shit to do; school lunches to prep, laundry to switch, toys to put away.

You rub your eyes and get to it - starting with the zillions of stuffed animals Lu and Bear had strewn about the living room, all used for some sick and twisted snowball fight with fuzzy, cotton carcasses. 

Then it was time for lunches, which you knock out quickly - slicing Bear’s crusts, using strawberry jelly for Lulu, and making sure Ro gets her favorite chips. 

Onto laundry. 

You flick on the laundry room light and-

*Pop*. 

“Ah!” You jump back. 

You blink, trying to put together what the hell just happened. 

You look down, spotting tiny shards of glass littering the floor, sparkling in the dim light that floods in from the hallway. 

The fucking lightbulb exploded. 

“Okay,” you mutter, eyes narrowing as if you’re being challenged. “Fine. I’ll go get a new lightbulb.” 

You rummage through the hall closet. New lightbulb acquired. 

You make the incredibly safe and wise decision to tip-toe around the border of the laundry room, hoping you won’t feel the prick of loose glass beneath your bare feet.

The way you contort yourself in order to climb on top of the washer would've been impressive had there been less grunting.

Against your better judgment, you stretch your arm out, reaching for the fixture, nothing but the dull glow from the hallway to guide you.

Farther and farther and farther - almost, almost…

*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*

“ Shit! ”

You flinch, gripping the lightbulb so tightly it almost shatters in your hand, centimeters away from taking a less than graceful nosedive into the glittering pile of glass. 

“Who the fuck…” you trail off - back flush against the wall, slithering your way back towards the safety of the hall light. 

You stomp toward the front door - still white-knuckling the lightbulb - eager to find out who thought banging on your door this time of night was vital enough to almost catch a manslaughter case on your behalf. 

Your adrenaline is so potent in your veins, you don’t even bother looking through the peephole before you fling the door open. 

In the soft yellow flicker of the porch light, Joel gazes back at you.  

He’s wearing a denim long sleeve, the knees of his dark wash jeans worn with age - just like his eyelids, which look heavy from a hard day's work.

In fact, he looks exhausted. Like he hasn't slept in a week. Or two. 

“Sarah left her backpack—"

“I need your help—" 

You both speak with haste, sentences overlapping with one another. 

A pale moth flutters its dainty, powdered wings by your ear. You could almost swear you hear it whispering.

"Bad idea," it sings sweetly. 

--

ao3 link: crazycomet 💫

[crazzzycomet]

Dried Roses

joel miller x fem!reader

“Fuck you, Joel.” 

Your cheeks burn with the memories from that night at the bar. You did ask him to come home with you. In fact, you’d asked him twice before he’d agreed. 

“Yeah? I bet you’d like that. Maybe it’ll get ya to mellow out just a touch. Worked pretty well for you the last time."

Tags: 18+, au no outbreak, age gap, one night stand, smut, sassy!joel, mentions of death and grief, porn + plot, joel is clearly pining for you lol, angst, lots n lots of tension, flashbacks of drunk sex, he loves pushing it, teasing, joel can't take it anymore

wc: 6k

this is chapter 2 of dried roses - there are currently 5 chapters uploaded on ao3 <3

chapter 1 link

--

You’ve never had a strong conviction either way about the idea of ghosts.

Are they real? Are they not?

You didn’t really care to question it. 

But as Joel Miller stands before you, you’re sure he’s an apparition. Some entity sent specifically to torment you as a part of some sick joke for all your past wrongdoings. 

You start recounting all the decisions you’ve made that would be cause for the universe to punish you. Maybe it's because of the time you stole money out of Romy’s polka-dotted piggy bank when you were sixteen. No - this has to be about the time you’d told your professor that your Auntie Gin died to get out of your midterm.

God, when’s the last time you called Auntie Gin?

Focus.  

You should call a priest. You should get some sage. Some holy water. You should - 

“Everythin’ alright out here, ladies?”

Fuck. He’s real.

“Yes,” you both answer in unison, straightening your posture. The classic collective admission of guilt between siblings trying to avoid a scolding. 

Blood pools amply in your cheeks, neck, and the tips of your ears. Your heart rate feels like a goddamn hummingbird is running rampant in your chest - or flying rampant? Whatever. Fuck. 

What the fuck is he doing here? And when was the last time you blinked? Blink. Blink you idiot!

“You must be Romy,” you think he says underneath the garbled thrumming in your ears. “’S nice to meet you, hon’. Sarah’s real excited about havin’ ya over."

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Miller,” Romy says as sweet as sugar, shaking his hand firmly, just like Dad taught her. 

Mr. Miller? Oh fucking brother. Do you have to call him that?

Romy nudges your ribcage. Look alive. 

“Ow,” you breathe. 

“This is my sister,” Romy says with an apathetic tone, like she wishes she could change that fact right now. 

You look at Joel, your eyes still wide with shock. He nods, as if to say keep going. 

And how would he suggest you do that? Keep going. 

This man has shared a bed with you already - heard his name on your lips through broken moans. Now he expects you to shake his hand for the first time when just five days ago, you’d wrapped your legs tighter around his waist when he told he was close. 

Jesus - maybe you should call a priest. 

“Pleasure to meet you, sweetheart.” Joel grins, extending his hand. 

You introduce yourself - as if he hadn’t already spoken your name between slow thrusts and soft whispers - and place your hand in his reluctantly. He shakes it firmly, rubbing his callused thumb on the top of your hand before letting go.

“It’s nice to meet you - um -"

He’s smiling so wide, you can see a dimple on his right cheek, peeking through his patchy scruff. He’s absolutely loving this - watching you trying, and failing miserably to collect yourself in his presence. 

“Joel.” He smiles. “You can call me Joel.” 

You swallow down another name you’d like to call him when a pair of doe eyes appear over his shoulder. 

Sarah. 

She’s smiling sweetly, with soft brown curls springing every which way out of her low ponytail. 

Romy nudges you again - a silent reminder to not embarrass her further. She can tell something’s off. Not that you’re making it all that difficult to pick up on. 

“Hey, Ro,” Sarah drawls. 

Romy smiles, grabbing your arm, “Sarah, this is my sister.” 

Don’t fuck this up for her, you think. She needs this. She needs a chance at being a normal teenager - even if that involves a friendship with the daughter of your tequila-fueled mistake.  

“Hi, Sarah. It’s so nice to meet you,” you finally let a smile slip. “Thanks for inviting her over.” 

“Thanks for bringin’ her over,” her drawl’s just as deep as the dimples on her cheeks. 

She’s Joel’s kid, alright. 

“Well - come in! I got stuff I gotta show ya,” her brown eyes twinkling with excitement. 

“Wait - one second,” Romy mutters urgently, turning toward you. 

She wraps her spindly arms around your frame in a tight hug. You squeeze her back, inhaling the sweet vanilla scent of her shampoo. 

“Sorry,” she whispers so only you can hear. 

“Me too. You can keep my shirt.”

“You can keep my hair clip.” 

You pull back, giving her a kiss on the forehead before relinquishing her over to Sarah, who grabs her hand and pulls her through the doorway - right past Joel. 

“Nice meetin’ you!” she turns to shout before leading Romy up the staircase. 

“Did you know we’re only three blocks away from each other?” you hear Romy chirp before Sarah hauls her into her bedroom. 

“Only three blocks, huh?” Joel smirks. 

Your smile vanishes instantly. 

“Don’t do that.” You point. “You already knew that. You probably skipped home Monday morning, didn’t you?” 

“Skipped home?” he repeats through a bemused laugh.

“Why didn’t you say anything? You had all night to tell me you lived right around the fucking corner.” 

“Well. I was a little preoccupied, wasn’t I?” 

“Joel,” you breathe, tone drenched in irritation. 

“What? It ain’t like there was a whole lotta talkin’ goin’ on that night, sweetheart," he snickers. "What’d you want me to do? Point to where I live while my head was in-between your-“ 

“They’re gonna hear you, asshole,” you hiss, grabbing his wrist firmly and pulling him outside.

