dindjarinsslut

[dindjarinsslut]

i love them your honor

Beck and Call

18+ MDNI!

Summary: You’ve been divorced from Joel for a little while, now. But when your sink breaks and threatens to flood your house right before a date, you have no one else to call but him. Why does he come? You don’t know. Why does he look so fucking good? You don’t know, either.

W.C: ~6.2k

TL;DR: Rule number one of getting divorced: don’t fuck your ex-husband. (Optional).

Warnings: ex-husband!joel x ex-wife!reader, sappy love confessions, improper use of a sink, praise, oral f!receiving, mirror sex, unprotected p-in-v sex, (no outbreak!)

Note: as a child of divorce, i am allowed to touch upon this matter. anyway, happy fucking i mean reading

Part One | Part Two

One-third. A married couple’s least favourite fraction. 

It was (and is) a well-known fact that one in three marriages ends in separation. And of course, you—being the lucky duck you were—found yours rapidly accelerating toward that destination.

You and Joel had agreed that you’d be better off apart. Joel got his own place while you kept the house. And Sarah lived with you every other week.

All you needed to do was send your attorney the signed divorce papers.

Outside of the sympathetic comments you received from acquaintances and relatives almost daily, you were doing just fine.

In fact, tonight you had a date.

A date. The kind that made you choose a tight-fitting dress that hugged your curves just right. The kind that inspired you to wear your hair in something other than a claw clip. The kind that provoked you to shave places you haven’t shaved in a long time.

The lucky bachelor was a fellow divorcee named Mark, whom you had met on a single-parent dating app. He had a full head of hair, a decent sense of humour, and two rescued Labradors. He offered to bring you to his favourite Italian restaurant, bringing up the fact that he’d pick up the bill no matter what, much to your protests. Needless to say, you had a good feeling about him.

After one last check in the mirror, you grabbed your coat and slung your purse over your shoulder, ready to head out the door.

Then, you heard it.

A faint gurgling. 

You blinked twice, trying to zero in on the sound. Proceeding a few moments of intense concentration, you followed the sound into the ensuite bathroom.

The faucet was running. Had you forgotten to turn it off?

You reached for the handle. Twisted it. It spun freely, and nothing happened. 

You tried and tried again, but all your efforts were in vain. You could only watch the tap stubbornly defy you as the handle jutted uselessly, loose in its socket.

“Shit.” You breathed.

The faucet sputtered out a particularly heavy spurt of water as if to say: shit, indeed.

You sighed, staring helplessly at the sink as it stared contumaciously back, water that couldn’t be swallowed by the drain toppling over the edge of the sink.

A quick Google search informed you that you needed to turn off the principal water pipe—the mains. Which you didn’t know how to do. 

So, you resolved to delegate the problem to more capable hands. Like, a twenty-four-hour plumbing service. No, they could easily overcharge you. You could call your dad? No, he was too far.

Or…

Sighing, you dug out your phone from your purse and called your only remaining option. Someone who was a seasoned contractor, someone who dealt with this sink before, and someone who you just so happened to be divorcing. 

He answered on the third ring.

“Hey—everything okay?” Joel’s concerned voice filtered through your phone.

“No.” You inhaled. 

“No?” Joel echoed hesitantly, then waited for elaboration.

When nothing came, he cleared his throat.

Slightly confused, slightly wry, he continued, “This is the part where you tell me what’s wrong.” 

“Um, my sink’s busted.”

“Your sink… is busted?”

“Yeah. Faucet won’t turn off. It-It’s a lot of water.” You bit the inside of your cheek, leaning on the wall. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

A moment of silence, then:

“You need me to fix it?” 

Was that annoyance? Exhaustion? It definitely wasn’t exhilaration at the prospect of doing manual labour at eight o’clock on a Friday evening.

“You know what? Forget I called. This was stupid. Sorry to bother you—”

“I’m on my way.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, after he hung up, the smallest of smiles began forming on your face. 

Fifteen minutes later, a knock came from your front door.

You swung the door open, and there he stood. Tool bag in hand, flannel shirt stretching tightly over his broad shoulders, salt-and-pepper hair just a little bit unkempt.

It had been a good few months since the two of you went your separate ways, but there he was—still at your beck and call. What that meant, exactly, remained to be seen. 

But you were glad to see him, nonetheless.

“Hi,” You said breathlessly.

Upon seeing you, Joel’s brows shot up, and he blinked a few times.

“Hi.” He said back slowly, then cleared his throat. “Am I… interruptin’ something?”

You glanced down. Right. Tight dress and makeup.

“I have a date in…” You raised your left wrist and winced as you looked down at your watch. “Five minutes ago.”

“A date.” He clicked his tongue, nodding to himself. “Well, I’ll try to make this quick, then.”

You hummed a noise of agreement, pivoted, and, with a wave of your hand, invited Joel inside.

He stepped through the doorway with a quiet grunt. And, as he bent down to undo his boots, his coffee-brown gaze landed on a pile of unopened mail by the entryway table. A few envelopes had slipped to the floor, and he crouched to gather them without thinking. 

But, as he straightened up to his full height, his eyes lingered on the recipient line.

“Mrs Miller?” Joel read aloud.

“What?” Your breath caught in your throat, and you spun around to meet his stare.

Joel wordlessly held the envelope up with two fingers, the corners of his lips slightly upturned.

“Oh.” You cringed inwardly. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t, uh, realise that you were keepin’ the name.” He shrugged offhandedly, tossing the stack of mail onto the entryway table.

“I’m not. I just…” You ran a hand through your hair. “Paperwork isn’t final.”

For the divorce.

Joel’s eyebrows pinched together. “I sent you my signed copies, if—” 

“I know you did. I just haven’t sent the papers to my lawyer yet.” You pressed your lips into a thin line and avoided his gaze. “Just got a lot on my plate, recently.”

That was very unconvincing.

Joel hummed a noncommittal noise.

“Well…” He huffed sheepishly. “You know I always liked my name on you.”

You swallowed, feeling your stomach do a funny flip and your ears burn up. Why were your ears burning up?

“C’mon. The problem is upstairs.”

The faucet, to your dismay, hadn’t stopped. It was worse now, if that was even possible, spitting little rogue sprays of water alongside the main stream. Great.

You checked your watch again. Fifteen minutes late. You would no doubt have a few missed calls from your poor suitor if you had the guts to check your phone.

Joel sank to one knee as he inspected the sink, squinting at the appliance and shaking his head. Miraculously, he reached in and, a few rusty squeaks later, the water stopped.

“You fixed it.” You blinked.

“Far from it,” He muttered, frowning. “The cartridge’s shot. And the valve stem’s stripped. Who installed this?”

Without missing a beat, “You did.”

“…Right.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest. “So?”

“So, this isn’t a quick fix. I need to pull out the whole assembly. Maybe replace the handle, too. And judging by the corrosion around this nut—” He held up a discoloured metal hexagon like it had personally offended him. “You’ve probably had a leak back here for a while.”

You blinked. “And you didn’t notice that when you lived here?”

Joel turned to shoot you a look. “I was your husband, not your handyman.”

“Really? I could’ve sworn I married you for that toolbox of yours.”

“And here I thought it was ‘cause of my radiant personality.”

“Definitely not that.” You huffed out a laugh.

Despite his back being turned to you, you could just about make out a reluctant smile forming through his slightly greying stubble.

You watched as he rolled up his plaid sleeves, exposing tanned forearms that were entirely too bulky for someone in his mid-forties. He then dug into his bag, fishing out an Allen Wrench.

“You can go on your date,” Joel added, not looking at you. “I’ll be out of here in an hour. Two, tops. But… if you feel like gettin’ frisky, maybe do it at his place. Just in case.”

Right, your date.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you took out your phone. Six missed calls and a flurry of concerned texts.

Decidedly, you typed out an apologetic message mentioning a water-related emergency and stuffed your phone back in your purse.

“I’m staying with you.”

Joel froze and turned to look at you from over his shoulder. “No, you ain’t. I’ll take too long.”

“Well, I can’t leave you to fix my problems while I’m out eating overpriced ravioli.” You shrugged and, with a soft grunt, took a seat against the wall near him. “You’re not a plumber, you’re a… you’re my…”

Ex-husband.

You cleared your throat, then emphasised, “You’re not a plumber.”

Joel let out a slow exhale. “Do whatever you want, but I doubt watching me fix your sink is gon’ be as fun as your date.”

“I’ve got a full bottle of Pinot Noir in the fridge.” You tilted your head. “We can make it fun.”

Joel’s eyebrows shot up.

“Not—not in that way.” You rubbed a clammy hand down your face.

To your surprise, that earned you a small, gruff laugh from Joel, his eyes crinkling momentarily the way they only did when he was truly amused.

His voice was soft when he responded. 

“Go on and get the wine, then, sweetheart.”

Two crystal glasses and a little while later, Joel had put down his wrench and opted instead to sit beside you on your tiled bathroom floor, his shoulders brushing up against yours in the cramped space.

Efforts to tame the defiant sink had long since been forgotten. He did the best he could, but retired upon discovering that you had no spare sink handle lying around—how very unprepared of you.

The bad news was that you weren’t going to be able to wash your hands in the master bedroom ensuite tonight. The good news was that you were having a surprisingly good time with Joel. The conversation evolved from discussing your stood-up date (you showed Mark’s profile, Joel was convinced he was lying about his dogs being rescues), then to how his company was going, and then, reminiscing about the good ol’ days.

“All I’m sayin’,” Joel continued through a laugh. “Is that she did it on purpose.”

“My mom has always been bad with names!”

“Bad enough to still call me ‘George’ after a year of us datin’?” He scoffed.

You stifled a giggle. “In her defence, it’s a very similar—”

“Like hell it is. And your dad? He was worse.” Joel chuckled, finishing the last of his wine. “How is he?”

“Fine. Just called him yesterday, actually.”

“He still callin’ me–?”

“He still calls you ‘porn stache’, yes.”

Joel snorted into his hand, his shoulders bobbing up and down with laughter. Real, genuine laughter.

You smiled and turned to steal a glance at his profile.

His eyes crinkled at the corners, his hooked nose scrunched mid-chuckle, and his laugh was exactly as it was before—low and rough, but somehow boyish and unguarded.

You had almost forgotten how his whole face lit up when he laughed.

And, you didn’t mean to stare. But you did. 

God, you missed this.

“I think I prefer George.” Joel ran a hand down his face, still smiling.

You cleared your throat and leaned over to retrieve the almost-empty wine bottle, refilling your glasses.

“Sarah told me to say hi to you, if I got the chance, by the way.” You said, pouring the Pinot Noir into his glass. “She’s with my parents at the lake house.”

“The lake house?” Joel hummed, taking another sip of his drink. “Still disappointed I didn’t get that in the settlement.”

You snorted, amused. “You don’t even like lakes.”

“No, I don’t like the mosquitoes that come with the lakes.” Joel corrected you, pointedly. “But, I don’t know, I guess I just miss it. A lot of good memories there.”

You felt yourself smile. “Yeah. Yeah, there were.”

A beat.

“Hey, at least you kept the cars. And the boat. And the frequent flier miles. And, well, you see Sarah every other week.” You turned to look at Joel, but he was already looking at you.

A certain vulnerability swam in the brown of his eyes. Something you hadn’t seen in a very long time.

“Yeah, well… there were more important things I couldn’t keep.”

The air thinned. The wine, the laughter, the conversation—everything dissolved in the quiet admission, hanging thickly in the space between you.

And suddenly, there was only you and Joel and the mistakes that had wedged you apart yet somehow brought you back together again; on a random Friday evening on the floor of a bathroom you used to share.

“Joel…” You swallowed, your hand falling from your lap onto the tiles.

But you couldn’t form any semblance of a sentence. How could you? 

There was nothing to say. Yes, you missed him. ‘Missed’ was an understatement. 

Sometimes you’d roll over in the night, wishing to feel the weight of his arm resting on your waist, reassuring you that these past few months had only been a bad dream. Sometimes you came to pick Sarah up early, just to get a few more minutes with him. Sometimes—no, a lot of the time, memories of him came rushing back, cleaving your heart into two, further and further each time.

No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t let go of the man you spent so many years loving. 

Joel’s eyes still bore into yours. And nothing in the world could have torn you away.

He exhaled slowly, then set down his glass with care. His hand barely brushed yours, but it was enough to make your breath hitch.

“I think about it,” He said softly. “More than I should.”

“Think about what?”

A quiet, almost sad laugh escaped from his throat. He leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

“How things used to be.”

“Oh,”

A moment passed, marked only by the metre of your incessant heartbeat pounding in your ears.

And then, “Do you ever miss us?” Joel asked.

You faced him once more. The answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Because that was too complicated. Because that would break you.

Joel didn’t need you to say it. He found the answer in your eyes.

All the time.

Instead, you asked, “Do you? Miss us, that is.”

“Of course, I do.” He said softly. “More than you can imagine.”

You held your breath.

Joel heaved a sigh.

“I think about calling,” He added, voice low. “Just to hear your voice.”

“I’d answer,” You said, barely above a whisper.

He smiled in a bittersweet, melancholic sort of way and leaned in just slightly. Unconsciously, you mirrored him.

And then his eyes flickered down to your lips. It was only for a second, but it was enough to make your stomach flutter.

This was dangerous. You should’ve told him to leave ages ago. Or, maybe you should’ve left yourself and gone on your date.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

“Can I ask you something stupid?” You whispered.

Joel whispered back, “Always.”

“Do you…” You trailed off, biting your lip.

“Do I what?”

“Do you—does even a part of you… want what we had back?” 

You knew what he was going to say. You just wanted to hear it for yourself.

And you did.

“Yes,” He admitted earnestly.

You searched his face for any sign of deception, but found none. The only thing in his coffee-brown eyes was regret. And, maybe, something else, too. Something softer.

Your eyes widened. “We fought a lot.”

“We did.”

“And we probably said some shit.” You sighed, looking up at the ceiling, as if all the answers were written there. Joel did, too.

His voice came softly, sadly, “We did.”

Silence again. Thick and fragile and charged with so many unspoken words.

Joel’s knee brushed yours, neither of you pulling away. It was nice to have him close, to feel his familiar warmth, to see him—really see him. Bare and raw and vulnerable. No facades of indifference. No hiding behind closed car doors. Just Joel, your Joel, there beside you; soft-eyed and quiet, like maybe he was seeing you, too.

Your fingers twitched on the floor beside his. You wanted to reach for him, but you wanted him to reach first. Absently, you fiddled with your left ring finger, suddenly aware of its bareness.

He looked at you then. Not a glance, but a full turn, slow and deliberate. His dark eyes searched your face, pausing on your mouth, your cheek, your lashes, then settled on your eyes again. He looked at you like you were something he’d spent months trying to forget, and only just now remembered why he couldn’t.

You held your breath.

Joel’s voice, when it finally came, was low, cracked around the edges.

“I know it was bad in the end, but I meant what I said.” He breathed. “I miss us. I miss you.”

Your heart twisted. And there went that cleaver again, slicing further.

“I miss seeing your keys on the kitchen counter and knowing you were home. I miss kissing you before work and smudgin’ your lipstick. I miss watching stupid movies with you that we’d fall asleep to halfway.”

His throat bobbed. He leaned back against the wall, like it hurt to say it out loud.

“Yeah, we fought and said some real mean shit. But God help me, I’d give anything to go back in time and fight for you like I should have. Because you were it for me. You were everything. Still are.”

His eyes glistened as he held your gaze, fierce and unflinching.

“Because, no matter how hard I try to ignore it,” He smiled to himself, shaking his head like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I love you.”

He loves you.

Those three simple words rang in an echo in your mind. He loves you, he loves you, Joel loves you.

“You love me?” You could barely hear your voice above the deafening thrum of your pulse.

Your faces were barely an inch apart, now. You could smell the familiar scent of his laundry detergent, and traces of his cologne, and wood, and tobacco, and something that was so uniquely him.

Joel nodded.

“I never stopped.” He whispered.

Without thinking, you closed the remaining distance, smashing your lips against his. Joel grunted in surprise, but quickly gave in, exhaling through his nose like he’d been holding a breath in for years. 

He returned the kiss with equal fervour, reaching out to cup your face and pouring all his pent-up emotions against the haven of your lips—longing, relief, desire.

You pushed yourself closer against him. Closer, impossibly closer, until you were straddling his lap, moving against the tent in his jeans, feeling his big hands instinctively settle on your hips, and tasting the Pinot Noir on his lips.

Shit. Was this even a good idea?

You pulled away suddenly. A tiny whine came from Joel, who tried to chase your mouth, but you were insistent.

“Wait,” You panted.

His eyes opened fully. His brows were knitted, his lips were kiss-swollen, and his chest was heaving slowly.

“What?” Joel asked quietly, his thumbs idly tracing circles on either side of your hips.

“This…” You breathed. “I don’t want this to be a one-time thing. I don’t want it to mean nothing.”

Joel smiled softly at your words.

“Means a whole lot to me, sweetheart.” His hand went to gently tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, caressing your cheek in his wake. “We can talk about what this means, if you w—”

“Okay, good. Means a lot. Talk after.”

“After?” His eyebrows rose.

“After you fuck me.”

A breathy ‘Jesus Christ’ slipped from his throat, but Joel didn’t spend a second refusing your bold assumption.

With a hand on your nape, he leaned forward to capture your lips in another searing kiss, which you happily accepted, sighing against him.

His big hands then travelled to the back of your thighs, and the next thing you knew, he carelessly swept away whatever was decorating the base of your faucet, and carried you with ease to perch you atop the sink.