“And you think you were Miss Subtlety back there?” he scoffs, rubbing at the red finger marks that remain on his wrist. “If anyone gave anything away, it was you, honey bun. Christ - why’re you so strong?” 

“Did you do this?” 

“Y’know, ‘f ya wanted to see me so bad, you could’a just called, pretty girl. Didn’t you get my note?”

Your eyes narrow. “You knew.” 

“Knew what?” 

“This.” You gesture frantically at everything around you. 

“Are you seriously suggestin’ I had somethin’ to do with this? Shit - you’re more uptight than I thought.” 

You cross your arms, jaw clenched. 

“Oh, don’t go poutin’ on me now,” he coos.  

Your brows knit together. Maybe you are pouting. So what?

“I know you had something to do with this, Joel.” 

“C’mon, darlin’ - don’t go flatterin’ yourself. If I wanted to see you so bad, I could’a just walked to your house and knocked on the front door. I ain’t got nothin’ to do with the friends my kid makes at school.” He scowls - hands on his hips and everything. 

“You knew she was my sister though - didn’t you?” 

“I suspected,” he says. 

“Oh. You suspected,” you mock his drawl. 

“’S what I just said, ain’t it?”

“Well,” you press. 

“Well,” he mocks you back, “there ain’t much to it. Sarah says she wants to invite a new friend over. I asked for her name. Low 'n behold - same name I heard you hollerin’ all Monday morning.”

Your eyes wander, finding the small red mark on his neck where you had bitten him Sunday night - it had elicited a moan from him that you’d been thinking about ever since. Your gaze trails down his neck, over the broadness of his shoulders, then his arms - the way his muscles squeeze the sleeves of his t-shirt.

Is he still talking? Shit, pay attention. 

“Then Sarah says her new little friend’s got an older sister that was just dyin’ to meet me,” he grins. “I remember you sayin’ your parents were outta town - that you were takin’ care of your siblings in the meantime. I did the math. It ain’t that complicated.”

Great. Now you have to have that conversation - the little chat you had tried to avoid the morning you had rashly decided to tell that teensy white lie about the current status of your parents’ mortality. 

“’S not like I knew for sure,” he continues. “Not ’til you were standin’ on my front porch, cussin’ out your little sister.”

You scoff.

“What the hell did you want me to do? Tell Sarah she ain’t allowed to make friends? The girl’s got a mind of her own. She’ll make friends with whoever she wants, regardless ‘a what I think.”

You toy with a loose string on the sleeve of your sweater, unable to reject the idea that you may be overreacting. 

“And if memory serves me, you ain’t got a reason to be standin’ there, actin’ all innocent - scrunchin’ up that cute lil' nose ���a yours.” 

You could slap him, but instead, you un-scrunch your nose. 

“You were the one askin’ me to come home with you that night, darlin'. I was jus’ bein’ polite.” 

Polite? Fuck you fuck you fuck you - 

“Fuck you, Joel.” 

Your cheeks burn with the memories from that night at the bar. You did ask him to come home with you. In fact, you’d asked him twice before he’d agreed. 

“Yeah? I bet you’d like that. Maybe it’ll get ya to mellow out just a touch. Worked pretty well for you the last time."

“You know what, Joel?” you seethe. 

“What, darlin?” His smirk is becoming a permanent fixture on his face. “Tell me.”

He’s fucking enjoying this, isn’t he?

Taking pleasure in watching the effect he holds over you - the way your cheeks stain redder and your face scrunches tighter while he continues to toy with you.

“I think I should just take Romy and -“

“Careful, Bear! It’s gonna bite you!” 

The shrill pitch of what could only belong to Lulu, echoes through the tepid evening breeze.

You whirl your head on instinct to find Lulu and Bear - knelt down in the grass at the edge of Joel’s front lawn.

“Jesus, fuck, “ you mutter under your breath. “What now?” 

Joel chuckles behind you.

“Guys! " 

They whip their little heads around. 

“What did I tell you?” you shout from the porch, blocking the evening sun with your hand above your eyes. 

“Not to touch anything!” Lulu squeals. 

“So - what the hell?”

“Bear found a lizard!” she shouts back. 

You tilt your head backwards, inhaling deep and counting to three - Joel trying and failing to hold back his laughter behind you. 

“Bear - put it down and get back in the car!” 

“But it’s an anole lizard!”

You should've stayed in bed. It's warm there, and there are no Joels or lizards. 

“Look, I’ll come show you!” he cups a tiny green figure in his hands and stands up with a serious lack of coordination. 

“No - get back in the…” you heave a sigh of frustration, realizing there’s no point. He’s already full sprint, the dumbass lizard in tow. Lulu trailing right behind him - tongue hanging out the way she does when she’s trying to run her fastest. 

“Look, Sissy,” Bear says, panting. He moves his little hand, revealing a minuscule green lizard tilting it’s head from side-to-side. 

It’s mocking you. You know it is. 

“I see,” you say, feigning excitement. "Very cool, Baby Bear." 

Lulu chimes in, “Bear says it’s a girl because it doesn’t have a thingy on it’s throat.” 

“A dewlap,” Bear corrects. 

“Yeah.” Lulu nods matter-of-factly. She looks up at Joel, shying away and nestling into you. 

Joel smiles sweetly. “Hi, honey.” 

“This is Mr. Miller. Can you both say hi?” 

“Hi,” they squeak in unison, like well-trained little mice. 

Joel bends down on one knee, lowering himself to their eye-line. “Pleasure to meet both ‘a you.”

Lulu giggles. Bear continues to pet his lizard, lulling it to sleep with each stroke of his finger. 

“This is Lucy,” you say, playing with her hair while she leans back on your knees. 

“Lulu,” she corrects, grabbing the hem of her lilac-colored dress to fidget with. 

“What a pretty name,” Joel says, his voice layered in blankets of warmth. “Pretty dress, too.”

“Thank you,” Lulu beams. 

“And what’s your name lizard-catcher?” he asks, looking over at Bear - acting as if he hasn’t known since Monday, when Bear knocked on your door while he was hidden behind it.

“Bear,” he answers through a proud giggle. 

“Y’know, Bear-” Joel leans in like he’s about to tell him a secret “-I’m real impressed. Those little suckers are fast. Takes a real special kid to be able to catch one.” 

Bear smiles wide - missing tooth and all.

This new side of Joel is pissing you off - the way he’s making your heart swell. Sure. You know he’s a dad, but seeing how good he is with kids is jarring, to say the least. And you're not sure why it pisses you off even more how much the kids seem to like him. 

“Okay. Release the little green woman and get back in the car. I’ll be there soon.”  

They ignore you. 

“One…” 

No movement.

“Two…” 

“Ahhhh,” Lulu screeches, darting back to the direction car. 

Bear steps toward to Joel, shoving his hands out in front. Joel cups his hands as Bear quickly - but gently - dumps his lizard into Joel’s hands, turning on his heels to try and catch up with Lulu.

Joel looks up at you, lizard in hand. 

"Sorry," you breathe out a laugh. 

“Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for,” he chuckles, lowering the lizard and watching it disappear into the grass. 

“I think you made their day,” you admit. 

“Cute kids. Lulu reminds me of Sarah at that age.” 

“You raised her on your own?”

Maybe you’re prying, but the thought of Joel raising a little girl all alone makes your head spin.  

“Her mom split after she was born.” He scratches at the back of his neck. 

“I’m sorry. That must've been hard for the both you.” 

Speaking from almost two years’ experience. 

“’S okay. We figured things out. She’s a good kid. Romy’s in good hands.”

You nod - a soft smile pulling at your lips. 

“Okay, um, I guess I should get going before Ro sees that I’m still here. I think I’ve embarrassed her enough for now. Thanks for taking her for the night.” 

He fishes for something in his back pocket. 

“Here.” He passes you his phone. “Put your number in.” 

“Joel, I don’t -“

“There you go, flatterin’ yourself again. I got your little sister overnight - seems like a good reason to have your phone number. Just in case.” 

“In case of what?” You raise an eyebrow. 

“Just put it in, smart ass.” 