“Joel.” You mumbled urgently into his lips.

“Mmm?” He hummed back, not wanting to break your mouths apart for even a second. 

“Might break the sink again.”

“Don’t care. I’ll fuckin’ fix it again, then. Just… need you,” Joel groaned. “Look too fuckin’ good,”

And he pulled away. His half-lidded, cloudy gaze drank you in, sweeping down the snugness of your dress, and lingering on the generous amount of cleavage it revealed. His hands drifted higher and higher up your thighs, until they reached the hemline—dipping under just slightly.

“Too fuckin’ good,” He snarled.

You smirked. Knowing him, he was definitely going to ask if—

“How much was this dress?”

Sighing amusedly, “It wasn’t cheap.”

“How attached are you to it?” He mumbled, a hand reverently skirting up to your hip.

“A moderate amou—”

“Can I rip it off you?”

There it was.

In the many years you were married, Joel shredded more than enough articles of your precious wardrobe in similar heated moments. If you were to count the offences, you’d likely run out of fingers. Your wedding dress had been among the few survivors of his destructive tendencies, though not for lack of trying on his part.

You stifled a snort and shook your head, reaching up to caress his face. 

“No.” You smiled. “Because I’d like to wear it again.”

Joel held your hand against his face and huffed out an exaggerated sigh. “Next time.”

And then his hands found the zipper on your side, pulled it sharply down, and tugged the dress off you.

His eyes darkened.

You had chosen to don an intricate, black, lacey number underneath your dress that teased just enough and only hid the bare minimum. Of course, you had. You hadn’t had an opportunity to wear anything vaguely provocative in ages and were expecting some luck after your date.

You certainly didn’t expect that your ex-husband would be the one seeing it.

“This for him?” Joel’s lip twitched.

Heat rose in your cheeks. “Well, I—”

“Yeah, these don’t get a pass.”

With a sharp tearing noise slicing through the air, Joel ripped the flimsy lacey bra clean in half, watching intently, hungrily, as your tits spilled out.

“Joel!”

“I know, I know,” Joel grunted. “I’ll buy you a new set… buy you all the fuckin’ sets.”

You were about to object, intent on citing the price attached to that particular pair, but Joel had sunk back on his knees and spread your legs apart.

He pressed his lips on your inner thigh, scruff tickling your skin as he slowly, softly trailed his mouth upward, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

His face came to a stop in front of your core, noticing how heavily you were breathing, and his eyes flicked up to yours, smirking. Smug fucking bastard.

“Joel.” You gritted your teeth.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Don’t fucking tease me.” 

And he leaned his forehead against the lower part of your navel, taking a second to breathe in the unmistakable scent of your arousal seeping through your lingerie. 

He was practically salivating, now. 

“I’ll try not to, ma’am.” 

Without another word, he took the lace into his teeth, yanked his head sharply, and tore your panties open.

Confirming his suspicions, you were absolutely soaked. Slick drooled freely out of your puffy folds, taunting him and draining every ounce of self-restraint he had. 

Fuck, you were gorgeous.

“Tell me,” Joel said lowly, meeting your gaze once more as a thick finger swiped lightly through your lips, collecting your arousal. “This for him or me?”

“You.” You breathed without a second thought.

“Louder, sweetheart. My ears ain’t what they used to be.”

“You.”

Smirking wider, “Damn fucking right.”

Then, he happily hitched your legs over his shoulders, leaned forward, and dove in.

His tongue prodded into your heat, dragging down your walls and sending jolts of electricity down your spine. He worked fast and sloppily, sliding through your folds and flicking into your walls, urgently tasting you like he wouldn’t get another chance. 

Your arousal coated the lower half of his face, his eyes were almost black with desire, obscenely wet noises echoed in the silence of the tiled room as his tongue eagerly devoured you whole—

“Fuck, almost forgot how good you taste. So fuckin’ sweet.” Joel mumbled against your sex, entirely, wholly bewitched. “She missed me, too, huh? Just drippin’ for me…”

He continued to furiously lap at your entrance, scruff rubbing against your inner thighs. And then he moved up, planting messy kisses higher and higher until he reached your swollen clit.

You gasped brokenly, flinging a hand to grasp his curls as his lips alternated from pressing messy kisses along your seam to greedily sucking at your bundle of nerves, latching onto it almost desperately.

After a particularly delicious drag down the roof of your core, you rolled your hips up into his mouth and brought him closer to you with your grip in his hair.

“Shit—sorry.” You panted, breathing heavily.

He barely pulled away to look at you.

“Don’t fuckin’ be. I can handle it, you know I can.” Joel all but growled, before returning to attend to your needy fucking pussy.

He was like a man possessed; lapping frenziedly, groaning lowly into your sensitive skin, curved nose swiping through your folds as he worked.

Very soon, a familiar tingle in your lower stomach introduced itself.

“Joel,” You called urgently, attempting to warn him.

He knew you were close. Oh, he knew. So, he went faster and harder, pressing himself further against you, suffocation be fucking damned.

His low, wrecked voice came slurred and slightly muffled by your sex, “Y’gonna come? Go on, baby, all over my face—thaaat’s it.”

A shattered moan escaped from your throat, and you felt your release take over your body almost violently. You couldn’t help the way your legs clamped down around his head, but Joel loved it, letting you smother him and humming happily into your heat as he worked you through your climax, swallowing your release and eating like a man starved.

Finally, he pulled away with a wet squelch, softly pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, and gently let your legs down.

And you were immediately greeted with the sight of his lower face shining with your slick.

A good look on him, if you’d say so yourself.

He smiled lazily, eyes blown-out and absolutely fucking pussydrunk. 

“That good for you, sweetheart?” He mused.

“You, Joel Miller, are what we call a munch.” You smiled back.

Pride bloomed across his face. “Gladly, sweets.” 

And you pulled him up by the collar of his flannel shirt into a filthy kiss, tasting your arousal on his lips.

He let his eyes fall shut and reached up to curl a hand around your jaw as he returned the kiss, his brows furrowed in concentration.

Not wasting any time, your hands flew to his belt, blindly fumbling at the leather material to slide it out of the loops of his jeans.

Joel chuckled, leaning forward to trail his lips down your neck, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses.

“Need somethin’, baby?”

“Wanna return the favour,” You glanced down at the bulge in his lap.

“Mm-mm. That was more for me than you. Missed your sweet fuckin’ pussy.” Joel mumbled against your pulse point.

“Munch.” You couldn’t help but giggle.

“Yeah, yeah.” Joel sighed, lifting his head and undoing his jeans just barely enough to pull himself free from his boxers. 

You heard yourself swallow.

Joel Miller was a big man, and you were very aware of that fact. It was written all across his body; from his impossibly broad shoulders, to his beefy arms, to his thick fucking cock.

He stroked himself, once, twice, as his eyes fell to your pulsating, slick core. Beads of precum leaked from his flushed tip and down his length as he did so.

“Spread those legs wider for me, baby. Let me see you,” He breathed lowly.

And you very willingly obliged.

“There’s my girl,” Joel hummed.

With a hand around his base, he guided himself closer to your drooling cunt, nudging his swollen head against you.

Sighing, “Deep breath, baby.”

And he slowly forced himself in, one hand on the small of your back, the other on the underside of your thigh, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist as he steadily fed you his cock.

You gasped some variant of a plea.

Needless to say, he was a tight fucking fit.

“Takin’ me so well. That’s it, baby, let me in.” He blabbed mindlessly as he continued to sink deeper inside. 

Deeper, deeper, deeper…

He winced. “Shit—there you go.”

When all of him was nested inside your welcoming channel, he let out a gasped expletive at the sensation.

Full. You felt so full with him inside. You always did.

“Fuck, missed this.” Joel panted, resting his forehead against yours. 

You tried to echo the sentiment, but the only thing you were capable of doing was letting out an incoherent groan of his name.

Joel got the message, though.

Maintaining an unhurried tempo, he rolled his hips back and forth, slowly dragging his thickness against your walls, making you painfully aware of every last inch of him.

“How’s that feel, baby?” He mumbled, voice airy.

“Good. Feels so good.”

And, fuck, he did. 

He felt amazing.

His tempo soon picked up, leaving your mouth to fall open as you took every inch of him again and again, stretching you open with enough pleasure to dull the slight pain.

“Tell me,” Joel hummed as he continued to drive ceaselessly in and out of your tight channel, adopting a false lilt of indifference. “Who’s fuckin’ you so good, huh?”

An incoherent syllable slipped from your lips.

“Who, baby?” Joel urged you, unrelenting in his pace. “Sure as hell ain’t fuckin’ Mark.”

Dumbly, you shook your head.

“You, Joel.”

Your words were almost drowned out by the symphony of your own moans, which were accompanied by the obscenely wet slaps that sounded every time his hips fully met yours.

“Louder.” He snarled, punctuating his response with an intentionally rough ram. “Neighbours can’t hear you yet, c’mon.”

“You, Joel!”

Satisfied, his hands went to hold you by your waist, keeping you as still as possible as he drove insistently into you, his tip now kissing your cervix with every thrust.

You cried out at the feeling, nails raking down his back.

Heat pooled in your gut, your vision blurred, a high-pitched ringing almost deafened your ears.

“Joel, Joel, I’m…” You babbled.

“Close? Go on, gorgeous. Let me feel you choke my dick.”

With his blessing, his name left your mouth in a high-pitched scream, and you felt yourself clench around his throbbing length as your orgasm rippled across your body like an earthquake.

Joel, being the overachiever he was, didn’t stop for even a second until your breathing slowed and your eyes fluttered open again.

And, once he saw that you had recovered, he leaned forward to slant his mouth against yours, swallowing your sighs.

“You okay?” He mumbled into the kiss, barely breaking away.

“Yeah.” You exhaled. 

He smiled against your lips.

“Good. Almost there, baby. Gonna take you against the sink, now, and you’re gonna give me one more, how’s that sound?”

You nodded dreamily, feeling him slowly pull out.

He leaned back and, with his hands on your waist, delicately set you down.

“Turn ‘round for me, sweetheart.” 

You acquiesced without hesitation, bracing yourself on the porcelain countertop.

Joel hummed, kicked your legs open even wider, and, not long after, sank the entirety of his cock into you in one deep thrust.

A sharp breath hit the air behind you, and an airy ‘fuck’ followed it. This angle made him feel bigger, if that was even possible.

He didn’t wait long after that. He couldn’t. Overcome with the need to feel you, he started moving. The first thrust was slow. Experimental. The second was hard. The third was harder.

Before you knew it, his big hands found a home on your hips, and he began to drive roughly into you, as if making up for lost time.

He certainly proved he was willing to atone for his absence, thrust after thrust.

“Oh, look at you.” Joel tutted and pulled your hair to tilt your head upwards.

You came face to face with the woman in the bathroom mirror.

Somewhere in between thrusts, your mouth had fallen agape, letting loose a long whine of pleasure, which was stuttered by every slam of his hips against yours.

Your hair was frizzy, your face was flushed, your hooded gaze was flooded with desire, and a light sheen of sweat doused every inch of your skin.

You were a wreck, thanks to the man fucking you so well behind you.

“Eyes up here.” Joel sighed. “Keep ‘em open. Gotta watch how well you take me.”

Joel was even more of a sight. 

The top few buttons of his flannel were undone, his sleeves were haphazardly rolled up, his hair was wild, and the look on his weathered face was nothing short of territorial as he held you to him and fucked you with reckless abandon.

Your eyes fell to where your bodies were connected, hypnotised by how easily his tanned cock disappeared in and out of your puffy cunt.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The corners of his lips were coyly upturned when he cooed, “Don’t we look good, baby?”

You could only respond in broken syllables.

“Yeah,” He grunted. Then, after a particularly forceful thrust, “we do.”

He continued to ram into you, finding your cervix with each thrust, keeping his eyes trained on the mirror, fixated on how your tits bounced so prettily for him.

“Beautiful.” He whispered, jaw tight.

If your brain hadn’t been turned to mush after the two orgasms he forced out of you, you would’ve heard him. But all you were focused on was the rush of another climax approaching.

You gripped the countertop harder and gritted your teeth, feeling warmth collecting in your stomach and bracing yourself for impact.

As if reading your mind, Joel’s hand moved from your hip to your front, trailing down until he brushed your clit, rubbing sloppy semi-cricles and whispering sweet things as you whimpered.

“You gonna give me one more?” He murmured encouragingly, his nose nudging the side of your face.

You could only manage an open-mouthed nod.

His fingers sped in their motions, swiping at your clit feverishly as he continued to rut into you, grazing your cervix each time.

Again. And again. 

“Come for me, sweetheart. I’ll catch you.” He whispered gently.

Your jaw slackened, your heartbeat quickened, and, in a blinding flash of pleasure, you came with his name on your tongue, helpless to the throes of your climax.

“There you go. Shit… so good for me.” Joel groaned. And then, urgently, “Where—where do you want me to–?”

Not even a full second later, “Inside.” 

“You sure?” He panted, starstruck. 

“I have an IUD, just—please.”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he pressed closer, his chest flush against your back, letting you feel every shaky pull of his breath as he caged you in. His hands found yours at the edge of the sink, lacing over them gently. His head dropped beside yours, his forehead nearly touching your temple, and a warm breath fanned across your skin as he sighed. 

And then he resumed his earlier pace.

He rammed into you hard and fast, chasing his own release as if it were a life-or-death situation. And all you could do was take it.

After a dozen more jerky thrusts, his breath caught in his throat and, with a low curse, he came. Hot ropes of his spend spilled inside you, and he rode it out until he couldn’t give you any more, which took a few more lazy rolls of his hips.

His breath evened not long after, warm and steady against your browbone. Soothing, almost.

Gently, he pulled out of you, and you felt his come slowly drip down your thighs.

“Fuck,” He breathed, pressing a soft kiss to your hair, scruff rubbing against your crown as he did so.

And he bowed his head to rest it on the crook of your neck.

“That was great, George.” You panted.

Joel snorted tiredly. “Just couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

“Nope.”

He huffed out a chuckle.

Then, he languidly pressed a trail of open-mouthed kisses wherever his lips could reach—the underside of your jaw, your throat, your neck, and down, still.

A warm, fuzzy sort of feeling radiated from his touch, lulling you into a state of bliss. It felt like love; it felt like coming home.

You couldn’t help the smile that stretched across your face.

Joel mumbled something unintelligible against your shoulder.

“What?” You replied, breaking free from your trance.

“I said,” He pulled away and, with two fingers on your chin, tenderly turned your face to look at him. His voice was wrecked and so very earnest when he finally repeated himself. “Don’t send the papers. Please.”

He held the rest of his plea in his eyes in the way they shone with a certain sincerity.

You smiled softly and shook your head. Because you knew you never really had any intention to. Because you wanted to hold on to him. And you were glad he wanted to hold on to you, too.

Your lips found his. Gentle, delicate, a reassurance. He gave in to the kiss almost immediately, sighing into your mouth.

“I won’t.”

And you meant it.

thanks for reading!!! reqs are open, if you wanna send an idea or anything over :)

🏷️: @whaddupbaby, @pedritodowney08, @martuxduckling, @aadhinagony, @lanabobana, @pedr0swh0r3, @romancherry, @strawberriesandhotmen, @streamermattsgf, @bonneyzsk, @worhols, @serendippindots, @paprikainfurs, @lanternnightgarden, @12vamppp, @savvyisss, @umadirectioner, @tinawantstobeadoll, @not-the-teen-witch, @wundagre, @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere, @guelyury, @joelspickle, @callofdiva, @hotnmad, @brightestxxwitch, @pearl-diver-m, @kungfucapslock, @hellokittyyloverrrr, @meganfoxismywife, @natalieispunk, @billionairecowgirl, @my-tearsricochet

[dindjarinsslut]

this was so incredible

The right side of my neck

pairing: Joel Miller x F!reader

summary: You never meant to end up alone with the patroller, but two nights, snowed in between silence and shared space, leave you both with a bond too fragile to name and very dangerous to keep.

tags: age gap (30-56), grief, death, mention of suicide, alcohol.

w/c: 3.1k

notes: you'll hate me for this, i know

“So, by protocol, we’re gonna start sending a nurse on every patrol” María says from behind her desk, her momma-warm voice filling the silent office… smelling like incense and baby powder for some reason.

“I don’t carry guns.”

Silence. María moves some stuff through the desk, rummage through some papers with names.

“Ain’t necessary you use one” she assures you. “Might wanna keep a knife on you, just in case, but if you don’t wanna use firearms, we won’t force you. You can when you’re ready, but for now it ain’t needed.” She writes your name on the patrol roster, stamps it, and hands you a slip of paper.

“This here’s your assigned partner for tomorrow morning. You’ll find him at the stable” she says as you read: Joel Miller. Rancher St. “Here’s his address if you wanna stop by and meet him beforehand.”

You slip the paper into your scrub pocket and look at her.

“What if someone tries to hurt me out there?” you ask.

“That ain’t gonna happen. Joel’s…” María trails off for a second, thinking through her words. “He’s alert. Real alert. Before anything touches you, it’s gotta get through him first. But you know, if you wanna feel safer you can—”

“I’m not carrying a gun” you cut in.

“Good.” She nods. Not tired, you can feel the understanding in her voice. “Pack yourself a bag with food, warm clothes, a lighter, first-aid kit, water, etc.” She stands and opens the door.

“Good luck tomorrow. Let me know how it goes.”