“Fine,” you concede, adding yourself to his contacts before passing it back to him. “Happy?”

“Over the moon,” he says, drawl thick with sarcasm. 

“Good. Thanks again for - I think, um," you stammer, "I think she really needed this.”

Your gut twists when it dawns on you. This is going to be her first time away from you since your parents had passed. And every night since their passing, Romy’s nightmares hadn’t let up. Most nights, you still you wake up with her balled up next to you in your bed. 

“Can I ask you a favor?” 

“Needy little thing, ain’t ya?” 

“There’s something - Jesus, Ro would kill me if she knew I was telling you -“  

His body language shifts, his eyes mirroring your concern. 

“’S’alright, you can tell me.” He squeezes your shoulder. 

“Ro - she has these nightmares that’d make your skin crawl. Sometimes they really freak her out. She’s used to the reoccurring ones, but once in a while, she’ll have a really bad one - the kind she won’t even tell me about.” 

His brows furrow as he brings his hand up to his chin, anxiously running his fingers through the peppered scruff there. 

“Just - can you call me if you hear her crying in the middle of the night,” you croak. 

“‘Course I can do that. Ain’t gotta worry, alright? I’ll keep a close eye on her. Promise.”

“Okay,” you exhale. “Alright, I should go. Thanks - um, thank you.” 

“Anytime, darlin’.”

You look past Joel, and for a split second, you feel like you can’t move. Your feet stuck, as if you’d just landed on a licorice space in Candy Land. 

“She’ll be fine, sweetheart. Now, get outta here before she sees you ’n I gotta break up another cat fight.” 

“Alright, alright. I’m going.” 

Fine. She’ll be fine. 

————

You’re in bed for the night after the seven-thousandth read-through of Stellaluna - and once again, sleep avoids you like the plague. Thoughts of Joel infecting every dendrite in your brain. 

He was such a smug asshole today. But he smelled good. And he looked good. His hair looked nice, all brushed back the way he had it. And he was sweet with the kids.

You’re so fucking hopeless. 

The Moon watches through your window, her light pooled around your silhouette, cradling you with her commiseration.

You groan, replaying your conversation with Joel once again. You’ve memorized it by now, just like goddamn Stellaluna. 

He’d asked about the note - whether or not you’d gotten it. 

You did, of course. It’s just in a landfill somewhere by now. Right where it belongs - decaying with the rest the world’s garbage they’d purchased on a whim. Foolishly hoping they could find a use, just for it to end up breaking or collecting piles of dust. Stupid, stupid people. 

You had no use for Joel. Not in the way you wanted him, anyway. The way you needed. 

But, on the off chance you’d give yourself permission to ask yourself honestly - Do you want him? The answer was simple.

Yes. 

But life wasn’t simple. Not since your parents had left you and it had become your responsibility to protect the kids from your shitty decisions.

And Joel Miller was a shitty decision. 

Shitty for Romy, especially. Her first friend in Austin, and her dad is some guy you’d fucked on a drunken impulse. Ro needs you right now. The least you could do is refrain from fucking her new friend’s dad. 

He’s a distraction, too. You’d been distracted all damn week. At dinner, Bear had even made you sit through another ten minute lesson on the difference between a jaguar and a leopard once he’d realized you were half-listening the first time. Turns out, there's lots of differences. 

They need you. All of you. You can't fuck this up for them - not when there's already no room for error. 

They don't need you distracted, chasing some middle-aged man who fucks a twenty-five-year-old if she asks twice really, really nicely. 

But, Joel had already made his bed in your brain. Laid-out sheets, folded in the corners, and set out charming little throw pillows. Thoughts of him were becoming comfortable, familiar. And no matter how many eviction notices you’d presented, he refused to leave.  

By now, you’d come to finally admit that the sex with him was different. More…intimate. One night with Joel was unlike anything you’d experienced before. Not with the ex you had on and off throughout college, or any boy in-between. 

If you stared at the ceiling hard enough - like you were tonight - you’d begin to question what it meant to you and why you were still thinking about it. Wondering why you were angry with your laundry detergent for doing its job, rinsing away his scent on your sheets. 

He’d fucked you like it meant something to him. Like you meant something to him - and that was an impossible feeling to cast aside, no matter how long the list of cons. 

You could at least do that - think about the sex. Think about how he fit so perfectly inside of you, like he was made for your cunt. Made for you. The way he'd touched you and talked to you like you were the only woman that'd ever mattered. His thrust quickening as you pleaded, faster, faster, please faster, Joel please -

A buzzing on your nightstand knocks you on your ass, pulling your attention from the aching throb between your legs. 

You immediately think its Romy calling for you to come get her. You even rush to get your slippers on before answering. You pick up your phone and find an unsaved number illuminated on your screen. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey, sweetheart.” 

Your heart skitters like a rock skimming on water. 

“Joel? Is Ro alright? Should I come -“

“She’s fine, baby. Fast asleep. This a bad time?” 

You exhale, shoulders slouching as you sit down on the edge of your bed, cheeks pink with worry and remaining lust. 

“Well you’re calling me at-” you pull the phone from your ear to check the time "-one in the morning - so, yes. It’s a bad time.”

“Did I wake you?” He sounds genuine, his voice low and tired. 

“No.”

“What were you doin’?”

Thinking about you to the point of nausea. 

“Nothing.”

“Thinkin’ about me?”

Yes.  

“No.” 

“You were, weren’t ya?”

Yes.

“No.” 

“You’re a bad liar.” You can hear his smile.

It’s true. You’re a terrible liar. Your mother always said so. “You can’t change the whole tone of your voice if you’re going to lie - it defeats the purpose,” she’d say.

“What're you doing up so late?” you ask, attempting to avoid the possibility of having to tell another unconvincing lie. 

“Thinkin’ about you.” 

Your breath catches. 

“Y-you were?”

“’S why I called.” 

“Oh.” Your voice comes out softer than you intended.

“Earlier today - you never answered my question,” he drawls. 

“Which one?” you flick off your slippers and sink back into your mattress, head dizzying with your heart's refusal to slow down. 

You shouldn’t be doing this. You should hang up. Be mean to him. Something. Anything. 

“The one about the note I left for you. Never said whether you got it or not. Did you?” 

“Yes,” you sigh. “I got the note.” 

And it’s in waste management’s loving hands now. 

“Okay. There a reason you didn’t call?” 

“I - uh...” Your hand twitches, every nerve ending eager to hang up - avoid the question altogether.

You pause long enough for him to break the silence.

“Jus’ thought - I dunno - thought we had a good time is all."

“We did.” 

“So what’s the problem, darlin’?”

You press your lips together, thinking of the right way navigate this. 

“’S’okay, you can tell me,” he urges, voice low. 

You clear the stinging ball of nerves that’s collected in your throat.

“It’s just - um,” you stutter, “I don’t know, Joel. It’s complicated.” 

He exhales, like he was holding his breath waiting for an answer. 

“You’re real good at that, huh?”

“At what?”

“Avoidin’ questions,” he grumbles. 

“Mm,” you hum.

Fine. You'll give him a real, justifiable reason. One he can't skate around. One that doesn't involve the dead parent talk.

"With the girls being friends now, it’s just - I don’t think we can - I mean, we shouldn’t -“ 

“I know,” he interrupts. “I know that.” 

He sighs, the crinkling sound of his sheets cuts between the static. 

There’s a beat of silence. You should make an excuse - say you have to go. It’s dangerous, the way Joel sucks you in. You should - 

“How did everything go tonight?” you blurt out. 

Weak idiot.

“Think we may have created a monster bringin’ those two together. It was all giggles and screamin’ ‘till about an hour ago.” 

“Uh oh,” you huff out a laugh. “How was Romy? Was she - how’d she do?”

“She’s a great kid. Minds her manners well. Funny girl. Nothin' like you.”

“Oh, fuck you.” 

“Sure you wanna go there again, babygirl?”

“Not really, no,” you answer, eyelids growing heavy with the sound of his voice.  

“Tell me what you were thinkin’ about when I called.” 

“I already said - nothing,” you double-down.

“And I already said, you’re a bad liar,” he laughs sleepily. 

“Goodnight, Joel,” you say, hanging up the phone before he can protest.  

A exasperated sigh escapes your lips, only the Moon to witness your frustration - and she can’t do anything to help you.

So you slip your hand beneath the waistband of your panties and help yourself. 

————

Saturday morning comes at you with full force. Or at least Lulu does, knocking the wind out of you while she jumps on top of you, begging you to get up, get up, get up. She’s all knees and elbows, and if you wait any longer she’ll start pushing on your bladder to get you out of bed, which has a proven one hundred percent success rate. 

The morning was quiet, despite hurricane Lu’s wake up call. You made breakfast, colored alongside the kids, and by the afternoon, you’d decided to seize the last few weeks of warmth and set up the sprinkler in the backyard for the kids to play in.

It was like you'd rented out a water park for them, the way their giggles and screeches echoed into the neighborhood. 

“Sissy!” Lulu squeals. 

You look up from your book where you’re perched on the grass, sunbathing on a linen blanket you’d meticulously spread out. Your two-piece bathing suit clings to your skin, which is currently smothered in layer a sweat and sunscreen.

“Come play with us,” she pleads, running and jumping through the spurts of rainbowed mist suspended in the air. 

You can think of about a thousand other things you’d rather do than run through a fucking sprinkler over and over with your little brother and sister. You didn’t even like it when you were a kid. You’d shiver and cry as soon as a breeze kicked up. 

You look down at your book.

You’d been fighting to start this one for a while now. You’d forced yourself to bring it outside with you, hoping you could at least get past the first chapter without closing it again like your last attempts. 

You shut the cover and flip it over. Your dad’s face smiles back at you in a little black-and-white portrait in the bottom corner. His name, highlighted in blurbs of reviews, lines the top - gushing over his literary excellence. Another author deeming his writing "Nothing short of brilliant" - which you wouldn’t know, because you can’t get past the stupid fucking dedication page. 

To my sweet daughter, whom I will love in every lifetime. 

It was the first of many books he had published. You were just nine. Your last year of being their only child. Their only baby. 

You’ve tried to read it, you really have. But every time you flip to that page filled with only those eleven words, you’d freeze. You’d read the words over and over and over again until you felt sick and they began to mean nothing - until the letters ceased to be no more than scribbles on paper. 

Maybe you'll get to be his daughter for longer in whatever lifetime he's found himself in. You wish it could be this one. 

Your eyes well with tears, the sun’s rays reflecting off them as they tumble down your cheeks, making a *tick* as they land on the back cover.  

“Come on,” Lulu screeches. “Pleeeaaase!”

Your dad would go play with them. He always dropped everything he was doing to play with them. He stares back at you, his smile now warped with stray tears, as you dry your eyes with the back of your hand. He’d go run through the damn sprinkler if he were here. 

A pang of guilt rises in your chest. 

“Okay, Dad,” you mutter under your breath, tossing his book to the side. “I get it. I’ll go.” 

Ten minutes of jumping through this dumb, rusty sprinkler, and now your giggles and screeches were being heard throughout the neighborhood.

You felt light, each mist of water cooling the sting that is your dad loving you in a lifetime that is not your own - while you remain here, tending to what he’d left behind. 

Lulu clings to you like a monkey, laughing into your ear, while you run away from Bear, who’s taking his method-acting role as velociraptor #1 very seriously. 

He roars, eliciting laughs muddled with screams from both you and Lulu. You run around the yard, mud squelching beneath your bare feet - your damp skin speckled with vibrant blades of grass. 

You scream loud as Bear gets closer - eyes trained behind you, trying to gage his distance.

“I’m gonna get you!” he yells, closing in. You let out another screech, squeezing Lulu tighter as he puts his hand out. 

“Hurry!” Lulu pants. 

“We’re gonna die, Lu,” you shout, “he’s too fast!” 

Just as you say it, you hear the shrill squeaking of the sliding glass door, followed by the sound of Romy’s voice, prompting you to freeze in your tracks. 

“What is going on out here?” she asks. 

Bear topples into you, bumping you forward a step while you snap your head towards the patio where you spot her, squinting from the sun, still clad in her pajamas. But it's who stands next to her that makes your stomach flip.

A subdued smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Joel locks eyes with you, giving you a slight nod. 

“Romyyyyy!” Lulu whines. “You killed us!” 

“Sorry, Lu,” she shrugs.

You hide your face behind Lulu, who’s still clinging onto you for dear life. 

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath. 

“Sissy said shit!”

“Swear jar!” Romy points at you with force.

“What did I tell you about being a snitch?” 

“That no one likes one,” Lulu answers sheepishly. 

You set Lulu down and she scurries away, grabbing Bear’s hand and dragging him with her. 

You’re a mess. Panting and sweaty - hair soaked and sticking to your face, blades of grass stuck to the sheen of sweat, sprinkler mist, and sunscreen. 

Of course, you think. Does this guy have a fucking bat signal that appears when you want him least? 

You smooth your hair down - wiping away what is either water or sweat collected in your brow - as you trudge through the waterlogged grass, before you’re suddenly stood in front of them.

Joel's eyes are fixed on wood beneath his boots, and he doesn’t have his homeostatic smug asshole look painted on his face for once. 

“How’d it go?” you ask, still trying to catch your breath. Hoping the fact that you were just running your ass off will be the scapegoat for your flushed complexion. 

“Good,” Romy says, grinning from ear to ear. 

She’s glowing. Her sweet, tired eyes reflecting the exhausted thrill that follows the morning after staying up all night with a friend - sharing secrets and clothes and laughs. 

“Joel walked me home,” she adds. 

No shit. 

“I see that,” you say, looking in his direction. 

His eyes flit up from the ground, fixing on yours. 

“Thought I’d make sure she gets home safe her first time walkin’ back." His voice is low. His eyes dark. 

“Well I’m gonna go shower, “ Romy says, thanking Joel before she slips inside. 

“Thanks for getting her home.” You brush pieces of grass from your arm. 

He nods. 

“You didn’t have to do that, y'know.” 

“’S no problem.” 

What? Nothing clever to say this time? 

“You’re being awfully quiet today.” You pick a blade of grass from your chest, then your forearm, then your stomach - god, they’re multiplying. 

You lift your head, expecting to meet his eye-line, but his gaze is fixed on the steadying rise and fall of your chest - your bathing suit doing a half-assed job at covering you, creamy tan-lines peeking out from the all sides of the skimpy fabric. 

“Ain’t got much to say." He reaches his hand out, fingers grazing your collar bone, plucking a blade of grass you'd missed there. 

You hold in a breath, goosebumps forming as a breeze sweeps by, kissing the droplets of water that linger on your skin. You cross your arms in an effort to cover your chest, the hard peaks of your nipples forming underneath your top. 

“Well - thanks again for making sure she got home.” An attempt to shoo him out. As the adrenaline begins to wear, you're becoming increasingly aware of how much of your body is revealed. “I guess I’ll see you -“

“Somethin’ I need to talk to you about,“ he cuts you off.

“Oh - okay.”

“Inside.”

You follow him inside, sliding the door shut.

“What is it?” 

He grips you loosely on the arm, leading you into the kitchen and away from the kids’ sight. 

Your heart is in your throat. 

Did Romy tell him about your parents? 

You could’ve told him at the bar, on his front porch, on the fucking phone last night. You could’ve told him when he fucking asked in the first place. But instead, you leave it to your fifteen-year-old sister.

Coward. Coward. Coward. 

He can’t even look you in the eye. 

Fuck - he knows.

“Joel?” your voice cracks. “Did Ro say something?”

“What?” he says, releasing his grip on you once you’ve found your way into the kitchen. 

You lean against the island. The cold marble counter against the small of your back makes your breath catch in your throat. 

“Romy - did she tell you, um,” you stutter. 

“Tell me what?” he finally looks you in the eye.

Your shoulders relax. 