Walking out of City Hall, you head straight home. Doesn’t strike you to go meet your new partner. Why bother? Just to stare at each other?

The thought of stepping outside again after so long makes every inch of you tremble. Freezes your marrow. Once, you were a wild creature and the outdoors was your playground… but those instincts got lost. Now, you feel like the world outside will eat you alive.

And maybe it will.

The new patrol policy is kinda rough, but it means more supplies and maybe a few privileges.

“Hey, I’m the one keeping your ass safe! Give me that last bag of coffee!” Sounds good.

Your bag’s a bit heavy. Maybe because you rolled around in bed more than you slept. Still, you reach the stable and see him. Joel’s brushing his horse like it’s showtime, whispering to it as he strokes its neck—tender.

“Hey” you say, no frills, standing on the other side of the fence. “You Joel?”

He turns, looks at you for a second, then glances away.

“Roll out in fifteen. Grab a horse and sign in” he says, returning to the horse and stuffing a few things into his bag and adjusting the girth.

His demeanor irks you at first: no hello, no eye contact. You shrug and head to the end of the stable, find the sign-in sheet with a pencil dangling on a string. You jot your name beneath his.

“Which one’re you taking?” Joel asks, leading the horse out by its reins.

“This one’s available…” you read off the board: “Shimmer.”

“No, leave that one in.”

“But I need—”

“You ride mine. Easier that way. If I gotta wait on you, we ain’t gettin’ back.”

A silence settles. You watch him settle the last few things on his horse. The jab stings. He turns his head and meets your eyes.

“Get on the horse.” He gestures you to the animal. You glance at it and then back at him. Joel closes his eyes, massages the bridge of his nose and sighs heavy. “Come ‘ere”

He makes you stand fancing the side of the horse and suddenly you're in the air. A small sound blurt past your lips but you keep it in by clamping your lips shut. Your hands go to the horn of the saddle, his strong and large hand grasp you by the hips over your jeans, when you set your foot inside the stirrup, his hands go unannounced straight to your ass, pushing you up.

Once you're sat, your eyes go briefly to his. Not staring much. You're probably beet red.

The ride’s quiet. Like you’ve both silently agreed you don’t wanna know much about each other. Your arms around his waist over his coat, it’s alright. The landscape stuns you, the sun reflecting off the snow like in a dream. Jackson’s mountains look even more intimidating close-up.

“Ain’t we going too far?” you ask over the wind.

He glances back. Doesn’t answer right away.

“You never been assigned a long route before? You think they’d send a nurse on a thirty-minute patrol? They only send someone if it’s risky.” He speaks as he guides the horse across a little stone bridge over a frozen river.

“I’ve never done a route.”

Silence.

“Well. This will be your first.”

The blizzard bites your skin, snow flicking your cheeks. You close your eyes, lean into his back, taking refuge from the wind’s assault.

A grunt rumbles in his chest.

“We gotta stop. Storm’s comin’ in,” Joel says, voice louder to fight the storm’s howl.

Soon you’re standing in front of a worn sign: “Jackson Hole Golf & Tennis Club.” Following a trail, you find a small cabin. He helps you down with a tug so abrupt it nearly throws you off balance. You give him a sharp look he doesn’t notice as he hands you the bags and gestures toward the door. After a moment, he steps inside after you.

“Where’d you leave it?” you ask as he sets his rifle on a desk and pulls a flashlight from his bag.

“What?” He’s matter-of-fact, not looking your way.

“The horse.”

“He’s got a back room. I’ve spent nights here before in the same kinda mess” he says, handing you the flashlight. Through the windows, nothing but white, daylight storm in full force.

“How long we stay here?” you ask, stammering as you turn toward the window.

“Could be two hours. Could be a day.” He draws the curtains and closes them. “Unpredictable.”

You nod, sinking into one of the chairs in the small living area.

“I brought water, some cans of food, extra matches…” You plop your backpack on your knees and start unpacking.

“Yeah, what everyone should carry when they patrol,” he mutters, pulling a small single-burner stove from his bag and lighting it on the floor. “Next time, bring a lighter, not matches. Snow melts and ruins ‘em.”

You nod again. Accept wisdom from someone who’s been around.

Afternoon rolls in silence. The cabin creaks as wind tosses around it. Joel fiddles with the radio, scanning through static. No signal, storm’s blocked it.

“I’m gonna check the horse” he whispers, getting up with a tired groan. He tries the cabin door. It won’t budge. He peers through the peephole. Only darkness. “Dammit, the snow… Shit.” He clicks his radio on his belt.

“Jackson, do you copy? Amy, do you copy?” he repeats, voice tense all afternoon.

“It’s almost six PM. They can answer, but we ain’t goin’ no place tonight. Rescue teams roll out at six AM.” Joel sets the radio on the desk and sinks into a chair, rubbing his forehead.

“We could cook something” you say, knees brushing the floor as you grab a can of chickpeas in tomato sauce and set it on the burner. “Something hot in the belly, the night’ll pass easy.” He’s staring at the cans now.

“How we divide the night watch?” you ask.

“I got it. You ain’t got a gun, and I’m sure you don’t know how to handle one” he says, lifting the rifle from the wall, then grabs a cloth from his pocket and wipes the barrel.

“Aren’t you gonna sleep?” you ask, arching your brow. “The door’s buried in snow, ain’t nothing getting in.”

He stares for a long beat, raises both eyebrows.

“All right. Fine.” You turn away and focus on the cans. “Just saying, if infected came calling, you ain’t doin’ much.”

“Infected? There’s things out there way worse than a bite. Worse for folk like you.” He studies you, wondering if you’re naive, or stupid. Maybe both. Or maybe you just prefer ignoring danger.

“How long since you haven't been out there?” he asks after a long look. Your hands, your sweater, your tired braid.

“Couple years” you murmur. “Been in Jackson for three years. Since I walked through Jackson’s gate, I never went back outside. I told María I ain’t goin’. I got good at everything inside, became indispensable.”

“You saying patrollers are disposable?” he frowns.

You meet his gaze, steeled a bit.

“No. I mean everyone’s indispensable for somethin’. You’re indispensable on patrols. I’m indispensable at the clinic.”

“Apparently not that indispensable, ‘cause they still sent you out here without a gun.”

Silence.

Your eyes go back to the open cans.

He swallows hard. He knows he stepped on a nerve.

“But they sent you with me. Means they knew you’re safe with me.” he remarks, setting the rifle aside.

You take a can with a rag around it, careful not to burn yourself, and hand it to him. He takes it. Doesn’t say thanks. Just nods.

You eat in silence.

Night comes, and you start nodding off, arms crossed, knees to your chest, coat over your legs. He watches you from his spot, stares at your form that expects nothing. Never does, never asks for anything.

There's a poor drop of sweat falling down your temple. Gladly you got to make some warmth in that little corner, Joel's wonders if you have layers and layers of other clothes beneath the one's he can see. Why is he so cold? Why aren't you?

The idea is erased by the memory of what he did this morning. He meant to push you up by thighs, not by your fucking ass but he slipped. He still has the feeling impregnated in his hands. He swears he felt the warmth of your skin seep through the denim that he squeezed.

Joel closes his eyes taking a slow deep breath.

He saw you before. At the clinic, strolling around, staying beside the ill. Going home, sometimes crying because you've lost somebody, sometimes with a neutral expression.

You're another townfolk. Another someone. Everyone has been for years to him. No one more than his family lights that protective side in his chest.

But you're slowly moving something in him. And he can't let it happen.

Joel rises and gently touches your shoulder.

“Help me move that cot from the bedroom. You’ll be more comfortable” he says softly, not wanting to interrupt your drifting rest by alarming you.

You follow him down the narrow hallway and into a cold, dark room. He takes one end of the cot and you the other, carrying it back into the living room. Then he fetches the mattress.

“I got some blankets. You got more, right?” he grabs two rolled-up blankets from his bag.

“I’m here with mine. Keep yours, you’ll freeze on that chair otherwise.”

Joel watches you crawl into the cot, curling around yourself under both blankets. After a few minutes, he hears your soft breathing, you’re asleep.

Static crackles from the radio and wakes you in the morning. You turn and see him, collapsed on the sofa, forehead against the radio, thumb gripping the volume as he naps. Rifle resting on his lap. He snores softly, almost hidden.

You notice two blankets draped over you. You sigh and rise quietly. That's why you're sweating then, you think. You move over and cover his back and legs with them. After a couple hours, Joel wakes.

“What’re you doin’?” Joel asks, confused, squinting at the clear morning light as you warm a chickpea can on the stove.

“Warming up food” you mumble, tilting your head, unable to hide the soft rhythm in your voice.

“No. Why the hell didn’t you wake me?” he grumbles, pulling the blankets off and suddenly looking at you. “You wanna get us killed?”

“...They didn’t kill us” you chirp, narrowing your eyes a bit, regretting that response.

“I’m aware. But anything could’ve gone down in a millisecond and you wouldn’t’ve woken me. Got that little survival instinct? Did nobody teach you? How’d you survive before Jackson?” he snaps.

Silence.

“I just wanted you to sleep. You looked worn out.”

Joel breathes heavily. Rubs his hands over his face and shakes his head.

“I don’t need sleep. I need us to stay alive.”

“Sorry” you murmur.

Joel blinks, surprised at your words. “Don’t apologize. Just say you get it.”

“Got it. I’ll wake you next time.” You meet his gaze and sound steady, and he notices. A flicker of fear. It makes his stomach turn water.

Afternoon finds the storm raging still. Door won’t budge, radio’s out again. You’re rationing water and gas like it’s the last on Earth. Joel’s in the spare bedroom where you moved the cot, breaking up old furniture into firewood for the chimney you both sort of cleaned in the living room.

While you’re sniffing through drawers in the cabin, you find an old photo album, pictures of a family. You settle at the desk and flip through, imagining the story behind each.

“When Tommy and I found this spot, there was some guy dead in here—gunshot to the head. Lost everything, gave up,” Joel says from behind your chair. “This shit can drive you nuts.”

He tosses the sticks into the chimney.

“I don’t think it drives you nuts” your eyes stay on the photos: a baby on a woman’s lap, a man smiling wide. “One day you got it all, and then... boom, the universe yanks it away. Not everyone can live with that memory flash in their head. Some follow those eyes anywhere they go.”

He’s quiet. Takes a seat across from you, arms crossed, watching the chimney. Reaches for a sip of whisky from his flask, splashes wood with it, lights the fire, closes the cap from the flask.

“I tried following those eyes,” he whispers. “But I couldn’t. She was fourteen that night… she died in my arms.”

Silence.

No “I’m sorry”, you know he’s sick of hearing it.

“It’s a pain that never quits.” You close the album, set it on the desk. “It’s… cruel, right? Something so familiar just disappears.”

Joel watches you.

“You don’t know where to look. You get mad at everything… The sun, the wind, anything. And then you feel a burst of happiness you think means you’ve accepted it. Then you wake up and remember. They’re gone.” You shrug, and meet him. His eyes hold that same familiar, recognized grief.

“It comes in waves” he says.

“Yeah. Never really goes away.”

Silence.

“Who?” he asks. It is understood.

“A lot of people.”

He gets it, even if it’s vague. Feels resentful for asking. Doesn’t want to show his own bottomed-out softness.

The radio clicks.

“Miller, do you copy?” Amy’s voice crackles.

“Miller here. We’re stuck in the cabin at Cottonwood St., the Golf Club” he replies.

“Copy that. Security station north. Rescue crew’ll be sent first thing tomorrow. Hold tight."

With luck, this’ll be the last night.

As the sun sets, the temperature drops lower than the night before. Both of you sit by the fire, on the cot, warming your hands.

“It’s funny,” you murmur, chin resting on your knees, eyes fixed on the fire “how quick a person can get used to comfort after livin’ so long like this, huh?” You glance over at him. His profile, that hawkish nose, his graying hair, eyes reflecting the flames.

“Never got used to it, to be honest. Feels like if I start takin’ it for granted, it’s all gonna fall to shit” he says low, arms crossed, shoulders hunched.

You look at him for another moment, then turn back to the fire.

“I think I spent so long just runnin’ that the only goal I had was makin’ it here. A safe place. The... sort of silence.” You shrug. “I think if somethin’ happened to me after this, I wouldn’t mind much."

He finally looks at you.

“It’d just mean I got somethin’ good to tell those eyes when I see ’em again” you whisper. When you turn your head again, you see it… a flicker in those tired eyes, the shimmer of tears he won’t let fall.

Joel stands and heads into the other room, the same one you both got the cot from. You don’t hear him for a couple of hours. You stop feeding the fire because the wood’s gone.

You crawl under the blankets, arms wrapped around yourself, backpack tucked under your head like a pillow. After a while, you hear him come back.

“Mind if I lie down? I’m real tired. Don’t think I got it in me tonight,” he says and it doesn’t sound like he’s just talking about sleep. Feels like he’s saying he wants to stop everything. The world. Life.

You nod, lift the blanket, and he climbs in beside you. Face to face. He exhales, the cold seeping into him, his hands clenched tight to his chest.

Your hands reach for his, guide them around your body. He doesn’t pull away. His eyes search yours in the low light, barely lit by the dying embers.

“Could we actually freeze to death in here?” you ask softly, like a secret.

“Probably... if we hadn’t gone through the wood like it was endless.”

You let out a quiet laugh, tucking yourself into the crook of his shoulder. A few minutes pass. Then you feel it, the damp of a tear soaking the neck of your shirt, your skin. Then a quiet sniff. His body trembles. His arms tighten around you. He clings to you. Your hands run over his nape, scratching gently, running your fingers through his hair, holding him close.

In the morning, they finally manage to clear the door. Jesse smiles at Joel once he pushes the door open, shovel in hand. Tommy gives Joel that usual brother-hug, then Jesse walks over to you and kindly takes your backpack.

Outside, two more patrollers are tending to the horse they pulled from the garage.

“Shall we? I’ll take you back. Tommy’s stayin’ with the rest, they gotta deal with the horse and a few other things.” Jesse looks at you as he ties your bag to the saddle. Your eyes drift past his shoulder. Joel, talkin’ to Tommy, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“You alright?” Jesse asks, frowning a little at how far away your gaze has gone. You snap back to him.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

Jesse climbs on his horse, then reaches out to help you up. Once you’re settled, you glance back as Jesse starts the ride toward Jackson.

And Joel doesn’t look back.

hey! so this was inspired in a tweet i saw a while ago:

it's kind of short and i made it my way. it hurt me a bit to write this, idk why, I'm kind of sensitive today. anyway. I have a smut version in drafts soooo if you'd like me to also post that one, leave a comment!

thanks again for every repost, like and comment. it makes a writer really really happy on this side of the screen.

kisses!

[dindjarinsslut]

SOBBING

i think with only in the dark you should write how the readers dad can see how bad her and joel are doing without each other. maybe he slowly makes up with joel but can see he’s not the same, like he’s back to a grumpy lifeless shell of himself without her, and with reader you could carry on with her low key depression and maybe she says she wants to move?? then the dad sees okay they need each other, these are all just suggestions, but i just need to see them happy and together again!! btw the smut is IMPECCABLE *chefs kiss* i rate keep all the same kind of smut

Ooooh, absolutely, yes! Thank you for loving them like I do 💚💚

Without further ado; Only in the Dark, Part Two

Pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Summary: You moved in. He proposed. You said yes. Now you’re getting married. It’s simple. Small. Sacred. The only thing that matters is that he’s yours—and you’re his.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Age gap. Established relationship. Intimate wedding. Emotional softness. Joel being the most husband. Love so intense it might make you cry.

Word count: 3.9k

A/N: This is the final scene for the one-shot “Only If You Ask.” Please read that first for all the filthy, filthy build-up. We’ve earned this softness. 🖤

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

You don’t realize when it starts to change.

It doesn’t happen all at once—no big speech, no dramatic line drawn in the sand. Just smaller things, quiet shifts in the way people look at you. The way your dad doesn’t stiffen anymore when Joel pulls into the driveway. The way he passes him tools now without comment. The way the world just… settles around you both.

You and Joel don’t hide anymore.

Not from your dad. Not from the town. Not from each other.

He still has rough edges, still gets gruff when the coffee’s not strong enough or when the new guy at the shop misplaces the torque wrench for the third time in a week. But it’s different now.

He smiles more.

Not big, showy grins—nothing out of character—but those small, quiet smiles. The ones that crinkle the corners of his eyes when you lean into his shoulder. The ones he gives you from across the grocery store aisle when you’re holding up two kinds of cereal like it’s the hardest decision in the world.

He touches you more, too. In public. In front of people.

Not possessively. Just… like he doesn’t have to pretend anymore. A hand on your back when you pass him the keys. Fingers brushing your wrist when he hands you a mug. A kiss to your temple before he heads into the shop in the morning—careful, always soft, but never hidden.

And your dad?

Well.

He hasn’t said anything else. Not really. But you’ve seen him laugh with Joel. Watched them stand shoulder to shoulder fixing the front steps like it didn’t take months to get there. He doesn’t linger awkwardly anymore when Joel’s around. Doesn’t avoid the room. Just nods when Joel offers to help and says thanks when he actually does.

It’s not everything. Not perfect.

But it’s more than you thought you’d get.

And now—weeks later, with the heat of summer settling thick on your skin and your heart finally starting to feel like it belongs in your chest again—you have this.

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

The truck’s parked off the old service trail, tucked between two overgrown pines that lean just enough to shade the clearing. The engine’s been off for over an hour. The doors still creak when you open them, the metal groaning in the heat, but you hardly notice anymore.