“Nothing. What’d you need to talk to me about?” You stare at your reflection, upside-down and trapped in the darkness of his eyes. 

He’s silent - fists balled at his side. 

“What’s going on? Is everything -“ 

Without warning, his lips find yours as he presses his weight against you. Your body goes slack and all rational thought transforms into static on an old TV. 

You part your lips for him, and he obliges, forcefully pressing his tongue inside. He places a hand on your jaw as your moan slips into his mouth - prompting him to return one into yours, the vibration tingling your lips.

His scent wraps you up, suffocating you until you feel dumb. 

It’s impassioned. Frantic. Your tongues intertwining as you grasp at his clothes, his hair, his face. Anything to pull him closer.

It’s as if you’d both been craving the taste of each other’s tongue - depraved and greedy as you fight each other for more. 

More, more, more you need more. 

His hands find your waist, lifting you on the counter with ease. The chill of the marble nips at your exposed skin - reinstating some semblance of self, as you rip your lips from his.   

“Joel,” you breathe, “we shouldn’t - I can’t -“ 

You attempt to find the words to say that this is a terrible idea. That you shouldn’t be getting into something you’re not going to be able to pull yourself out of. That you can’t fuck the kids up even more than they already are. 

But you can’t seem to find the words to challenge him - like your mind is playing the world’s shittiest game of scrabble, the useless letter tiles in your possession only able spell out J-O-E-L. 

He lays his palms flat on the counter, his arms on either side of you, boxing you in. He’s warm and his skin smells like the your sunscreen mixed with his morning coffee. 

He nips at your collarbone - collecting the few droplets of water that still remain - soothing each spot with a kiss as he makes his way up your neck. 

“You want me to stop?” His breath warms the saliva there. 

You exhale shakily. 

His fingers toy with the soaked fabric that covers your aching cunt as he nibbles at the shell of your ear, your mind going numb with the tingles that stretch through every nerve in your body. 

“Tell me, angel. Go on,” he growls. 

You whine - overstimulated - desire and need at war with rational thought. 

He slowly slides the fabric of your bathing suit over with his finger, the only barrier between you and gratification.

You pinch your eyebrows together, looking up at him pitifully.

“Awe, c’mon, sweet girl," he coos. "Y’always got so much to say. What's stoppin' ya?” 

He glides the pad of his finger through your folds, gathering the slick mess you’ve made - that he’s made. 

The transparent veil of restraint you were clinging onto for dear life rips as the tip of his finger finds your entrance, your breath hitching in response. 

He stills - your walls clenching around nothing as a pathetic whimper falls out of you. 

“Tell me to stop.” 

--

ao3 link: crazycomet 💫

[crazzzycomet]

Dried Roses

joel miller x fem!reader

summary: Coming up on two years of your parents' tragic passing, you decide to make the move to Austin, Texas, in hopes of a fresh start for you and your three younger siblings. After few months of settling in, a lapse in judgement and a one night stand ends with Joel Miller in your bed.

tags: 18+, au no outbreak, age gap, one night stand, sassy!Joel, mentions of death and grief, porn + plot, idk this chapter just sets everything up, flashbacks of drunk sex, joel loves pushing it

wc: 5.9k

this is chapter 1 of dried roses - there are currently 5 chapters uploaded on ao3 <3

——

“No! She said we’re having waffles today, not eggs and toast.”

“You’re such a brat, Lulu.”

“I’m telling!”

“Who are you gonna tell? She’s not even up yet!”

Shit. Your eyes ping open at that.

You reach for your phone on the nightstand, squinting through the film of sleep, trying to make out the small, bright numbers. Thirty minutes passed your usual wake up time. You grumble, rubbing your eyes hard enough to see stars, leaving a residue of black mascara on the base of your palms. 

Your mouth is dry, and the water on your nightstand is empty. Rays of morning sunlight spill through your sheer lace curtains, making you contemplate crawling underneath the covers and dying there. You groan, regretting decision after decision after shot after shot. 

It had been almost two years since your parents had passed, leaving you with guardianship of your three siblings - and just around three months since you’d packed up your entire lives and moved everyone to Austin for a fresh start.

A fresh start.

That’s what you’d told yourself when, Maya, the only coworker you have at the café even remotely around your age, had approached you before closing. She'd invited you to join her and her group of friends at the bar, and you were in absolutely no position to turn down friends.

At least that’s what your younger sister, Romy, told you when you'd asked for her opinion. She'd insisted you go out, and in typical Romy fashion, she was entirely too blunt about it.

“When’s the last time someone asked you to go anywhere with them? Not since mom and dad died, I think,” she had answered for you. “Remember when you were cool? I don’t. Go get laid or something, I don’t know. Whatever will make you less…uptight.”

That was it, you’d decided it was time to finally put yourself out there - at least try to make some friends your own age.

Your hometown friends were nice enough, but apparently not nice enough to come and watch your little brother, Bear, suck at baseball every Saturday, or let Lulu mess up their fresh manicure with glitter pens. 

So you dusted off your little black dress and slathered on some makeup, downed tequila shot after tequila shot after tequila shot, trying to steer clear of the topic of little league and kindergarten playground gossip.

The night was going pretty well, actually. Maya’s friends were welcoming, everyone was gelling, and you’d even gotten a few of their numbers incase they were ever having another girls’ night. Everyone was friendly, and more than a few men had offered to buy you drinks. It made you feel, that for a split second, you were just a normal girl in her twenties. It was nice. 

Then, you saw him. 

He’d been sitting in the corner of the bar, scowling at his friends, or coworkers by the look of their matching shirts that all read Miller Contracting. He’d finally cracked a smile when they all gathered around him, singing a terribly poor rendition of “Happy Birthday”. You think you may have even seen his shoulders bounce with laughter.

There was something about this guy. Something that drew you in.

Maybe it was the way he looked all serious most of the night, crease between his brows and everything, glass of whiskey in hand. Maybe it was his dark brown curls and patchy scruff, peppered with grey. Perhaps it was the fact you’d always been attracted to older men. But if you had to make a real scientifically educated guess, not being laid in just over a billion years might’ve had something to do with the appeal.

Whatever. He was hot, okay?

It was around the fifth time you two had locked eyes that he’d gestured toward the bar, asking silently for you to meet him over there.

Fuck it, you thought - and at some point throughout the night, that became your motto. Especially when you'd decided it would be a great idea to bring him home, despite the infinite list of reasons not to. But, who were you to deny this middle-aged man birthday sex? Right? Right?

A sting of regret fills your eyes with each dry blink and your heartbeat flutters rapidly in your chest, which is always a super fun symptom of your hangovers these days.

Your sheets feel like a haven this morning, cradling you in luxurious warmth that you never want to leave and—God, areyou still naked? You don’t even remember falling asleep.

You cannot get out of bed right now, not with your head pounding like it is. You clamp your eyes shut, waiting for one of your siblings to come and tap at your door with their sticky hands. Why are their hands always so sticky?

Maybe they’ll just let you sleep until you have to drive them to school. Wishful thinking. 

Your mattress groans as you roll lazily to your left side, swearing under your breath while your heart simultaneously sinks down to your stomach when you behold what's in front of you. 

He's still here, lying next to you - the man you'd brought home last night, sleeping peacefully, taking deep, languid breaths beneath your sheets. 

Fuck. 

You freeze, bloodshot eyes wide, willing him to disappear into thin air. 

Who the hell doesn’t sneak back home in the middle of the night after a one-night-stand? Isn’t that, like, the polite thing to do?

You clench your eyes tightly, hoping he’s a figment of your imagination. Opening them with reluctance, you’re met with tanned, broad shoulders, lightly dusted with freckles from the sun, and the back of his curls, loose and sloppy from sleep and sex. It's no wonder your blankets are radiating so much heat - he's the goddamned kindling. 

“I’ll start the waffles,” you hear Romy sleepily croak, muffled through your bedroom door, “go wake her up, Bear. She probably forgot to set her alarm again.”

You gasp. A deep, genuine plea for air. 

Shit. Shit. Fuck. Shit.

You would be so dead if your parents weren’t.