You’re in the bed of it now, limbs tangled in the soft fleece blanket Joel keeps behind the seat for mornings like this. There’s a small cooler tucked at your feet, beads of condensation slipping down the sides, and a half-finished beer resting against Joel’s thigh—gone warm under the sun.

You’re on your back, head pillowed against his bicep, the heat of his body seeping into yours even through the fabric of your shirt. His other hand rests on your stomach, thumb stroking lazily back and forth. Not for any reason. Just because you’re there.

The sky above is pale and cloudless, the breeze soft enough to stir your hair when it shifts, and somewhere nearby, cicadas are humming.

Everything feels still.

Your eyes are half-lidded, toes nudging the edge of the bed, when you murmur, “You think anyone else knows about this place?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away.

Just shifts slightly, the press of his thigh against yours anchoring you to the moment. He scratches his jaw and says, “Doubt it. Last time I was here, I was still listenin’ to cassette tapes.”

You snort. “God, you’re old.”

He hums low. “You like me old.”

You roll your head toward him and catch the faint twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Maybe,” you tease. “But only when you shut up.”

Joel turns his head fully. Meets your gaze.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment—just looks at you, that same unreadable expression softening with the way your eyes catch the sun. Then he shifts onto his side, carefully, and props himself up on one elbow. His hand moves from your stomach to your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye.

“Been thinkin’ ‘bout bringin’ you out here for weeks,” he says quietly.

You blink. “Yeah?”

He nods, gaze flicking across your face like he’s memorizing it. “Didn’t want to bring you out until I was sure you wouldn’t disappear after.”

Your breath catches. He says it so simply, but it hits something deep.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

Joel leans in. Kisses you—soft, unhurried, his lips warm from the sun and tasting faintly of beer. His hand cradles your jaw, the calluses gentle against your skin. You can feel the tension bleed out of his shoulders with every second he stays there, mouth moving with yours like this—this—is the only thing tethering him to the ground.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far.

His forehead rests against yours. His breath mingles with yours. And his voice drops to something low and certain.

“Don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

The words aren’t dramatic. Not a confession, not a performance. Just a truth spoken out loud because it deserves to be.

You slide your hand under his shirt. Let your palm settle over the beat of his heart.

“Me neither,” you say.

He kisses you again. Slower this time. With both hands in your hair, and the kind of hunger that doesn’t ask for anything more than this moment—sunlight, summer air, and the space between your bodies that finally doesn’t have to hold secrets anymore.

—

Later, when you drive back into town, his hand stays on your thigh the whole way.

And when your dad sees the two of you carrying groceries into the house—laughing about the broken eggs and Joel’s refusal to buy the off-brand cereal—he doesn’t say anything.

Just glances up from the porch, nods once, and holds the door open for both of you.

You kiss Joel in the kitchen after.

Not a secret kiss. Not a stolen one.

Just love. Plain and simple.

The way it always should’ve been.

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It wasn’t a big decision.

There was no packed suitcase, no teary moment of crossing a threshold. No key exchanged with trembling hands.

You just… started staying.

First it was a night. Then a weekend. Then you forgot your favorite sweatshirt, and he washed it and draped it over the back of the chair like it had always been there.

Toothbrush. Hairbrush. Half your wardrobe. Your favorite pan for eggs.

You moved in piece by piece, and neither of you ever said the words out loud—but now it’s been two weeks since you’ve slept anywhere else, and this house doesn’t feel like his anymore.

It feels like yours.

And Joel—well.

Joel’s still Joel. Still grouchy in the morning when there’s no clean mugs. Still muttering under his breath when he stubs his toe on the corner of the coffee table because “somebody moved it.” Still grumbling about the windows sticking when it rains.

But he doesn’t complain when your books end up on the nightstand. Or when you leave your laundry in the dryer for three days. Or when you talk through half a movie just because you like hearing yourself guess the plot.

He just looks at you.

Soft. Steady.

Like he’s watching something sacred unfold.

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It’s a slow evening.

There’s a breeze slipping through the window—barely strong enough to stir the edge of the curtain—and the record player hums somewhere in the corner, spinning something low and worn. Something old. Joel’s hand-picked, of course. You never remember the names, but you know the sound by heart now.

You’re curled up sideways on the couch, your knees folded and a paperback resting open across your thighs. Joel’s behind you—sprawled across the cushions with one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped lazily around your waist.

You’ve been reading for twenty minutes.

You haven’t turned a page in five.

His fingertips trace gentle circles against your side, low and steady, like he’s not even thinking about it. Just following the curve of your hip through the worn fabric of your sleep shorts. His palm is warm. Familiar.

You shift slightly, leaning back into him, and feel his chest rise behind you. Solid. Grounding.

“Comfortable?” He murmurs.

You hum without looking up. “Mhm.”

His thumb slides beneath the hem of your shirt, just barely.

Not suggestive. Not urgent.

Just… home.

The book starts to slip.

You let it fall onto your stomach, eyes heavy. Joel’s breath brushes the crown of your head when he leans forward to press a kiss there.

“You fallin’ asleep on me?” He asks, voice low and amused.

“No,” you lie.

He chuckles. It rumbles through his chest, into your back.

“You always say that.”

You turn your head just enough to glance back at him.

“I’m trying to read.”

Joel raises a brow. “You’ve been on the same damn page for ten minutes.”

You sigh. Dramatic. Flop the book to the side. “Fine. You win.”

He grins.

You shift again—this time rolling to fully face him. He welcomes you without hesitation, pulling you in, your head resting on his chest and your hand sliding beneath the hem of his shirt to settle against the warmth of his stomach.

It’s quiet for a long time.

The music keeps playing. The sky outside slips from gold to gray. And the house feels full in a way you never thought a place could.

Joel’s hand moves slowly up and down your spine. Gentle. Careful.

“You sleepin’ here again tonight?” He asks, like it’s still a question.

You don’t even lift your head.

“I live here, Joel.”

A pause.

Then his chest rises beneath your cheek with a deep, even breath.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “You do.”

And when he kisses the top of your head again, you feel it in every part of you.

—

You wake to warmth.

Not the kind that pulls you into the day—sunlight or sound or motion—but something closer. Heavier. More alive.

Joel.

Pressed along the length of your body, one arm locked around your waist, the other curled under the pillow beneath your head. His breath is slow against the nape of your neck. Deep. Steady. His chest rises and falls in rhythm with yours, the soft heat of his body wrapping around you like a blanket.

And below that—between you—you feel him.

Hard. Thick. Resting against the curve of your ass, barely contained by the thin cotton of his boxers. The edge of him fits perfectly between your legs like he was meant to be there, like you were built to feel him this way.

You don’t move at first.

Just lie there. Eyes still closed. Breathing him in.

He smells like sleep and cedar soap. Like worn flannel and skin warmed by thick blankets. There’s a soft scratch of his unshaven jaw against your shoulder, and his fingers twitch where they’ve gone slack across your stomach.

You shift—just a little.

Just enough to press your hips back into him.

Joel groans.

Low. Deep. Right in your ear.

His grip tightens reflexively. His cock twitches against you, already straining for more.

You smile, even as your breath catches.

“Joel,” you murmur, barely above a whisper.

He groans again, deeper this time, like the sound of your voice physically hurts him.

“Jesus,” he rasps, dragging his mouth across your bare shoulder. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

You hum and press your ass more deliberately into him. His hips rock without meaning to, the friction making you both suck in a breath.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you lie.

“You’re a goddamn menace,” he mutters into your skin. But he’s already moving—already sliding his hand beneath your shirt, fingertips tracing the warm curve of your belly like he needs to relearn every inch.

“Always wake up like this?” You tease.

He chuckles, low and rough. “When I’ve got you in my bed?”

He palms your breast through the thin cotton, thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp—quiet, needy—and his voice drops to a rasp.

“Yeah, sweetheart. Always.”

You roll your hips back again, and he swears under his breath—fuck, half a growl—and slips his hand down to hook your thigh over his.

The stretch opens you just enough. Your shorts ride up, barely covering anything.

His fingers trail down the inside of your leg, slow and reverent. When they finally brush over your center—light and curious—you’re already soaked.

Joel stills.

“Christ,” he whispers, like he’s been punched. “You’re so fuckin’ wet, baby.”

You whimper when he presses in. One long stroke through your folds, dragging your slick across your clit, making your whole body jolt.

He kisses your neck. Breathes you in.

“I don’t even deserve this,” he says, like a confession.

“Yes, you do.”

His hand falters.

You reach back, blindly, and curl your fingers into his thigh. Anchor yourself to him.

“I want you,” you say. “Now. Please.”

He shifts behind you, and you feel him line up—thick and already pulsing against your entrance. He ruts forward once, just enough to drag the head of his cock through your slick, and you shudder.

Then he presses in.

Slow. So fucking slow.

You moan—quiet, long—and Joel swears, burying his face in your neck as he pushes deeper. His cock stretches you inch by inch, and it’s everything. Too much and not enough at the same time. He’s thick, hot, hard as stone and shaking from holding back.

“Goddamn,” he groans. “Tight as ever. Always take me so good, baby.”

You clutch at the sheets. Your whole body arches.

He bottoms out with a guttural sound—hips flush against your ass, arms locking around you from behind like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You can feel his heartbeat in his cock. Feel every twitch, every pulse.

He doesn’t move.

Just stays buried deep inside you. Breathing hard. Grounding himself in the wet heat of your cunt.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “I missed this.”

“You had me last night,” you breathe, smiling.

“Don’t care. Never enough.”

He pulls back slowly, his cock dragging against your walls, every inch slick and perfect. Then he thrusts back in—deep and unhurried.

You cry out. He swallows it with a kiss to your shoulder.

“Joel,” you whimper. “Please.”

“I got you,” he soothes. “Gonna take care of you, sweetheart. Just relax. Let me feel you.”

He fucks you with those slow, deliberate strokes—deep and steady, like he wants to stay inside you forever. One hand slides beneath your shirt to cup your breast again, thumb teasing your nipple until your hips jerk.

The other finds your clit.

You moan when he touches it—light, swirling circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pressure builds fast, sharp and overwhelming, your body tightening around him like a vice.

He groans against your skin.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Just like that. Love when you squeeze me like that, baby. So close already, aren’t you?”

You nod, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle locked tight.

“C’mon, sweet girl. Let go for me.”

You break.

It hits like a wave—long and slow and wrecking. Your body convulses, your cunt clenching around his cock, and Joel doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, praising you with every breath—that’s it, baby, so good for me, takin’ me so well.

You’re still trembling when he comes.

Joel groans—fuck, fuck, gonna come,—and thrusts deep, burying himself inside you as he spills. His hips jerk, cock pulsing, hands clutching you like a lifeline.

And then everything stills.

He stays there for a long moment. Just breathing. Just being inside you.

Then he presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. And another. And another.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You know that, right?”

You reach for his hand where it rests on your stomach.

Tangle your fingers with his.

“I know.”

He nuzzles his face into your neck. Then he says it—quiet, like it slipped out of him without thinking.

“Marry me.”

It’s not a question. Not really. Not the first time.

You freeze.

He goes still, too—like he just realized he said it aloud.

Neither of you moves for a moment. Just the sound of breathing. The slow, sleepy thump of his heart against your spine.

You twist slowly in his arms. Face him. His eyes are open now—barely, sleep-heavy—but watching you. Searching.

You stare at him for a beat.

“Say it again.”

Joel blinks. Swallows. Then brushes your hair back from your face with a hand so gentle it makes your chest ache.

“Marry me.”

You stare at him. At his face. This man. This stubborn, protective, foul-mouthed, good-hearted man who somehow snuck into your life and built a home around it.

And you don’t think. You don’t need to.

You nod.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Okay.”

Joel exhales like it breaks him. Like he’s been holding his breath for months. His eyes flutter shut for a second and then he pulls you in, one hand at the back of your head, the other clutching your hip like he thinks you might vanish.

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough. “I don’t—fuck, I ain’t got a ring. I didn’t plan it. I just… it’s been sittin’ in my chest, and I couldn’t—”

“Joel.” You press your forehead to his. “I don’t need a ring. I just need you.”

His hand cradles your jaw. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth.

“I’m yours,” he says softly.

You smile. “You always have been.”

—

The kitchen smells like toast and melted butter.

It’s hours later—mid-morning now—and you’re barefoot in Joel’s old flannel, standing at the stove with one hand on the frying pan and the other curled around a coffee mug he left on the counter. The sun filters in through the window above the sink, casting gold across the floorboards. Dust motes swirl in the light like they’re dancing for you.

You hum to yourself. Something quiet. Unconscious.

The pan sizzles. You flip a slice of bacon.

And then you feel it.

Joel, behind you—his arms sliding around your waist, lips brushing the spot just below your ear.

You smile.

“You didn’t have to get up,” you murmur, still focused on the pan.

“Didn’t wanna miss this.”

He sounds wrecked. Like he hasn’t quite come down from whatever that moment was. Like he still doesn’t believe you said yes.

You lean back into his chest.

He tightens his arms around you. Rests his chin on your shoulder.

“I like you in my shirt,” he mutters.

“I like me in your shirt.”

He hums. Then, more quietly—

“Gonna put a ring on you soon.”

You look at him over your shoulder. “Oh yeah?”

He nods.

“Not ‘cause I need it. Just so everyone knows you’re mine.”

You turn the burner off. Set the pan aside. Then you spin in his arms and loop your arms around his neck, standing on your toes.

“They already know, Miller.”

“Good.”

He kisses you—lazy and soft, one hand on your lower back, the other holding your face like it’s the only thing worth touching in the whole damn world.

You’re still kissing when the toast burns.

Neither of you cares.

—

The trees have just started to turn.

Not fully—just the edges. Hints of red and gold creeping into the green like something secret and slow. The kind of change you don’t notice until you’re standing right in the middle of it, breath caught in your throat, wondering how it happened so fast.

The wind is soft this morning. Crisp. You can smell leaves and distant smoke, the faint sweetness of apples in a bowl by the porch, and the familiar scent of cedar clinging to the flannel draped over Joel’s shoulders.

You picked this place together.

Just outside town. A clearing behind the ridge, where the pine trees break open into a little pocket of wild grass and dappled sunlight. No pews. No aisle. Just a rug thrown down beneath your boots and a few chairs for the people who matter.

There’s no music. No flowers. No white dress.

You’re in a cream sweater and worn boots, a skirt that moves when the breeze catches it. Joel’s in a clean button-down beneath his favorite jacket, sleeves rolled to his elbows, jaw freshly shaved for the first time in a week.

He looks good.

You think he always does.

But today, there’s something different in his face. Something raw.

Like he still can’t believe this is happening.

You reach for his hand. He takes it without hesitation.

His thumb runs over the inside of your wrist, soft and slow, like he’s trying to memorize the beat of your pulse. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails. A little scratch on his knuckle.

Real life, right there in his hands.

Your dad is the one standing between you.

He didn’t want to at first. Said he wasn’t sure if he could. But when Joel asked—quiet, humble, hopeful—he’d looked at you and sighed, then nodded like the choice had already been made in his chest long ago.

Now, he clears his throat. Glances down at the folded paper in his hands. Then back up.

You don’t hear the first few words.

Not really.

Because Joel is looking at you like he can’t breathe. Like he’s trying to hold it all in—every memory, every ache, every night he laid awake next to you with your name on his lips and fear in his chest.

And then it’s your turn.

You don’t have a vow written down.

Just him.

Just everything you know about his heart.

You take a breath. Let it settle low in your ribs. And then you speak—quietly, clearly, like it’s the only thing that matters.

“I don’t know what I thought love was before you. I don’t think I really knew at all. But now… it’s waking up next to you every morning and feeling like I finally made it home. It’s your laugh. Your hands. The way you show up, even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts.”

Joel’s eyes shine.

You swallow hard, but your voice doesn’t break.

“I promise to keep showing up, too. Even on the bad days. Even when it’s not easy. I’ll love you with everything I have—for every version of you, in every season we find.”

You squeeze his hand. “You’re it for me.”

Joel doesn’t speak right away.

Just looks at you like he’s never seen anything more real.

Then—low and rough and thick with everything he’s been holding inside—he says:

“I thought maybe this wasn’t in the cards for me. That someone like me doesn’t get to have somethin’ this good.”

You feel his fingers flex in yours.

“But then there was you. And I don’t—I don’t know how I lived so long without you. I ain’t proud of every part of me. But I’m proud of this. Of us.”

He lifts your hand. Presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“I’m yours,” he whispers. “Always.”

Your dad clears his throat again—sniffling this time.

“Well,” he mutters, blinking fast, “I guess you two better kiss already.”

Joel laughs. It’s soft, choked, almost broken.

Then he leans in.

And kisses you.

It’s not perfect. Not movie-pretty. His nose brushes yours. Your lips tremble. But it’s real. It’s warm. It’s everything you built in the ruins—hands in the dark, promises spoken between breaths, a love that outlived every reason it shouldn’t have.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t let go.

Just touches his forehead to yours and whispers,

“We did it, darlin’.”

And you whisper back,

“Yeah. We did.”

[dindjarinsslut]

this is my new favorite thing

Only in the Dark - DBF!Joel Miller x Reader

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Pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Summary: Your dad’s best friend has been sneaking around with you for months. But secrets don’t stay buried forever.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Age gap. Secret relationship. Unprotected pi/v. Praise & light degradation. Breeding kink. Sneaky sex. Overstimulation. Soft choking. Oral (f receiving, from behind). Rough sex. Conflicted feelings. Emotional tension. Guilt. Possessiveness. Slight angst.