You begin assessing your situation. You have about two minutes before Bear snaps out of whatever book he's reading, and actually comes to wake you. That is, if Lulu doesn’t get to you first. In that case, you have about twenty seconds.

“Lulu, no.” Romy snaps her fingers like she’s scolding a puppy. “Go get your homework and put it in your backpack. Sissy told me that Ms. Diaz said you’re missing two days worth. You're in kindergarten, Lu, how are you missing homework when it's all cutting and pasting?”

“But-" 

“Go,” Romy rasps.

The pattering tiny jelly sandals, and a squeaky whine from the five-year-old echoes through the crack under your door. You can almost see the way Lulu lets her head hang in shame when she’s caught. Her long, wavy hair in front of her face while her cheeks pink up.

Okay. You have two minutes then.

Your eyes snap back to the man in your bed. He’s dead asleep, each breath deep and slow. He smells like your perfume mixed with cedar and the whiskey that spearheaded this whole situation. His skin looks so soft against your plush, white sheets. He looks calm. 

Fine. You'll be nice and let him sleep. You can only hope that he’s at least smart enough to not come out of the room while you’re dealing with the monsters beyond your bedroom door.

Slowly and carefully, you roll over, wriggling free of your tangled bedding, hoping that - was his name Joe? No, Joel. Joel - hoping that Joel isn’t a light sleeper.

No such luck. You look back, jaw clenched tight like a jaguar, and there’s pair of sleepy brown eyes staring back at you.

“Good morn-“

You all but pounce on him, placing your hand over his mouth. His eyes widen at your legs sprawled over his middle, and they grow even wider when he hears tiny voices coming from the kitchen, coupled with the clanking of a whisk in a plastic bowl.

“Shhh." You retract your hand from his mouth and place your finger to your lips.

“Bearrrrr!” Lulu’s whines could literally be echolocated by the bats inhabiting South America. “Romy said to wake her up!”

“I’m going! Just lemme finish this paragraph!”

“But, she needs to look over my homework and she needs to fix my hair and-“

“Jesus, Lulu, just let him finish. Come grab the first waffle and I’ll do your hair later.”

“Is that-“ Joel tries before your hand is back to concealing his mouth in an instant.

“What’d I just say,” you whisper harshly.

He raises his hands in defeat. Since when were his hands so big? 

His sleep-worn eyes trail down your body, the lines around them creasing as a smile breaks beneath your hand. You follow his eye-line, realizing you’re still completely naked, bare chest fully on display.

“Perv.” You cover your breasts with your free arm. Your cheeks flush as you feel him smile wider into the palm of your hand. “Not funny.” You grab his jaw. "Wait here."

He nods. You sloppily race out of bed, looking for anything to cover your body. The sound of chair legs scraping against the oakwood floors echoes, and itty-bitty footsteps begin thrumming toward your bedroom door.

Why the hell did you insist on having the room closest to the kitchen?

A tiny knock at your door has Joel pulling the sheets up to his nose. You gesture at him to keep still, shifting your attention to the door and the little shadow underneath it.

You spot the forest green flannel Joel was wearing last night, slung over top of your dresser in the haste of what you can only remember in hazy blurbs of Joel's tongue and hands tracing over your perfumed skin. You grab it without thought, and begin buttoning with rapidity. 

Another little knock.

“Baby Bear?” you pant, Joel’s flannel now fastened enough to cover your chest. It’s hem uneven, thanks to your crack buttoning skills, hanging a few inches below your ass, covering you just barely.

“Can I come in?” 

You reach into your underwear drawer, grabbing the first pair your hand touches and stepping into them while Joel watches intently. Grinning like he’s watching his favorite TV show.

“How ‘bout I come out,” you offer.

You hear a giggle through the chestnut-stained door. “'Kay. Lulu wouldn’t let me have eggs and toast.”

“Eggs and toast tomorrow it is, then. I’ll be out in a sec, alright? Go eat.”

There’s that giggle again, followed by thudding steps back into the kitchen, shouts of celebration about eggs and toast tomorrow, and groans from Lulu.

You look over at Joel, who's holding in a laugh.

Wait here, you mouth, and he nods again, this time with a wink. The bastard.

You wipe the mascara that's made a home beneath your eyes. Joel sinks back into your bed, pulling a pillow over his head. Your hair’s a rat's nest, but the claw clip you trip over on your way out will fix that.

You open the door and slip out, loosing a breath at the sight of Bear swinging his legs, sat atop a barstool pushed close to the kitchen island. He’s shoveling a syrup-covered piece of waffle with one hand, and tracing along the words of some book about rainforests with the other. Lulu sat next to him, focused on getting syrup onto every square-inch of her waffle. Both wholly unaware of the middle aged man you're hiding in your bedroom. 

“Ah,” you sing as you walk by Bear, smoothing his cowlick down as you make your way around the counter, “Romy made you guys waffles, huh? Heard Lulu put up quite a fight for these.”

“Wasn’t equipped to argue with her today,” Romy says, filling the waffle maker with a sloppy pour.

 You nudge her with your hip.“I can take over so you can get ready.”

“Thanks.” She hands over the ladle and wipes her hands on her pajama pants.

“Thanks for picking up my slack."

“Yep,” she sighs, wiping the flour that made its way to her elbow. “Fun night?”

Your heart skips, but your face remains stoic as you clean the loose batter that seeps through the sides of the waffle maker. 

You ignore her question. “Thanks for covering for me here last night. I’ll give you my tips after my shift today.” 

“Happy to help.” Her eyes pull toward your bedroom door and snap back at you. “Both of you,” she says quietly, smiling like a maniac.

“Excuse me?” you lower your voice, your brows following suit. Your face is a bit more scrunched than you’d like.

“You never close your bedroom door in the morning. And under your eyes turns a specific shade of purple when you’ve been up all night.”

“You’re insane.” There’s no use in lying to Romy, she’s too damned perceptive for her own good, but you decide it’s worth a shot.

"Also, I heard you talking to someone when you walked in last night at-" she checks an imaginary watch "-two in the morning." 

"I was on the phone. What are you doing awake at two?" you deflect, and not well, based on the look she's giving you. 

“Should I go ask him if he wants a waffle?”

“Romy!” You wack her on the arm.

“Ow!” 

“No one’s in there,” you lie again, fully aware of the fact that it’s not working.

“Fine. I’m just saying, I’m not stupid,” she grumbles. “It’s alright if there's a guy, just wake up earlier next time. Lulu spins out when you’re not up.”

“Noted."

"Good." 

"Jesus, Ro, you're a mess." You dust away the flour on the neckline of pajama top. It’s got a giant rainbow trout across the chest, and it spills over her knees. "Is this Dad’s shirt?” 

“Uh - yeah, I found it at the bottom of his drawer before the move." Before you can comment, she looks you up and down, raising one brow. “And whose flannel is that?”

“Dad’s,” you snap.

“Mm. Yeah. Dad never wore flannels.”

“Well - he wore this one,” you try to sell your third lie of the morning while she rolls her eyes. You grab her by the shoulders, turning her away and giving her gentle a shove. "Don't you have to get ready? Go away." 

She starts up the stairs. “Tell him I say 'hi' and that he’s got nice taste in flannels!”

“Shut up!” you shout into the void.

“Ms. Diaz says we’re not supposed to say shut up,” Lulu says, smacking on her last few bites of waffle.

“Shut up, Lu. Finish your breakfast,” you say flatly, fixing yourself a plate.

The morning is pretty standard, as far as mornings have gone in the last two years. Romy gets ready in her room. Bear and Lulu’s homework gets checked by you, while Bear spits out facts about some frog he's learned about in some encyclopedia he’s picked up from the library that week. You pretend to be extremely interested, all while Lulu insists on you doing her hair over Romy, because 'she pulls too hard'.

Everything’s done with about fifteen minutes to spare. Except this time, there’s a stranger in your bed. A stranger who patiently awaits your instruction.