Word count: 15.2k

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It starts like it always does.

You look too long. And he looks back.

Joel’s standing by the grill with your dad, one hand wrapped around a sweating beer bottle, the other resting on his hip like he’s already sick of standing still. The sun’s high, heavy on his back, catching on the salt-slick sweat at the base of his neck. His shirt—an old gray one with the Miller’s Construction logo faded across the chest—sticks damp to his shoulders, clinging in places your eyes have no business landing.

He talks like he’s distracted. Answers half-asked questions. Grunts through conversation. And every time you glance his way, there’s tension in the set of his mouth—like his jaw is wired shut, like every syllable tastes wrong.

You’re across the yard, curled into one of those plastic lawn chairs that sinks in the middle, one leg tucked under you. Your dress rides up a little more every time you shift. It’s nothing obscene. Nothing anyone would notice.

Except Joel.

You take a slow sip from your drink. Run your thumb along the rim of the cup. Pretend not to notice the way his eyes track the movement. You cross your legs, careless, slow. The hem slides up again—just a touch. Not enough for anyone else to care.

But enough for him to clench the bottle tighter in his hand.

He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even glance at you directly.

But his fingers twitch when he sets the beer down. His brows pull in when he thinks no one’s looking. And when he shifts his weight, the fabric of his jeans pulls tight across his thighs—and you catch yourself looking just a second too long.

That’s when his eyes find you.

Direct. Steady. Loaded.

You freeze, your glass halfway to your mouth.

The air pulls tight.

It’s not innocent. Not casual. Not a glance that glances and forgets.

He looks at you like he knows. Like he’s already punishing himself for wanting to look.

And still—he doesn’t look away.

Not for a long second. Not until your stomach flips and your skin burns and your thighs press tight together under your dress.

You’re the one who looks away. You always are.

You shift again in your chair. Run your fingers through your hair. Let it fall back behind your shoulder in a soft sweep that feels just a little too performative.

You laugh when someone calls your name from across the yard. Smile. Sip again.

And all the while, you can feel him watching.

Even when you don’t dare look up.

Joel is careful. He always has been. That’s what makes it worse—how quiet he is about the way he looks at you. How long he holds back before finally giving in. Like his restraint is some kind of mercy. Like not touching you is the best he can offer.

He talks to your dad. Drinks another beer—then a third. Paces around the grill like something’s burning under his skin and there’s no fire he can put out. You see the way his hand curls tight around the neck of the bottle, how his gaze keeps drifting your way only to snap back, like it betrays him every time.

You’re crouched beside the cooler now, fingers digging through the ice as you pretend to search for something buried deep. The hem of your dress rides up against the backs of your thighs, and for a moment, you don’t fix it. You let your back arch just a little. Let your fingers linger.

There are voices nearby. Your cousin. Maybe your dad–Michael, again. You’re surrounded on all sides. But still—you feel him.

Before he even steps onto the patio, before the wood creaks beneath his boots—you feel the air shift. Heavy. Loaded.

His shadow stretches across the cooler. You don’t turn.

“I told myself I wasn’t gonna come over here,” he mutters.

You straighten slowly, your fingers brushing water from your wrist, letting your movements stay slow. Intentional. You smooth your dress down like you don’t know he’s watching your every motion.

“You always say that,” you murmur into your glass.

His voice stays low. Measured. Already strained, like he’s been losing this argument with himself all day.

“You always make it hard.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, lashes low. Your voice soft. Sweet. Dangerous. “Me? I haven’t said a word to you all day.”

“Didn’t need to.”

He’s closer now. Not touching you, but close enough that the heat radiates off him, thick and unmistakable. Close enough that if someone rounded the corner, you’d have to step back. Laugh. Pretend this was nothing. That it’s always been nothing.

Joel lowers his voice, just for you. “That dress. No bra. Nothin’ under it, is there?”

You turn—slow and deliberate. Let your gaze drag up his body, past his chest, his throat, until your eyes find his.

You smile. Sweet. Sharp. Like a blade in honey.

“No.”

His expression cracks—just for a moment. Like it hurts. Like he wasn’t ready to hear it said aloud.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch you. He never does—not out here. Not with your family buzzing behind the hedges. Not with your father three yards away, beer in hand and none the wiser.

Still, you can feel the weight of his want. Pressing. Building.

“This is gonna kill me,” he says softly.

Your dad calls out from the patio then, voice casual but loud enough to carry.

“Hey, Joel—you mind givin’ her a hand with that old cabinet upstairs? Damn thing’s been wobblin’ again.”

Joel blinks. You watch his throat work as he swallows something down.

He hesitates. Just for a second.

You can see it—the flicker in his expression. That split second of panic, of restraint, of God, not now, but your dad’s already waving him off like it’s no big deal.

“She’s been complainin’ about it all week,” he adds, tipping his beer toward the house. “Should only take a minute.”

Joel shifts his weight, eyes skating toward you like it hurts. “Yeah,” he says, quiet. “Course.”

You smirk. Sweet as honey.

“Thanks,” you chirp. “It’s just the knob on the top drawer—it keeps sticking. Come on, I’ll show ya.” Your voice is softer than it needs to be. Your smile just a little too wide. Joel clocks it immediately. His jaw ticks.

And maybe your dad doesn’t notice, but you do.

Joel scratches the back of his neck. Doesn’t meet your eyes. Doesn’t say anything else as you lead the way into the house, your bare feet padding softly across the tile.

You don’t look back.

Not until the door clicks shut behind you—and the silence wraps tight around the two of you like a secret.

The house is cooler than it was outside, the air humming with the low whir of an old ceiling fan and the muffled sound of laughter spilling in from the patio. You lead him through the kitchen without a word, every step deliberate, measured. He trails a few feet behind you—just far enough to keep himself honest.

You open the door to the hallway and gesture toward your bedroom. “It’s just in here.”

Joel exhales slow, like he already regrets this. “Don’t know why your dad doesn’t just buy new furniture.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, your smile coy. “Maybe he likes things that are broken.”

Joel huffs. Doesn’t answer.

You walk ahead, hips swaying gently beneath the soft cotton of your dress. You can feel him behind you—feel the weight of his gaze pressed against your back like a brand.

The room smells like your lotion and the faint trace of summer air drifting through a cracked window. Joel steps in behind you and pauses, hands on his hips, eyes scanning everything but you. You point toward the old cabinet tucked beside the window.

“There,” you say lightly. “Top drawer sticks. Thought maybe it just needed tightening or something.”

He walks over to it. Crouches down. Pulls the drawer halfway out, just to see how bad it really is.

And you?

You step in behind him–too close. Close enough that the hem of your dress brushes his shoulder. Close enough that he can smell your shampoo—feel the warmth of your bare legs, the hum of your breath when you lean just slightly over his shoulder to peek at the drawer.

“Think you can fix it?” You ask, voice soft. Sweet. Barely above a whisper.

Joel stiffens. His fingers pause on the handle. You can see the tension in his arms, the way his shoulders rise just slightly—like every inch of him is screaming don’t.

“Maybe,” he mutters. “Maybe not.”

You hum. “Guess I’ll owe you either way.”

He pulls the drawer out farther than he needs to. Not really looking at it now. Not really seeing anything at all. He’s gone still, like something inside him is locking up. Holding him back.

Your chest brushes his arm when you shift your weight. You lay your hand on the top of the dresser like it’s nothing, fingers splayed, pink polished nails catching the light. Joel’s eyes drop to them for half a second before he jerks his gaze away.

“You’re not making this easy,” he says, low. Rough. Almost like it hurts.

You blink, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”

He rises slowly to his full height. Not touching you—but close enough to tower.

You tilt your head and smile. “I haven’t done anything.”

Joel’s jaw clenches. His hands flex at his sides.

You turn back toward the dresser like you’re going to give him space, give him a chance to breathe—and that’s when he moves.

His hand wraps around your wrist, gentle but firm. “You really gonna keep pretendin’ this ain’t killin’ you too?”

His gaze drags over you slowly. Not like he’s trying to intimidate you—more like he’s trying to survive it. His eyes trace the outline of your parted lips, linger on the delicate curve of your chest, then fall to your thighs, pressed a little too tightly together in anticipation.

There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Like amusement. Like disbelief that you’re really here—doing this to him again.

“You know what your problem is?” He murmurs, voice low and hoarse.

You swallow hard. Try to speak, but nothing comes.

Joel steps in close, his breath warm against your ear. “You look at me like that,” he says, a half-laugh tucked in behind the words. “Bat those fuckin’ eyes… all soft, all sweet. Like I don’t know what you’re doin’.”

You feel heat rise up your spine. Your stomach clenches.

“And this dress?” He goes on, mouth brushing just beneath your jaw. “No bra. No shame. Bein’ real generous with your thighs all afternoon. In front of everybody.”

It’s not cruel. It’s not harsh. He says it like he’s teasing you for getting away with it. Like he’s impressed. Like it’s killing him and he doesn’t even want you to stop.

You shift your weight, unsure if you’re trying to get away or lean into him.

He doesn’t let you do either.

Your lips part. You want to play innocent. Want to tease him back. But your voice catches somewhere behind your tongue.

Joel sees it—sees the flicker of doubt, of want, of that same ache carved between your ribs that’s been digging into his all damn day. He smiles then. Not smug. Not cruel. Just tired. Like he’s been carrying this weight for too long and finally stopped pretending he can.

He doesn’t rush.

One hand slips to your hip, the other flattening against your lower back, guiding you—not roughly, but firmly—until your thighs brush the edge of the bathroom counter. His touch is steady. Certain. The kind of sure that says this has been a long time coming.

Then he turns you.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until his hand splays wide across your belly—warm and heavy, grounding you to the bathroom counter. Joel’s behind you, chest brushing your back, his mouth hovering over your shoulder like he can’t decide whether to kiss it or bite.

In the mirror, his eyes drag down your reflection—your parted lips, the tight grip you’ve got on the edge of the sink, the way your thighs press together like you’re trying to keep something in.

“Look at you,” he mutters, breath warm against your skin. “All worked up and I haven’t even fuckin’ touched you yet.”

You swallow hard. You’re soaked already. You know he can feel it—your heat bleeding through the thin cotton of your dress, your pulse fluttering just beneath his palm.

Joel’s hand slides up, slow and deliberate, over the slope of your ribs, the curve of your breast. He doesn't grope. He just holds—firm and steady, like he wants to feel the beat of your heart against his fingers.

You lean back into him, needy, aching.

He laughs—quiet, wrecked. “Knew this dress was gonna kill me. Knew the second I saw you sittin’ out there like you wanted to be dragged in here.”

You whimper, and he dips his head, nose brushing your jaw.

“Didn’t say a word all afternoon. Just sat there lettin’ that little thing ride up higher and higher—knowin’ damn well I was watchin’.”

His other hand slips lower—beneath the hem, over your thigh. His touch is light, maddening, fingers skimming until they brush the bare, soaking heat of you.

He hisses, teeth clenched. “Fuckin’ hell.”

“Joel—” you whisper, but it’s nothing. A sound. A breath.

His fingers slide between your folds, slow and obscene, slick spreading across your skin. His palm cups you from behind, fitting against your body like he was made for it.

“So wet,” he groans, pressing in just enough to make your knees buckle. “You like this that much? Me watchin’? Bein’ this fuckin’ filthy with your whole family sittin’ twenty feet away?”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

His hand slides up your chest again—this time to your throat. Just resting. Not squeezing. But it makes your breath stutter anyway. Makes your knees tremble.

You nod—barely—and he smirks at your reflection.

“That’s what I thought.”

And then—

He drops to his knees behind you.

You gasp, hands tightening on the counter, heart pounding.

Joel grips your hips, pushes your thighs apart, and then presses a kiss—hot and open-mouthed—to the curve just beneath your ass.

“You’re drippin’,” he mutters, voice muffled by skin. “Fuck me.”

You whimper, try to look back, but he tugs your hips gently and says, “Eyes on the mirror. You watch what I do to you.”

You do.

You watch as he spreads you open with both hands, thumbs parting you gently, reverently. His breath hits your folds and you jerk, moaning into the air.

And then his mouth is on you.

His tongue licks a thick, wet stripe from your entrance to your clit, then circles back—slow and messy and devoted. Like he’s trying to memorize the way you taste. The way you shake. The way your body reacts to every drag of his tongue.

He groans against you, the sound low and guttural, like he’s the one losing control.

Your thighs quake. “Joel—oh my god—”

He sucks your clit into his mouth and your vision blacks out for a second. Your hands scrabble for purchase on the counter.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” you cry, biting your lip so hard you taste blood.

“Yeah,” he pants against you. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear it.”

He eats like a man starved. Sloppy, relentless, nose buried in you, fingers digging into your thighs to keep you right where he wants you.

You’re shaking. Your knees nearly give out.

Joel notices.

He pulls back just long enough to rasp, “Don’t fall on me now—ain’t even fucked you yet.”

Then he’s back at it. This time with fingers.

He slides two inside you without warning—thick and rough, knuckles brushing your walls while his mouth stays on your clit.

You choke on a moan. “Joel—please—I’m gonna—”

He groans. “Come for me. Right now.”

You fall apart.

You come hard, gasping, legs trembling, one hand slapping against the mirror as your whole body locks up, your muscles clenching around his fingers.

Joel curses into your cunt. Keeps licking through it.

“Shh—it’s okay. Let me have it. Just like that. So fuckin’ good for me.”

You sob. Actually sob.

And he doesn't stop.

He lets you ride it out, lets you shake and pant, and then—he slides his fingers back in.

You jolt. “Too much—Joel—”

He hums. “I know. S’why I’m doin’ it.”

You cry out, forehead pressed to the mirror.

His free hand comes to the back of your calf—gentle again, grounding, petting, almost—and he nuzzles into the back of your thigh, licking soft and slow while he works you open all over again.

“You wanted this,” he breathes. “Wanted me wreckin’ you in your daddy’s house. Don’t go shy on me now.”

You moan. Loud. Messy.

“You’re mine, ain’t you?” His voice is a rasp now. Wrecked.

You nod.

He presses a kiss to your ass. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper.

He stands then. Fast. Pulls you back into him.

You can feel how hard he is—straining in his jeans. He fumbles with his zipper, breath ragged.

And when he pushes inside—

It’s blinding.

You both gasp. He grips your hips, steadying himself.

“Fuck—always so tight,” he growls. “So fuckin’ perfect for me.”

He thrusts slow at first. Long, deep strokes that make your eyes roll back. That make the mirror fog up.

Then faster. Rougher. Hands gripping you hard. Like he wants to leave bruises. Like he needs proof this happened.

Your cries are high-pitched now, desperate.

Joel leans in, mouth against your ear. “That’s it, baby. Take it. So fuckin’ pretty like this—face all flushed, eyes tearin’ up.”

He thrusts deeper. “You’re gonna make a mess, ain’t you? Gonna come all over my cock like a good girl.”

You nod, mouth open, moaning.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Mine. All mine.”

And when you come again—when your whole body shakes and you scream his name against your own wrist—Joel fuckin’ loses it.

He groans your name, spills inside you, buries his face in your neck with a guttural curse that sounds like regret and worship tangled together.

And still, he doesn’t let go. Not right away.

His arms wrap around you, holding you close, hips still pressed to yours, his breath slowing against your skin.

The mirror’s fogged. Your thighs are soaked. The counter’s cold beneath your palms.

And Joel’s mouth is at your ear again, soft and real.

“You okay?” He whispers.

You nod. “Yeah,” you breathe. “Fuck. Yeah.”

He kisses your shoulder.

And you smile—wrecked and ruined and still so full of him.

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

You show up just after lunch rush, a brown paper bag folded neatly in your arms, still warm against your chest. You’re wearing jeans and a loose shirt—something casual, safe. Your hair’s pulled back in a clip. No makeup. Nothing intentionally done to catch attention.

And still—he looks.

The construction site stretches out like a skeleton of something half-born. Steel bones. Exposed wood. Sawdust clings to the air like fog, and the sky above is sharp, cloudless, cruel.

You walk past the truck bays and toward the break area, boots crunching over gravel. A few guys nod as you pass. Most don’t.

You’re not here for them.

You spot your dad’s hard hat first—bright white with a strip of flaking duct tape across the front. He’s crouched beside a scaffolding rig, barking something at a worker below.

Joel’s standing a few feet off, one hand braced against the frame of the trailer office, his other wrapped tight around a water bottle like he’s trying to remember what it’s for. His shirt is stained at the collar. Dusty. Clings to his chest in places it shouldn’t. His pants hang low on his hips, a smear of something dark across his thigh.

He sees you before you call out. Sees you before you even mean to be seen.

The way his jaw locks—quick and brutal—tells you everything.

You wave at your dad. Lift the bag a little. “Brought lunch!”

He grins. “Jesus, you’re a lifesaver. That sandwich place?”

“Your usual.” You pass it to him and he gives your shoulder a quick squeeze before digging in like he hasn’t eaten in days. His attention shifts immediately back to the site, already barking out instructions between bites.

Joel still hasn’t moved.

You turn toward him slowly. Tilt your head. Smile like you don’t know what you’re doing.

He shakes his head once. A warning. A plea.

You ignore it.

“You eat yet?” You ask softly.

He glances around—quick, sharp, like he’s expecting eyes.

“Don’t,” he mutters under his breath. “Not here. Not—fuck, not now.”

But you’re already crossing the distance. Not enough to touch. Just enough for the scent of your shampoo to reach him.

Your voice stays low. “You looked hungry.”

His jaw twitches. He steps back. Barely. Like it physically hurts to put space between you.

“Your dad’s right there,” he hisses.

“And?”

Joel’s eyes darken. His throat works.

“And I just spent the last two hours tryin’ not to think about what I did to you in that fuckin’ bathroom.”

You smile.

Then—quietly, sweetly, so softly it barely counts as a sin: “You wanna do it again?”

His eyes snap to yours. He looks at you like you just spit holy water on him.

And still—he doesn’t say no.

He doesn’t answer.

Not with words, anyway.

Joel’s hand shoots out—rough, calloused, certain—and wraps around your wrist. He doesn’t pull hard. Doesn’t have to. You stumble forward easily, chest brushing his as he backs you toward the side of the trailer, behind the stacks of lumber and plywood. The break room door creaks open just as you disappear from sight.

Someone calls out a joke. You barely register it.

Joel slams the trailer door shut behind you and locks it without thinking.

Then he turns to you.

His chest rises hard under the fabric of his shirt. There’s sweat at his temples, clinging to the curls behind his ears. His fingers flex at his sides like he doesn’t trust them not to grab you again.

“You got no fuckin’ clue what you’re doin’ to me,” he mutters, stepping in so close you can feel the heat radiating off him. “Showin’ up like that. Smilin’ like you ain’t already got me on my knees.”

“I think you like it,” you whisper.

His eyes drop to your lips. His voice dips lower. Rougher.

“I think you like pushin’ me.”

You smile—barely—and Joel’s already moving.

He backs you against the trailer wall, one hand cupping your jaw, the other already sliding down your side, dragging over the curve of your ass with a low groan.

“This is so fuckin’ stupid,” he says, but his mouth is on yours before the sentence even finishes.

It’s not gentle. It never is with him.

His tongue sweeps into your mouth with a hunger that steals your breath, and he presses his hips hard against yours until you feel him—already thick and heavy through his jeans. You whimper into the kiss, fingers fisting the front of his shirt.

Outside, footsteps crunch over gravel. Laughter. Your dad’s voice, faint.

Joel curses and breaks the kiss, panting, forehead pressed against yours.

“We don’t have time,” he says.

“So don’t waste it,” you whisper.

That’s all it takes.

His hands are under your shirt in seconds—palms rough against your stomach as he drags the fabric up, exposing bare skin inch by inch. You reach for his belt, fumble with the buckle, but your hands are shaking too hard.

Joel growls low in his throat and does it for you.

He frees himself just as you tug your panties down, not bothering with anything else. The moment they hit your knees, Joel’s hands grip your hips and lift you—just enough to set you back on the edge of the supply table behind you, your ass barely balancing there.

The surface is cold. His body is hot. The air between you, electric.

You spread your thighs instinctively and Joel groans—deep and broken.

“Fuck, baby—already wet for me?” He runs two fingers through your slick, slow and deliberate, like he’s dragging it out on purpose. “You need me that bad?”

You nod, biting your lip. “Joel—please—”

That’s all he needs.

He lines himself up, grips your thighs hard, and pushes in—a slow, thick stretch that knocks the breath right out of your lungs. You gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

Joel swears, low and dangerous.

“Every time,” he growls, bottoming out. “Every fuckin’ time you feel better than I remembered.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to adjust—he starts moving, thrusting into you with sharp, desperate rolls of his hips, the table creaking beneath your weight.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, legs locking around his waist.

“Gonna get us caught,” he mutters, teeth grazing your jaw. “You that needy for me, baby? Can’t even wait till I get off work?”

“You didn’t stop me,” you pant.

He laughs—wrecked, breathless. “Didn’t fuckin’ want to.”

His rhythm picks up—fast, brutal, unforgiving. His hands grip your thighs, your hips, your waist—like he can’t decide which part of you he needs more.

Your back arches. The table groans again.

Joel leans in, mouth against your ear.

“Y’know what I was thinkin’ about all mornin’? That mirror. That look on your face when you came all over my fuckin’ tongue. Thought about it till I was fuckin’ hard in the damn truck.”

You moan, loud.

He clamps a hand over your mouth. “Shhh—don’t you dare.”

Your eyes flutter. He slams into you again.

“You wanna get caught? You want your daddy to come lookin’ for you and see me buried in his little fuckin’ girl like this?”

You whimper against his palm.

He growls.

“God, you do.”

He lets go of your mouth just long enough for you to moan his name.

Then he grabs your throat.

Gentle. Steady. But enough to make you whine.

“Mine,” he whispers. “Say it.”

You’re barely holding on. “Yours. I’m yours.”

Joel loses it.

He fucks you hard, fast, reckless—his breath ragged, forehead against yours. You come with a cry, clenching around him so tight it nearly brings him to his knees.

“Ah, god damnit—” he gasps, thrusting deep once, twice—

And then he comes.

It’s raw. Guttural. He groans into your neck like he’s falling apart.

You stay like that for a second—just breathing. Just shaking. Just trying to remember where you are.

Then—

“Hey!” Your dad’s voice cuts through the open air like a gunshot. “You see my daughter? She wander off again?”

Joel jerks back, eyes wide.

“Shit—”

He pulls out, tucks himself away fast, grabbing for a rag off the table to clean you up with. You’re still gasping when he yanks your panties back into place, helps straighten your shirt.

Footsteps. Closer.

Joel grabs your jaw, kisses you once—fast and rough.

“Act normal.”

Then he’s out the door.

You follow a second later, cheeks flushed, fingers shaking as you tuck your hair behind your ear. You can’t help the grin that threatens to pull at your lips, still feeling Joel’s.

Your dad’s already turning the corner.

“Where the hell’d you go?”

You smile. “Bathroom,” you lie. “You good?”

He nods, takes another bite of his sandwich.

Joel doesn’t look at you.

But you can feel him still.

Burning through every inch of your skin.

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

It’s already dark when you grab your keys.

Not late—not quite—but the kind of dusk that hums with quiet. The heat’s still clinging to the windows, thick and sticky, and every room in the house feels like it’s holding its breath.

You check the mirror again.

One last time.

Hair loose, brushed soft over your shoulders. A sundress—low-cut, thin-strapped, clinging in the summer heat. You told yourself it was nothing special. Just enough to keep cool. But the way you keep tugging at the hem, the neckline, the way you keep glancing at your reflection like it might betray you—

Yeah. You know who you’re dressing for.

You slide on a light sweater anyway, just to be safe. Something to keep things modest enough for your dad to glance at you and not look twice.

He’s still on the couch when you step into the living room, one hand nursing a half-empty beer, eyes glazed from the TV. He doesn’t look up right away.

“Where you headed?” He asks, voice rough from too many years and not enough sleep.

You slip your keys into your pocket. “Lisa’s. Just for a bit. Movie night.”

He grunts. “You drivin’?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly. “Her place is further out now. New apartment.”

He doesn’t question it. Just nods, eyes still on the screen. “Be smart. Don’t drive back too late.”

“I won’t.”

Your voice is sweet. Normal. The way it always is.

“Alright. Love you, kid.”

You give him a smile—one that doesn’t tremble—and head for the door. “Love you too.” You call out over your shoulder, willing your voice to stay neutral.

The porch creaks under your feet. The air outside is cooler than inside, but not by much. You walk fast across the gravel, sweater tight around your waist now, already feeling the sweat bloom at the nape of your neck.

Your car sits in the driveway. Engine still warm from earlier.

You slide in, shut the door soft and start the ignition.

And when you pull away, your fingers are already shaking on the wheel.

Not from nerves. Not exactly.

From want. From anticipation. From knowing exactly where you’re headed.

There’s no Lisa. No movie night.

Just a field about fifteen minutes out past the highway, where Joel’s waiting in the back of his pickup, cooler packed, blankets laid out in the bed, headlights off.

No one for miles.

Just stars.

You park a little ways down the road from the pickup, engine ticking as it cools beneath the hood. Lights off. Windows cracked. The air outside hums with cicadas and the faint rush of night wind, warm against your bare skin where the hem of your sundress brushes your knees. You tug the cardigan tighter around your shoulders, heart beating too loud in your chest.

He’s already there.

You see the outline of his truck up ahead—just beyond the bend where the woods break open into a patch of field, stars spilling wide across the sky like they’ve been waiting all day just for this.

You sit for a second. Breathing.

It’s been weeks.

Too many hours spent pretending not to care. Dodging glances at family dinners. Playing dumb every time your dad mentioned him in passing. And now—you’re here. Heart caught in your throat. Thighs already pressed a little too tight together.

You grab your bag from the passenger seat. Slam the door quieter than you mean to.

Your sandals kick up dust along the roadside, gravel whispering beneath your steps. The sweater hangs off one shoulder. The sundress sways with every movement. And even though you’re alone, even though there’s no one to see—you feel watched.

Anticipated.

The moment you round the front of his truck, the door swings open.

And there he is.

Joel stands just behind it, leaning one shoulder against the frame. T-shirt stretched across his chest. Jeans slung low on his hips. Hair a little messy, like he ran his hands through it too many times waiting for you. His eyes catch the light from the dash and flash warm. Familiar. Wanting.

His mouth curves slow.

“Hi, darlin’.”

Your stomach drops. That voice. That look. That fucking pet name. It never fails—it gets you every time.

You smile, soft and breathless. “Hi.”

Joel watches you walk the last few steps like he’s soaking it in. Like you’re something he’s starved for. His gaze drags down over the dress, the sweater sliding off your shoulder, the bare stretch of thigh, the faint pink polish on your toes.

“You look…” he trails off, shaking his head. Doesn’t finish the thought.

You stop in front of him. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest.

“What?” You murmur, tipping your head.

He just looks at you.

And then—he sighs, stepping forward to wrap both arms around your waist, dragging you in against him like he doesn’t trust himself not to fall apart.

“Missed you,” he says into your hair. Quiet. Hoarse.

Your hands slide up his chest. You nod into his shoulder. “I missed you too.”

Joel pulls back just enough to look at you. His fingers trail down your arms, over the sides of your waist, grounding himself.

Then he gestures toward the back of the truck. “Come on. Brought a blanket.”

You climb into the bed of the truck with him, the old metal groaning beneath your weight. It’s already spread out—a thick old quilt, fraying at the edges, familiar from a dozen other nights you weren’t supposed to share.

You sit cross-legged, facing the field. He sits beside you, knee brushing yours.

There’s no rush.

The stars stretch wide overhead, sharp and endless. The wind moves through the tall grass like it’s whispering secrets you’re not meant to hear. Everything smells like earth and woodsmoke and a hint of his aftershave.

He reaches for your hand.

You give it to him.

His thumb rubs slow along your knuckles, rough calluses dragging over soft skin. He doesn’t say anything for a while—just looks out at the dark. Like the silence is safer than whatever he’s feeling.

You lean your head on his shoulder.

He lets you. Presses a kiss into your hair.

Then—quiet, steady, honest—

“I think about you all the time.”

Your breath hitches. You sit up, just enough to look at him.

His jaw is tight. His brows pulled. Like it hurt to say. Like it hurts more to mean it. “I know it’s fucked up,” he says. “But I can’t stop.”

Your heart breaks a little.

Because it is fucked up. And neither of you have ever pretended otherwise. But this—this moment, this night, this feeling—it’s real. It’s been real.

“I think about you too,” you whisper.

He turns toward you then. Cupping your cheek with one hand, thumb brushing your jaw. His eyes search your face, like he’s looking for something he lost.

And then—barely audible, barely real— “I love you.”

You freeze.

Not from fear. Not from regret. But from how deeply it lands. How fast it settles into your bones.

Your lips part. You blink.

And you say it back.

Not loud. Not sure. But true.

“I love you too.”

Joel closes his eyes like he’s in pain. Pulls you in. Kisses you.

Slow. Reverent. Like he’s praying.

And when he lays you down on the blanket beneath the stars—he takes his time.

The quilt scratches softly beneath your spine, the summer air curling around your skin, and Joel’s body hovering above yours feels too heavy and too perfect all at once. His palm braces beside your head, the other smoothing along your thigh, pushing the fabric of your sundress higher until it bunches at your waist.

He’s already looking at you like he’s trying to memorize everything. Like the moment’s too big, too fragile to rush.

You reach for him—one hand curling around his wrist, the other brushing along the side of his neck, feeling the soft bristle of his beard beneath your palm.

Joel bends down slowly and kisses you again.

It’s different now.

Not just slow. Not just sweet. But intentional. Like every touch is something he means. Something he’s been waiting to give you.

When he pulls back, your lips are kiss-wet and parted, your breath catching as his fingers slide up beneath the hem of your dress, dragging the cotton-soft fabric higher until it’s no longer in the way. His touch lingers on the inside of your thigh—just enough to make you whimper.

“You sure?” He asks softly, voice low and rasping.

You nod, eyes wide.

But he doesn’t move—not until you say it.

“Please,” you whisper, so soft it barely makes it past your lips. “I want you.”

Joel exhales like he’s been holding that breath for days.

His hand shifts, fingertips brushing between your legs, finding you already soaked. He groans low in his throat, almost reverent.

“Goddamn.”

He sinks two fingers into you, slow and careful, watching your face. You gasp, your back arching, thighs twitching. His thumb brushes your clit once—light as a whisper—and you nearly come undone already.

“You’re so wet for me, baby,” he murmurs, leaning in to press kisses down the side of your neck. “Didn’t even have to work for it, did I?”

You shake your head, panting. “Wanted you all day.”

He fucks you with his fingers slow and deep, curling them just right. “Yeah?” His voice is lower now. Tighter. “Thought about me?”

“All the time,” you breathe. “Joel—please—”

“Alright,” he says, kissing your cheek, your temple, your jaw. “Okay. I got you.”

He pulls his hand away just long enough to unbutton his jeans, shove them down past his hips. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, already dripping for you. You watch him stroke himself once, twice, his eyes still locked on your face.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he murmurs. “Laid out for me. Dress bunched up, legs spread, beggin’ for it.”

“Joel,” you gasp, squirming. “Please. I want you—”

“I know, baby,” he breathes. “I know. Gonna give it to you.”

He lines himself up, the head of his cock slipping through your slick folds, and he groans when he feels how wet you are—how ready.

Then—slowly—he pushes in.

You gasp, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he sinks deeper. It’s overwhelming—the stretch, the fullness, the intimacy of it.

Joel’s head drops to your shoulder. “Fuck—you’re so perfect—”

He doesn’t thrust. Not yet. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, his chest pressed to yours, your breaths syncing in the heavy silence.

“Feels so good,” you whisper, your hands clinging to his shoulders, nails digging in.

Joel moves then.

Slow. Deep.

His hips roll into yours like waves—long, dragging strokes that have you gasping into the night air. Every thrust knocks the breath from your lungs, every movement laced with something tender and breaking.

You whimper, arching into him. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

“Not gonna,” he pants, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “Not stoppin’—not ever.”

You come with a sob.

It builds like a storm, low and tight and aching—and then it snaps. Your body seizes around him, thighs squeezing, fingers clawing at his back. You cry out his name, helpless and wrecked, trembling beneath him.

Joel curses, barely holding on. “That’s it, baby. Just like that. Fuck—so good for me—so fuckin’ good—”

And then he’s chasing his own release, hips stuttering, breath hitching in your ear.

You feel it when he comes.

The way his whole body tenses. The way his arms tighten around you like he’s afraid to let go. The soft, broken sounds he makes into your hair—like he’s praying and falling apart all at once.

When it’s over, he doesn’t move. Just stays pressed against you, his cock still inside, one hand cradling the back of your neck.

You can feel his heart pounding against your chest.

You kiss his shoulder. Whisper against his skin.

“I love you.”

Joel’s eyes are closed, his face tucked into your hair. “I love you too, baby.”

The stars stretch quiet and endless above you, the warm breeze rustling the grass around the truck bed.

And for once, neither of you say anything else.

Because you don’t need to.

You lie on your side, one leg slung over his, the weight of your body still settling from what just happened.

Joel’s hand rests on your thigh. His thumb moves slow, back and forth, the barest touch, like if he lets go you might vanish.

Neither of you have spoken in minutes.

Not since you curled into him, still trembling, breath catching from the last wave that rolled through you. Not since his lips brushed your hairline and stayed there, unmoving, like maybe he was afraid of what would slip out if he opened his mouth.

The night stretches wide above you—quiet, open, endless. The stars are the only witnesses.

You draw in a slow breath. The truck smells like him. Sweat and soap and heat.

“I hate this part,” you whisper finally.

Joel doesn’t ask what you mean. He knows.

“This is the part where everything starts to feel too real,” you murmur. “And then it gets quiet. And then I start thinking.”

He hums low in his throat, almost like a warning. “Don’t do that.”

“I have to,” you say. “One of us has to.”

Joel shifts beside you, the mattress rustling under his weight. He’s still not looking at you. “We’ve already talked about it.”

You blink up at the stars, throat tightening. “We said we’d wait. We never said when.”

“Back then it was still a maybe,” he says quietly. “Now it’s not.”

There’s a pause. Long. Heavy.

His hand is still moving on your thigh.

You swallow. “I don’t know how to tell him.”

Joel’s voice comes quieter than before. “You think I do?”

“I’m scared,” you admit.

He nods. Not mocking. Just… understanding. “Me too.”

You press your face into his shoulder for a second. Breathe him in. Let your fingers drift across the inside of his forearm, the soft patch of skin that always feels too intimate to touch.