He’s probably fast asleep, you’d kept telling yourself while your morning tasks seemed to take a lifetime. Each plait of Lulu’s french-braid found it’s place in slow-motion, and Bear’s droning on about the strawberry poison dart frog appeared infinite as you tapped your foot through it all, listening for any signs of stirring behind your bedroom door.

“Everyone get in the car. I need pants,” you say, handing the keys to Romy. Finally - fucking finally, this morning was almost over. Almost. 

You bolt to your room about a millisecond after the front door clicks shut behind them. He’s probably asleep, you repeat to yourself, taking a deep breath before you turn the knob.

You open your door slowly, revealing a man sitting up on the edge of the bed, fully dressed (minus a green flannel), complete with a smug little grin plastered on his face.

Your eyes lock on one another. You lean your back against the wall, loosing a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in all morning.

“Y’alright?” he asks. 

“I’m so sorry,” you say with a winded laugh, placing your head in your hands. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Busy mornin’?”

“What do you think?” You begin surveying your room for a clean pair of jeans or sweats or anything that can cover your legs.

“I’m thinkin’ so,” he chuckles.  You quickly find a pair of jeans and slip one leg in, pausing to look up at the man on your bed. His curls are tousled and his scruff seems thicker than it was 8 hours ago.

“You said you were -“

“Twenty-five,” you say, fighting with your zipper.

“S’right. Twenty-five.” He places his hand on the back of his neck and rubs a knot that’s probably been there for just as long. “Twenty-five,” he repeats.

“Isn’t gonna make me any older the more you say it.”

He doesn’t seem to notice that you’re being a smart ass. That, or he doesn’t care. Either way, you see his wheels turning and you know what he’s about to ask. You wish people didn’t always have to ask.

“Twenty-five ‘n - how many voices were there? Three?”

You look down, attempting to fix the buttons on your stolen flannel. 

“Um, yeah. Three.”

“Any of them-“

“Mine? No,” you interrupt. “They’re my siblings. Fifteen, seven, and five.”

Before he has time to ask any more questions you start again.

“Hey listen - I really gotta go. My sister’s already suspicious, so um, if you could let yourself out after we take off - like, without stealing anything - I’d really appreciate it.”

Your tactic fails.

“Your parents?”

“Out of town,” you say quickly, trying to avoid the inevitable condolences from someone you're never going to see again.

Technically it's true, they are out of town - just buried 6 feet further down than you’d prefer.

“You can leave the door unlocked,” you continue before he can ask more questions. “I’ll be back soon. I have to get ready for my shift.” It dawns on you that you may have made this poor man late for work. “Oh shit, are you - do you have to be anywhere right now?”

He shakes his head and peeks at his watch. “Not ‘til ‘bout nine.”

“Okay, good.” You know he’s lying. He glances at his watch every second he thinks you're not looking. “Alright so,” you clap your hands together, “I guess just don’t steal anything - and leave right after you hear me leave. Okay?”

He leans back, placing his palms on the bed.

“You always this - twitchy?”

Your brows scrunch. “What?”

“You heard me. You always this keyed up? Or was last night just a fluke?”

“Only when there’s a strange man in my bed who won’t stop asking me questions.” You cross your arms. 

“So you always let strange men into your bed?” His brows raise, brown eyes twinkling at you like a goddamn puppy. “Or am I just special?”

“You always fuck someone twenty years younger than you? Or am I just special?"

His brows lower. That shut him up. Finally. Now you can- 

“Only when they beg for it.”

Oh.

Oh this fucking guy. Now you remember this fucking guy.

"I did not beg for it." Your ears feel like they're going to melt off. 

"Didn't beg for it," he repeats. "Must be misrememberin' things, then." 

"You are." 

He chuffs. 

“Okay, then. I have to go," your voice falters. “Sorry again for all of this, and - um - don’t steal anything.”

“You said that already, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Fuck off.

“Then don’t do it.” You glower.

He just laughs to himself, like he's trying his hardest not to push it.

“Looks good on you by the way,” he says, still leaning back on his palms. His biceps flexed under his faded black tee. 

“I - huh?”

“My flannel.” He points. “Well, your daddy’s flannel - 'f that's what ya wanna call it. Works either way, I s'pose."

Your eyes shift between his. He gives you a fox-like grin. You could slap him right now, if you weren't so busy trying to keep yourself from blushing over the fact that he'd definitely heard everything beyond your bedroom door this morning. 

“I don't have time for this,” you swear under your breath, tripping your way through your cesspool of a room. 

“Had fun with ya last night,” you hear him say while you’ve got one foot out the door.

Your limbs freeze.

“Yeah - um. Me too.” You peer back into the room. “Nice meeting you, uh -“

Oh fuck, how did you already forget his name? You just had it an hour ago. It started with a G. No, a J. Juh. Juh. Juh- 

“C’mon, darlin’. Had you screamin’ it last night, ’n ya already forgot?”

Alright, fuck this guy.

“Guess it just wasn’t that memorable.” 

“Bullshit,” he huffs a laugh. “The mouth on you, girl."

Your nose scrunches with a vindictive grin.

“It’s Joel,” he says. “Joel Miller.”

“I was getting there."

“Didn’t want you hurtin’ that pretty little head thinkin’ too hard.” He winks. “Nice meetin’ you too, darlin’.”

“Alright, Joel-“

He interrupts to say your name back. Just to make your stomach swirl. Just to show you he remembers. 

“Leaving now," you say, heartbeat drumming in your ears. 

“We’ll see,” he says. You don’t have to look at him to know he’s grinning.

“Bye, Joel Miller. Happy birthday,” you say on your way out.

Good riddance.

————

Miraculously, you get all three kids to school on time. You speed home, hoping you’ll have more than five minutes to shower this time, and maybe more than that to actually put on some makeup before your shift at Sweet Pea's Café - a charming little mom-and-pop restaurant that you'd applied to a few weeks after the move. 

The door’s creak is the only sound that fills the house when you enter, followed by your strained, “Hello?”

No response.

Nothing greets back, save for the smell of freshly brewed coffee and maple syrup, stuck for life onto the plates that the kids forgot to rinse after breakfast. Except, you don’t remember making any coffee this morning. In fact, you haven’t used the drip coffee maker since before you’d moved.

It belonged to your dad, and you had only saved it because the counter would look completely off-kilter if Dad’s coffee maker weren’t here taking up some space - like the heart of the house would be missing. So there it sat, unused, untouched, and cloaked in a gummy layer of coffee grounds-past.

You saunter into the kitchen, and for a split second you expect to find your dad, sipping entirely too loudly from his under-washed, borderline unusable coffee mug.

And maybe the thought would’ve lasted longer if you weren’t met with the pile of dishes you had to do, and to the right of those, a note.

Words written on a piece of torn printer paper, its ends curled up like ribbon, lying next to the half-full coffee maker.

You pick it up:

Tried my hardest not steal anything, but you left a perfectly good waffle out on the counter. Couldn’t have a waffle without some coffee, so I stole some of that too. Try not to be too mad, the coffee tasted like shit, so now we're even. Also, the roses in the windowsill could use some water. Or a trashcan. Joel

You let a smile slip before you can catch yourself. You turn the note over :

If you want to yell at me for all the stealing.

His phone number follows, written neatly underneath. 

A freshly washed plate, mug, and fork sit lonely on the dish-rack, which makes you smile even wider.

Your eyes flit up toward the windowsill above the sink, where the dried roses are sitting. Restfully. Gathered together, bound in a transparent green vase. Their color drained out from stem to petal - the way marrow dries up in the bones of a corpse. Stiff, hollow, and lifeless.

Nothing like the smile on your mom’s face the day your dad brought home that same bouquet of red roses. The kind of red so deep, it makes you feel something. You hadn’t seen her so giddy before, the way her smile lines creased so sweetly and her eyes beamed. She sang quietly to herself while she trimmed the stems and filled the vase with water, arranging the blooms perfectly. 

You clench your teeth, swallowing the lump that’s formed in your throat as you ball Joel’s note into your fist and throw it into the garbage.