“I keep thinking about how it’ll sound,” you whisper. “Like—‘Hey, Dad, you remember your best friend? The one you’ve worked with for twenty years? Yeah, I’ve been sneaking around with him for months. He makes me scream his name and then drives me home like nothing happened.’”

Joel flinches. Not visibly—but you feel it, in the way his stomach tightens beneath your hand.

“I don’t feel proud of it,” you murmur. “Even though I… I care about you.”

Joel finally turns toward you then. Really turns. His hand stills on your leg.

“I never wanted you to feel ashamed of me.”

“I’m not ashamed,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “I just—this isn’t what I expected.”

His brow pulls. “You mean us?”

You shake your head. “I mean how much it hurts.”

Joel doesn’t respond. He just watches you. Quiet. Intense. Like he’s trying to memorize every word without letting it show.

You trace a small circle against his arm. “You were supposed to be the one I couldn’t have. You know that?”

He exhales through his nose. “I was the one you couldn’t have.”

“And now I do,” you say softly.

Joel shifts. His hand slides from your thigh to your waist, curling there. Holding. Steady. He leans in until his forehead brushes yours.

“You don’t just have me,” he says quietly. “I’m yours.”

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

It’s been a few weeks since that night in the truck.

Since the stars and the slow touches and the whispered I love yous that neither of you could take back—even if you wanted to.

And you don’t. Not even a little.

Things haven’t cooled off since then. If anything, they’ve deepened—evolved into something even more dangerous. Even more fragile. You see him more now. More than ever. Little excuses. Stolen afternoons. Late-night drives that last until morning. Joel’s been sweet, too—so much sweeter than anyone would guess. Like saying it out loud cracked something open in him. Something he’d been holding back for a long, long time.

It’s made the hiding worse.

Harder.

And tonight… tonight will be the last time.

You’re standing in the doorway, sweater slung over one arm, keys dangling from your fingers. The sun’s dipping low, the light slanting soft through the living room windows. Your dad’s on the couch, half-watching a ballgame, a soda sweating in his hand.

“Hey, I’m headed out,” you say, casual.

He turns his head. “Another night with the girls?”

“Yeah,” you lie smoothly. “We’re doing that stupid wine and paint thing. Someone’s gonna end up crying over a sunflower again.”

Your dad huffs a laugh. “Sounds tragic.”

You grin. Shrug your sweater on.

But his gaze lingers a little longer than usual. Not suspicious—just soft. Curious. Thoughtful.

“You’ve been out a lot lately,” he says. “Smilin’ more, too.”

You pause in the act of tucking your phone into your bag. “That a bad thing?”

“No,” he says quickly. “Hell no. It’s a good thing. Just…” He tips his head a little. “What’s got you so happy these days?”

You freeze.

Just for a second.

He doesn’t notice—or at least he pretends not to. He takes another drink, smiles around the rim of the can.

“It a boy?” He teases gently. “Someone new?”

You laugh. It sounds almost normal. “What makes you think that?”

He shrugs. “You’ve got that look. That… light. Whoever he is, he must be a good one if he’s put it there.”

Your chest aches.

Your fingers tighten around your keys.

He doesn’t know. Not yet.

You step toward the door and force a smile over your shoulder. “Yeah. He’s a good one.”

You wave once before slipping into the driver’s seat, shutting the door quick, before he can see your hands shaking.

You sit for a second. Just breathe.

Then you pull out of the driveway and head down the road, stomach fluttering like it always does when you’re about to see him.

It’s not the first time you’ve pulled into Joel’s driveway.

The gravel crunches beneath your tires the same way it always does. The porch light glows soft and golden in the fading dusk, casting long shadows over the steps you’ve memorized by heart. You park behind his truck, cut the engine, and sit for just a moment—fingers loose on the steering wheel, stomach fluttering.

You’ve been here before. Countless times now. But tonight feels different.

Because it’s the last time you get to come here like this—sneaking away under a lie, knowing he’s waiting behind the door with that look in his eyes and his shoulders already easing the moment he sees you.

You step out, the hem of your sundress catching on the breeze, the sweater sleeves bunched at your elbows. Your shoes scuff against the walk as you make your way to the porch, and before your hand can even reach the door—

It opens.

“Hi, darlin’.”

He says it soft. Like a prayer. Like the sound of you on the gravel was enough to pull him out of the living room.

Your breath catches. Joel’s leaning in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. He looks like he’s been pacing. His hair’s a little tousled, like he’s been running his hand through it. There’s a crease in his brow that only softens when his eyes land on you.

He doesn’t smile—not fully—but there’s something close to it. Something warm. His eyes flick over you, quick and reverent. Sweater. Dress. Bare legs. Familiar.

But the way he looks at you? That part still makes your chest ache.

“Hey,” you say, breathless.

He steps back without a word, just enough to let you inside.

The door clicks softly behind you. The quiet of his house wraps around you like a blanket—low hum of the fridge, scent of laundry and sawdust and the faintest trace of his cologne still lingering in the air.

You drop your keys into the little dish by the door. Joel’s watching you like he always does—silent, heavy-lidded, like he’s drinking you in. Like he’s already wondering how he’s supposed to let this part go.

“You nervous?” You ask.

He huffs a breath, steps closer. “A little.”

You nod. “Me too.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around yours like they’re meant to be there. His grip is warm. Steady.

Then finally, he murmurs, “Feels like this might be the last time it’s just us.”

You look up at him. “It won’t be.”

But even as you say it, your voice wavers.

Joel exhales through his nose. His thumb drags across your knuckles.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about what your dad’s gonna say,” he mutters. “What he’s gonna do.”

You nod. “I know.”

His eyes find yours again—tired, worried, but still so soft.

“You still wanna tell him?” He asks.

You hesitate. Not because the answer isn’t yes. But because yes is terrifying.

And you both know it.

You nod.

“Yeah,” you say, voice quiet. “I do.”

Joel pulls you in slowly, arms sliding around your waist, his chin resting against the top of your head. The beat of his heart is steady beneath your cheek. Familiar. Safe.

“We’ll tell him together,” he says.

You close your eyes.

And hold on tight.

⁂

Joel makes dinner.

You offer to help—more than once—but he waves you off with a quiet go sit down, sweetheart, and the kind of stern look that makes your heart flutter in your chest. So you perch at his kitchen table instead, sweater sleeves tugged over your hands, watching him move around the small space like he’s done it a thousand times.

He’s good at it. Fast. Focused. Efficient without being rushed.

He cooks the same way he does everything else—with purpose. With care.

Chicken and vegetables. Roasted potatoes. Garlic bread that fills the kitchen with the warm, buttery smell of something that feels suspiciously close to home. He doesn’t talk much while he works, but you can tell he’s nervous by the way he wipes his hands on the same dishtowel over and over again, the way he keeps glancing at you like he’s checking to make sure you’re still there.

When he finally sets the plate down in front of you, you laugh under your breath.

“What?” He grunts.

“This looks incredible,” you murmur. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

Joel shrugs. “Wanted to.”

You both eat quietly for a while. There’s music playing softly from the old speaker in the corner—something with strings, low and meandering. Every now and then your knees bump under the table, and neither of you pulls away.

He watches you when you take your last bite. Quiet and full of something like pride. Or awe. Like he still can’t quite believe you’re here.

And when he clears the plates and turns back toward you, his expression shifts.

It’s subtle. But you know that look–you know what comes next.

The shower is steam and skin and whispered promises.

You laugh when he pulls you in, still half-dressed, your sweater hitting the floor before the bathroom door even clicks shut. His hands are slow on your skin, warm beneath the spray, and everything feels both too fast and too soft—like you’re holding onto something fleeting. Like the world might shift the moment you step out of this room.

His mouth finds your shoulder. Your neck. Lower.

You gasp.

He groans.

But this time—it doesn’t go further. It stays slow. Gentle. The kind of touch that says I love you without needing to say anything at all.

Later, when you’re curled beneath the sheets, your head tucked against his chest and his arm slung heavy over your waist, you feel the weight of it settle in your chest.

Hope.

Fear.

Everything in between.

Joel kisses your hair and doesn’t say a word.

You fall asleep with your fingers curled in his shirt and the sound of his heartbeat in your ear.

⁂

The sun is barely up when you wake.

Your clothes are folded at the foot of the bed. Joel’s already up, padding around the kitchen in quiet half-steps, trying not to make too much noise. You sit on the edge of the mattress, staring down at your hands. Everything in your body feels slow. Floaty. Like you’re walking through someone else’s dream.

This is it.

You dress in silence. Joel helps you with your sweater like it’s a ceremony. And then you both stand in the doorway, keys in hand, looking at each other like there’s too much left unsaid.

“You sure?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Joel reaches for your hand. Holds it just long enough to make your chest ache.

Then you both step outside.

Together.

The walk to the house is slow.

You’d driven separately, like always. Parked down the street like always. But this morning—there’s no space between you. Joel walks close. His hand brushes yours once, then again, until you finally lace your fingers through his and hold tight.

You both know you shouldn’t be touching.

Not here. Not now.

But it’s your last chance to do this before everything changes, and you can’t let go. Not when your chest is aching. Not when your palms are sweating. Not when every step feels heavier than the one before it.

Joel’s quiet beside you.

His face is set. Determined. But the muscle in his jaw ticks, and he keeps flexing his free hand like he can’t stop fidgeting. Like if he doesn’t move, he’ll explode.

When you reach the porch, you both pause.

The house is still. Quiet. You hear the creak of a chair on the back deck, the faint clink of a mug being set down. Your dad’s up. Probably halfway through his first coffee. Probably has no idea his entire world is about to tilt sideways.

You glance up at Joel.

He’s looking straight ahead. His jaw clenches.

You squeeze his hand. “You sure?”

His eyes drop to yours—warm, steady, terrified.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure.”

You nod. Swallow hard. And knock.

Your dad answers the door with a smile already forming—slow and a little tired, like it’s too early for anything heavy. He’s barefoot, still in his T-shirt and sleep pants, a mug of coffee in one hand and a newspaper tucked under his arm.

His eyes flick between you and Joel. The smile falters, just a hair.

“Joel?” He says, blinking. Then back to you. “You’re with her?”

Joel nods once. Quiet. “Hey, Mike.”

Your dad hesitates—but only for a breath. Then he steps back slowly, still watching the two of you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with only half the pieces. He waves you in anyway.

“Come on in. Coffee’s fresh.”

The door clicks shut behind you with a final-sounding thud.

You follow him inside, every footstep sounding louder than it should. Joel stays close behind, his hand brushing yours like he can’t help it—even now, even here. You don’t look at him. Not yet.

You step into the living room like it’s the last time you’ll ever see it exactly this way—unchanged, safe, familiar. The couch you grew up on. The crooked photos in the hall. The faint scent of laundry detergent and leftover coffee and something warmer you can’t name.

Joel hovers behind you, quiet. Not fidgeting, not nervous—but held still by something heavier. He hasn’t said a word.

Your dad moves into the kitchen, setting his mug down with a clink before turning slightly, watching the two of you over his shoulder.

“You two carpoolin’ now or somethin’?” he asks, trying for light, but there’s a thread of confusion woven through it.

You can’t lie. Not today.

You shake your head once. “We came to talk.”

That gets his attention.

He straightens, blinking at you both like he’s waiting for the punchline. “Everything okay?”

Joel’s voice is quiet. Steady. “We just need a few minutes of your time.”

Your dad narrows his eyes—not angry, not yet. Just… off-balance. Guarded. “Alright…” He jerks his chin toward the living room. “Let’s sit.”

He walks first. You follow second. Joel follows last.

Already, you feel it—that subtle shift in the air. Like the house knows something you haven’t said yet. Like the walls are listening.

He shuffles toward the kitchen again, calling over his shoulder as he moves, “You guys eat yet?”

You glance at Joel—at the man who still hasn’t said a word since you stepped inside—and then call out, “We’re good, Dad. Thanks.”

“Suit yourselves.”

He’s humming now. Something soft and tuneless. You hear the cabinet open, the scrape of his mug being set down again, the clink of the coffee pot. Everything is so normal. So painfully, dreadfully normal.

Joel shifts beside you, leans close enough to murmur, “You wanna wait, or…?”

Your stomach flips.

“No,” you whisper. “We tell him. Just… let him sit down first.”

Joel gives a tight nod, his fingers brushing yours again, quick and fleeting.

Your dad returns a minute later, fresh coffee in hand, newspaper folded beneath his arm. He sinks into his usual chair—the one that groans under his weight, the one no one else dares sit in—and leans back with a sigh.

He looks at you first.

Then Joel.

Then back again.

“What’s got you both lookin’ like you just ran over somebody’s dog?”

You try to laugh. It comes out too sharp, too thin.

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s goin’ on?”

Then his face hardens—not with understanding, but with something more hesitant. More off.

“Didn’t think you two spent much time together,” he says slowly. His voice is still casual, but there’s something behind it now—something cautious. “Figured it was one of your friends makin’ you sneak out all the time.”

He chuckles once. It’s dry. Strained. “Sure as hell didn’t think it was Joel.”

Silence.

Thick. Heavy. Choking.

Your dad’s eyes narrow just slightly. He looks at Joel now—really looks at him. And you can see the pieces beginning to shift behind his eyes. One by one. Every memory. Every absence. Every little thing he didn’t question before.

He laughs again. But it’s empty this time.

“No,” he says flatly. “No, I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Dad—”

“No.” His voice is louder now. Sharper. “You’re tellin’ me this’s been goin’ on behind my back? You and him?”

You flinch. Joel stays still. Tense. Silent.

Your father stands, coffee forgotten on the side table, paper sliding off his lap.

“You’ve been lyin’ to me. Both of you.” He looks at Joel, betrayal breaking clean across his face. “You were supposed to be my friend.”

You open your mouth. Try to speak.

But Joel steps in first—just a little. Not enough to crowd. Not enough to scare.

But enough to stand beside you. Steady. Certain. “Mike,” he says, low and careful. “Let us explain.”

Your dad stares at Joel like he doesn’t recognize him. Like the man standing in front of him—the one he’s known for years, trusted with goddamn everything—is a stranger wearing Joel’s face.

“Explain?” He repeats, voice low and tight. “You want to explain?”

Joel doesn’t flinch. “We didn’t plan it this way.”

“Plan it?” Your dad’s voice breaks, somewhere between disbelief and rising anger. “Jesus Christ, Joel, she’s my daughter. You think that justifies it? That you didn’t plan it?”

You step forward, heart pounding. “It’s not what you think—”

He cuts his hand through the air, eyes blazing. “Don’t. Don’t tell me this is anything but betrayal. From both of you.”

Joel’s jaw tightens. “It wasn’t like that.”

Your dad rounds on him. “Then how was it? Huh?” His voice is raw now, sharp. “You just woke up one day and thought, yeah, let me fuck around with Mike’s daughter behind his back? Sneak around like some goddamn teenager?”

“Hey.” Joel’s voice finally cracks through, firmer. “That’s not what this is. I care about her. You know I do.”

Your dad laughs once. Bitter. Disbelieving. “You care? That’s what you’re going with?”

You can barely breathe. You feel the shame hot on your skin, the panic twisting deep in your chest.

“Dad, please—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “You think this doesn’t gut me? You think I don’t sit here feelin’ like an idiot? My best friend and my kid—”

Joel steps forward, tone even. “I would never hurt her, and I sure as hell don’t wanna hurt you.”

“That’s the fuckin’ point, Joel!” Your dad yells. “You already did! You both did.”

Silence falls—heavy and vibrating with tension.

Your dad turns his back. Paces. Runs a hand through his hair. And then, quieter, voice cracking: “I trusted you. Both of you.”

Joel doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

You do.

You step forward, voice soft but steady. “It wasn’t meant to happen like this. But it’s not a fling. It’s not a mistake. I love him.”

Your dad’s shoulders tighten.

Joel breathes in deep, like the words settle in his bones.

And when your dad turns again, there’s no disbelief left—just hurt. Real and bare. “I need some time,” he says finally. “I need you both to go.”

The words hang in the air like smoke.

I need you both to go.

You freeze, mouth half open. “Dad—”

“Go.”

He doesn’t yell this time. Doesn’t bark or snap. But it’s worse that way. Worse because it’s flat. Final. Said with the kind of hollow certainty that doesn’t need to be loud to be devastating.

Joel shifts beside you. “Mike…”

Your dad doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t look at either of you.

He stares at a spot just left of the couch, like if he keeps his eyes on anything else—anything but you—he might be able to keep from breaking.

“Don’t make me say it again.”

And for a second—just a breath—you almost fight. Almost tell him that you’re not a child anymore, that you don’t need permission to feel the way you do. That you’re happy, maybe for the first time in your life.

But you don’t.

Because he’s still your dad.

Because he’s right.

You lied to him. Both of you did.

Joel’s voice is quiet when he says, “Come on.”

You don’t look back as you follow him to the door. Your feet feel numb. Your heart feels worse.

The silence stretches behind you like a wound.

You step onto the porch. Joel shuts the door gently behind you, like closing it soft might make it hurt less.

But it doesn’t.

Not even close.

The morning air is too bright, too clean. The world feels wrong in the way it keeps moving—birds singing, cars passing on the street, nothing stopping just because your chest feels split wide open.

Joel walks you to the truck, but he doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

Once you’re inside, seatbelt fastened with shaking hands, he exhales slowly—like he’s been holding his breath since the moment your dad opened the door.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Your voice is small. Barely there. “I shouldn’t have—”

Joel cuts you off, not harsh, just firm.