————

Friday finally comes, and you’re thanking whatever the hell created the universe after the way this week dragged. Each day felt agonizingly long; even work at the café was eerily slow. Helping the kids with school projects. One customer popping in here and there.

It was the definition of mundane, and it didn’t exactly leave you with much to do besides think. Think about your night with Joel and that stupid note he left. Fantasize about his calloused hands on your bare skin. He had infiltrated the walls inside your mind like a fucking termite who was immune to extermination.

That night was gnawing at your brain. That morning was gnawing at your brain. Joel Miller was gnawing at your brain. The way he'd made you laugh at the bar, the moans he’d drawn out of you in your own sheets, the phone number he’d written out just for you. It was relentless. Sickening, even.

It didn’t help your case once you had begun to string together piece after piece of that drunken night you two shared. You’d get flashes of it in the shower, in bed at night, and it even begun invading your mind at work. His sweat-soaked skin against yours. His low drawl sending chills up your spine while he whispered against your ear. The way he felt inside of you and told you how pretty you looked, ‘takin’ it like a good girl’.

It all ended the same way - with your hand between your legs the moment you were left alone in your bedroom.

Sleep had evaded you night after night, and instead, had you lying in bed and staring at the ceiling - willing yourself to keep still, rather than going to search for Joel’s note at the bottom of the garbage can, sodden and sticky with syrup and grape-jellied crusts from Bear’s sandwiches.

Times like that - when the gnawing was so incessant you thought you might scream - you’d think of a list of reasons why it would be a monumentally bad idea to go dumpster diving for that stupid fucking phone number. The list you’d come up with was logically sound, and painstakingly long. You’d repeat it to yourself over and over and over to lull yourself to sleep.

Toward the top of your imaginary list, the age gap between the two of you danced in your head like a tragic ballet. This must've been a lapse in judgement for him. Maybe a mid-life crisis or something he had to get out of his system. 

The kids were the most glaringly obvious con on the list. They rely on you fully, and they don't need you getting distracted by whatever having Joel's number saved in your phone would entail. You hadn't even told him the kids were under your legal guardianship, and if you did, who's to say he wouldn't run for the hills like everyone else.

On Wednesday night, you’d concluded that you couldn’t have been the first woman Joel had left a note for, anyways. There was absolutely no scenario in which there weren’t other women he’d gone home with - maybe even your age - that hadn't found a slip of paper with his number written on it the next morning. Who are you to think that you're special enough to be the only one? Who are you to think that he’d been waiting impatiently for you to call?  He's not making a list. He’d forgotten all about you by now.

But sometimes, you’d fail to catch the thoughts that wandered too fast and far, unable to squash the fantasy of it all. The asinine daydream where you were the only one, having allowed yourself to keep his note in your back pocket and call him whenever you wanted. Whenever you were ready. A world in which you could sleep with a man the night before, and not have to keep him hidden like a secret in your room; or not having to treat any semblance of a chance at a relationship with a man like a mushy, over-ripe, banana - tossing it out before it has the chance to rot in front of the kids. 

This particular Friday afternoon, though, your mind had finally quieted. It was as if the night you’d shared with Joel threw the ecosystem in your brain off balance - changed the pH of the soil, and the temperature of the climate. The repeated list of reasons not to reach out had been the controlled burn you’d needed to silence the flashbacks and fantasies. Finally, you could breathe. 

You were finishing up your afternoon shift when you felt a buzzing coming from your apron pocket. You fish out your phone, a silly contact picture lighting up the screen with each vibration.

Romy.

“Ro? Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” you whisper from behind the cash register.

“I just needed to ask something real quick?"

“Yeah?”

“Before you say no, my homework’s already finished - I did it in fourth period - and my room is clean and -“

“What d’you want?”

“There’s this girl, Sarah - she switched into my AP Bio like two Wednesdays ago - anyway, we’ve been hanging out at lunch too and sometimes even in the library - “

“Spit it out, babe,” you snort.

“She asked if I could sleep over at her house tonight. So I was wondering...”

“Of course you can go.”

“Really?” she squeals.

“Yeah, Ro. You’ve been helping me out a lot since the move. Maybe too much, actually. You deserve it. Plus you have, like, zero friends by my count.”

“Shut up,” she chides. “Thank you. I can’t wait to tell her. She said her dad was gonna get the pool all ready for us and everything!”

“Jealous,” you say, mindlessly skimming a customer’s receipt. “I have to meet her parents first, though. You know the drill.”

“I know, I know. But it’s just...parent. Just her dad.”

“Okay, whatever,” you sigh, half listening. A lady with rosy cheeks and a button nose meanders over to read the menu above your head. You flash her a plastic smile, saying into the other line, “Gotta go,” before hanging up the call to ring up a blueberry muffin and an iced chai.

————

You pick the kids up from school after your shift, and Romy wastes no time in packing an overnight bag the second you all get home. You freshen yourself up, changing into jeans and a comfy sweater, wiping the work day and coffee grounds off your skin. It’s nerve-wracking to meet the parents of any of your siblings’ friends, because they're one: always so much older and more put together than you - and two: always surprised to see a sister in lieu of a mom. It was always jarring for other people, and for some reason, however understandable, it bothers you.

“You ready?” you ask, clasping your hands together - Romy excitedly pacing in the kitchen with a backpack full of pjs and toiletries waiting for your go-ahead. 

You try to swallow your dread as Romy whirls around with a huge smile. She hasn’t been this giddy in months. She was finally acting like a teenager, and you can’t recall the last time she’d been able to be one. She’s practically beaming.

This will be good for her, you think. She could use a friend. 

You all pile into the car and Romy types the address into your phone.

“Oh,” she says, handing it back to you, “it’s only three blocks away.”

“Well maybe if this goes well, you could walk there next time,” you bat her on the shoulder and she squats you away. 

It takes all of about two minutes to get there, pulling your car beside the curb. Romy’s excitement is palpable, even making you feel a little nervous.

“Don’t embarrass me,” she says with a wince, throwing her backpack around her shoulder.

“You don’t embarrass me,” you assert.

You leave the car running with the two little ones in the back, urging them not to touch anything. You throw an arm around Romy as you walk up the drive and make your way up the front porch. She takes a deep breath before she nods in your direction, prompting you to knock on the door.

*Knock knock knock*

“Is that my hair clip?” Romy asks with a tone. 

“Huh?” You feel the back of your head, where the clip holds your hair in place. “I don’t know. I just grabbed it out of my bathroom.”

“It’s mine.” You both turn and face each other, ripping your arm from her shoulder. “Why do you always steal my stuff?”

If you had a dollar for every time Romy picked a fight when she's nervous about something...

“Steal your stuff? Isn’t that my shirt you’re wearing?”

“You gave it to me, idiot!”

“I don’t remember giving it to you. Why would I give something to someone that won’t even let me borrow a fucking hair clip?” You whisper harshly.

“I would, if you would just ask like a normal fucking human!” Her features pinch tightly.

“Oh my god," you scoff. "You’re so annoying - I’m glad I’m getting rid of you tonight. Maybe I'll get lucky and Sarah’s dad will offer to adopt you.”

“Good! Maybe he won’t steal all my shit and pretend like it’s his," she mutters angrily. 

“Romy,” you say through your teeth, “watch your fucking mouth before-“

Someone clears their throat in front of you, the smell of cedar and coffee wafting out toward you two. It grabs both of your attention, whirling your heads back to the door in front of you - except now it’s open, a man broad enough to block the entrance staring back at both of you.

Your stomach plummets down to your ass.

No- further.

Not because this guy definitely just overheard you cussing out your little sister. Not even because Romy specifically asked you not to embarrass her - which you'd undoubtedly just done. 

No. None of that mattered right now.

Not when the hand propping open the door was the same one that had been wrapped around your neck Sunday night. Staring back at you are the same brown eyes that he made you look at while he talked you through your climax. And a familiar mouth - one that already knows the taste of your cunt - twisted in that same sardonic grin he'd donned Monday morning.

Joel fucking Miller.

--

ao3 link: crazycomet 💫

this is my first fic + my first post on tumblr lmfao hi everyone i hope you enjoyed