“No,” he says. “Don’t.”

You look at him. Really look at him.

He’s pale. Sweating. His hand trembles faintly against the steering wheel like it hurts to keep still. But his jaw is set. His eyes are dark with something deeper than guilt.

“He’ll come around,” Joel murmurs, though you can’t tell if he believes it or if he just needs you to.

You nod. Because you have to.

Because the only thing worse than what just happened… is the thought that it could undo all of this.

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

The first two weeks were good.

Not perfect. Not easy. But good in a way that made you start to believe maybe it could last.

You stayed with Joel. Slept in his bed, wore his old shirts, woke up with his hand already on your waist like his body didn’t know how to let go. He made you coffee every morning, cooked dinner every night—real meals, too. Not just quick shit. The man slow-roasted vegetables. Seared steak like he’d been born doing it. He kissed your shoulder while you washed your hair. Held your hand on the couch. Smiled more.

It wasn’t always soft—sometimes it was messy, sometimes quiet—but he tried. Harder than he ever had before. Like he was making up for all the time you’d spent hiding. All the guilt. All the fear. You could feel him working at it, even when he didn’t say much.

And for a while, it worked.

You laughed. Ate better. Stopped checking your phone every time it buzzed, afraid it was your dad, saying the worst had finally come.

But then Joel started to pull away.

It was subtle at first. Long pauses between conversations. Nights where he’d sit out on the porch too long with a beer, staring at nothing. You’d touch his arm and he’d flinch—not away from you, but like he was startled. Like he’d forgotten you were there. Like he’d been somewhere else entirely.

When you asked what was wrong, he said nothing.

When you asked again, he kissed you too hard and pressed you into the mattress like he could convince you with his body instead of his words.

You should’ve known.

He picked the fight the next morning.

Over something small—something about the dishes, maybe, or you staying past the weekend. Something dumb enough that you almost laughed. But Joel didn’t laugh. He didn’t even look at you. Just stood by the kitchen counter with his jaw clenched, arms crossed, saying words that didn’t sound like his.

He said maybe you should take a break.

Said maybe you needed time to patch things up with your dad.

Said maybe he’d made a mistake.

But you saw it—clear as day. In his face. In the way he stood like he was bracing for something awful. He was lying. Not about how he felt—but about why. He thought pushing you away would fix it. That if you hated him, maybe your dad would forgive you. Maybe things could go back to normal.

So you left.

Packed what little you had, still crying, too angry to speak. Joel didn’t stop you. Didn’t follow you. Just stood there with his hands in his pockets, watching the door like it was some punishment he deserved.

You went home.

Your dad didn’t ask questions when he opened the door. Didn’t yell, didn’t gloat. Just stepped aside and let you in. You walked past him, dropped your bag in the hallway, and shut yourself in your room without a word.

He didn’t come in. Not that night. Not the next one either.

He let you stay.

That was all.

⁂

Time passed.

Not quickly. Not gently. But it passed.

You stopped texting Joel. Stopped checking to see if he had texted you back. At first out of pride. Then out of pain. Then because you couldn’t bring yourself to open the thread. Couldn’t stand to see his name sitting there, untouched, like a bruise you kept pressing just to prove it still hurt.

Your dad didn’t bring him up. Not once. Not even when you passed each other in the hallway. Not when he made dinner for two but only ate one plate. Not when you sat beside him on the couch but didn’t speak, didn’t laugh, didn’t look like the daughter he knew.

He didn’t ask if you were okay, but he also didn’t ignore it.

Not really.

He started to notice things.

The way you didn’t go out anymore. Didn’t see your friends. The way you pushed food around on your plate and took your dishes to the sink half-full. How you stayed curled up on the couch long after the TV had gone dark, long after he’d gone to bed.

He noticed the crying, too.

You tried to be quiet. Covered your mouth, turned your face into the pillow. But the walls weren’t that thick. And the silence between you had become a living thing—heavy, breathing, always listening.

One night, he stopped in the hallway. You didn’t hear him at first—just felt the way the floorboards creaked under his weight, how the air shifted near your door. He didn’t knock. Didn’t open it.

But he stood there for a long time.

Just stood there, while you bit your lip and let the tears roll silently down your cheek, hoping the weight of him outside the room meant something was still left between you. That he still cared. That maybe he just didn’t know how to fix it.

Neither did you.

⁂

It starts small, deliberate.

A mug set down beside yours at the table. A fork pushed toward you with a quiet, “Eat.”

He doesn’t say much at first. Doesn’t press.

You pick at your food like always—slow, mechanical, dragging your fork through syrup that’s already gone cold. He watches you across the table, hands wrapped around his own mug like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“I was thinkin’ about takin’ the boat out this weekend,” he says casually, eyes on his coffee. “Could use the company. Not as fun drinkin’ beer alone on the water.”

You don’t look up. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t push–just nods. Swallows it down.

The silence stretches. Long and uncomfortable. You stare at your plate like it might swallow you back if you sit still long enough.

Then he tries again. “You sleep okay?”

You nod.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t believe you. You both know it. But he nods anyway, pretending to accept it—pretending he didn’t hear you crying last night. Or the night before that. Or every night since.

“You been talkin’ to anyone?” He asks gently. “Your friends? That girl with the red Jeep—what’s her name?”

“Jess.”

“Yeah. Jess.”

You shake your head. “Haven’t really felt like it.”

Your dad shifts in his chair. Rubs a hand over his jaw. Looks older today. Tired. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

You finally glance up.

The look in his eyes nearly breaks you. Not angry. Not disappointed.

Just… lost.

“I’m fine,” you say. It comes out flat. Unconvincing, but he nods anyway.

“Alright.”

He doesn’t believe you. He’s trying not to let it show. Trying to reach you without making you run.

But when he stands to clear the plates, you see the weight in his shoulders. The way he pauses at the sink—quiet, thoughtful—like he’s already halfway to making a decision he hasn’t told you about yet.

⁂

You’re outside when it happens.

Wrapped in a sweatshirt too big for you—one that still smells like sawdust and cedar and Joel’s damn soap. You shouldn’t be wearing it. Should’ve stuffed it in the bottom of your drawer the moment he left. But it’s the only thing that’s felt warm these past few weeks, the only thing that hasn’t asked you to explain.

You’re curled up in the corner of the porch swing, knees tucked into your chest, eyes unfocused as the late afternoon light drapes gold across the yard.

You don’t hear the truck. Don’t notice the front door open, or the footsteps across the porch boards. Not until—

“Hi, darlin’.”

Your heart stutters.

You look up too fast.

He’s standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, boots scuffed like he never stopped moving after that night. There’s a hollow behind his eyes. His face is drawn, unshaven. He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping either.

Like he hasn’t been breathing right without you.

You don’t speak.

The porch swing groans beneath your weight, the night air thick with humidity and the distant hum of crickets. You keep your legs pulled to your chest, arms wrapped tight around your knees, drowning in the oversized, faded navy sweatshirt that was soft from too many washes.

Joel sits beside you. Not too close. Not far either. Elbows on his knees, hands clenched, head bowed like he’s waiting for a verdict.

Neither of you says anything.

The silence stretches. Long. Awkward. Familiar in the worst kind of way.

You keep your eyes forward. On the edge of the yard. On the dark tree line beyond it. On anything but him.

He doesn’t look at you either.

And still—you feel him. The weight of him next to you. The guilt rolling off his shoulders like smoke.

You break first.

“You didn’t even fight me on it.”

Your voice is quiet. Flat.

Joel’s jaw flexes.

“You made me think you didn’t care.”

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

Didn’t have to. You can feel the ache moving through him, the same ache that’s been living in your chest since that night. The one that cracked open when he raised his voice. When he said maybe you should go. When he didn’t come after you once you turned your back.

Joel’s voice is low when he finally speaks. Rough. Like it costs him.

“I thought it’d be better for you.”

You laugh. Bitter and tired. “You thought pushing me out would help?”

“I thought maybe if I was the one to break it,” he says, eyes still on the floorboards, “maybe you and your dad could put it back together.”

That’s what shatters you.

Not the fight. Not even the silence after.

But that.

Because even now—even now—he’s still trying to save you from the mess he made.

You blink hard.

“Joel—”

He cuts you off gently. Finally meets your eyes. “I’m sorry, darlin’.”

The words aren’t pretty. Not dressed up. Just true.

And they ruin you.

⁂

Your dad doesn’t say much at first.

Not after Joel showed up that night, standing on the porch like the weight of the world had finally broken him down. Not after you folded the second he said “Hi, darlin’”—barely more than a whisper—and collapsed into his arms right there on the steps. Not after he sat beside you without speaking, just staying, like that was the only way he knew how to ask for forgiveness.

And not after your dad let him.

Because he didn’t say much then, either.

Now, days later, the worst of it has passed—but only in the way a storm moves through. There’s still water pooled in the aftermath. Still wreckage in the corners.

You’re already on the porch when your dad steps outside. The sun’s low, brushing amber against the grass, and the old hoodie hanging from your frame is one of Joel’s—left behind in a moment of weakness or maybe given on purpose. You haven’t taken it off.

He settles next to you with a quiet groan, the boards creaking under his weight. There’s a pause. He doesn’t speak, just exhales hard through his nose, like he’s been carrying something for too long and still doesn’t know how to set it down.

Then he says, not looking at you, not even really to you—just out into the yard:

“Y’know I was gonna ask him to help with that busted drawer again this week.”

Your heart jumps.

He doesn’t need to say Joel’s name. Doesn’t need to explain who him is. The meaning is already in the silence between his words.

He taps his thumb against his coffee mug. “Could still use the help.”

You don’t answer right away. Don’t even know if he’s really saying it to you. But your hands are clenched around your knees, and you can feel the pulse rising to your throat.

So you just nod. Barely.

Your dad shifts beside you, takes a sip, then mutters, “He looked like shit when he showed up.”

You let out a breath. Almost a laugh. “He wasn’t the only one.”

“Yeah,” he says, almost softer than the breeze. “I know.”

For a while, you just sit there. No big resolution. No sweeping, emotional reunion. But something loosens in your chest, anyway. Something tired and hopeful and trying.

It’s not forgiveness.

But it’s a start.

[dindjarinsslut]

i love them, your honor

saturated (2)

dr!joel x resident!reader

inspired by the pitt on hbo | series | ao3 link

warnings: this chapter contains graphic depictions of medical trauma, emergency procedures, mass casualty events, and mentions of suicide. it also includes themes of burnout, grief, and ptsd in a high-stakes hospital environment.

reader discretion is advised. please take care while reading.

word count: 14.k

─────

When Joel got home—close to two in the goddamn morning—the whole house was dark.

The silence was thick. The kind that clung to your ribs.

He dropped his keys on the kitchen counter. The house smelled like soap and something vaguely floral—your shampoo, probably. The faint hum of the AC pressed against the windows. The kind of quiet you only got in those brief hours when Austin’s chaos had finally exhausted itself.

He didn’t call your name. Didn’t have to. He knew exactly where you’d be.

Joel stripped in the hallway—peeling off his shirt, the weight of the day sticking to his back like a second skin. His pants followed. Then the socks. By the time he stepped into the bedroom, he was just muscle and scars and the heaviness of too many years in too many trauma bays.

You were already there.

Curled on your side. One of his old shirts stretched over your frame. Face half-buried in his pillow, chest rising and falling with the deep, even rhythm of real sleep. Not a nap. Not collapse. Sleep.

Joel stopped in the doorway. Just stood there. And looked.

The sight of you hit him like a truck. Like adrenaline withdrawal. Like breathing in after hours of smoke.

His jaw twitched.

He didn’t say anything—just moved forward, slow and heavy, and collapsed onto the mattress. His arm slung across your waist automatically, hand spreading over your stomach. He pressed his face into the back of your neck, breathing you in like oxygen.

His other hand found the bandage on your collar. Still there.

His fingers flexed. Jaw locked. But he didn’t wake you. Not yet.

Instead, he held you. Tighter than he probably should’ve. Like if he let go, you’d evaporate. Like the ER might find a way to pull you back inside.

5 AM. That's when your alarm went off like a goddamn war crime.

Some soft piano chime you thought was “gentler” when you set it last week. Now it just sounded smug.

You blinked, groggy, warm, your face mashed into Joel’s shoulder. It took a full breath to realize where you were, what day it was, why you were so sore.

You groaned. Joel didn’t move.

“Alarm,” you croaked.

“Mmph.”

“Joel.”

His grip tightened around your waist. “No.”

“We have day shift.”

“I’ll kill it.”

“You can’t murder the clock.”

“Bet I fuckin’ could.”

You shifted, rolling onto your back. Joel growled low in his throat, dragging you with him, one knee wedging between your thighs, face nuzzled against your throat like you were a pillow made of Valium.

“I have to get up.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do.”

“Fucking hell.”

He exhaled against your skin, then rolled back, dragging himself upright like a bear waking from hibernation. His hair was a mess. His eyes were still half-closed. But he stood.

Wordlessly, he offered his hand. You took it.

The walk to the bathroom was slow, your bodies brushing with every step. Joel flipped the light on with a grunt, and both of you flinched.

“God, we look dead,” you muttered, staring at the mirror.

“You look good dead,” Joel grunted, already twisting the shower knob. “Like a real pretty corpse.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me.”

Joel climbed in first, pulling you in after him. The shower was hot. Scalding, almost.

You both stood under the stream for a long moment—silent, eyes closed, just breathing. Letting the water peel the last twenty-four hours off your skin.

Joel’s hands found your hips. Not to pull you close. Not to start anything. Just… to be there. To hold on.

His voice, low and gravel-warm, “That scratch still hurt?”

You touched the bandage near your collarbone. “A little.”

He turned you slowly, gently. Tilted your chin. His fingers traced the edge of the gauze, then peeled it away with surprising tenderness.

The scratch wasn’t deep, but it was angry. Red. A little raw.

Joel hissed through his teeth. “That son of a bitch.”

“Joel.”

He ignored you. Instead, he reached around, grabbed a washcloth, and began cleaning it. Soft. Meticulous. Like you were something fragile.

You stood there, heart knocking against your ribs, while Joel Miller—a man who’d cracked skulls open and stitched arteries in the middle of chaos—washed your fucking neck.

“I’ll put fresh gauze on it after,” he muttered.

“Okay.”

He rinsed the cloth. Pressed it to your shoulder again.

“Doesn’t look infected. But you need to stop fucking touching it.”

“I didn’t touch it.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, once. Maybe twice.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your temple. “Stop. Or I’ll tape your whole damn neck shut.”

“Hot.”

“Not a joke.”

You smiled. He kissed you once, slow and tired and deep, water trickling between your bodies. Then he turned off the shower and handed you a towel.

You did your skincare in the mirror while Joel dried off behind you. He didn’t rush. He never did in the mornings. Not with you.

Even when he was grumpy. Even when his shoulder ached or the weather made his knee act up. He always moved slow. Always stayed close.

You patted moisturizer into your face. Joel watched in the mirror.

“You really do all that shit every morning?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“What does that one do?” He pointed at your serum bottle.

“Makes me glow.”

“You already glow.”

You blinked. Joel pretended he didn’t say it. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

The kitchen smelled like coffee and eggs by the time you padded in barefoot, dressed in fresh scrubs, hair still damp.

Joel was at the stove. Mug in one hand. Spatula in the other. His back was bare—broad and solid and scar-laced, a roadmap of every trauma he’d ever lived through.

He flipped the eggs like a man who didn’t give a single fuck what Gordon Ramsay thought.

“Yours are over easy,” he muttered. “Mine broke. Don’t say shit about it.”

You slid into the chair at the counter and wrapped your hands around the coffee he’d already poured for you.

“You didn’t have to cook.”

“You didn’t have to work eighteen hours yesterday.”

He handed you a plate. Sat across from you. Forked into his eggs with quiet aggression.

The silence between you was comfortable. Not empty. Never empty. Just resting.

After a few minutes, Joel reached over, tugged your scrub collar down, and gently pressed a fresh bandage onto your scratch. His fingers were warm. Careful.

He didn’t say anything while he did it. Didn’t need to. You didn’t say thank you. He didn’t expect it.

By 6:30 a.m, you stood in front of the front door, bags slung over your shoulders, Joel double-checking for his badge like it might have betrayed him in the night.

“You ready?” you asked.

Joel didn’t answer. Just looked at you for a second. Really looked.

Then he opened the door.

“Come on,” he grunted. “Let’s go do some damage.”

And you followed him out into the already-waking heat of Austin, the sky pink and soft with the kind of hope that always, always dies by noon.

Another day. Another battlefield. But you weren’t going in alone.

Joel held the car keys like he held trauma shears—tight, deliberate, and like if anyone else touched them, they’d lose a finger.

His truck—gray, dented, stubborn—sat in the driveway like it had been through as much as he had.

You’d only driven in together a handful of times, mostly on mornings after holidays or hellish shifts, or when he’d muttered, “Don’t drive. Just come with me,” while already pulling on his boots.

Today was another one of those days. After everything that happened on the Fourth—an explosion, a thoracotomy, a sparkler in someone’s orbital socket—it made sense. 

“You good?” he asked as you locked the front door behind you.

“I’m not bleeding,” you said. “That’s progress.”

Joel grunted. “Barely.”

He opened the passenger door for you—something he never acknowledged but always did—and waited until you were settled before circling around to the driver’s side. The truck rumbled to life with a grumble and a low groan, like even the engine had seen some shit.

The drive to Austin General was quiet. Not the tense kind. Not the I’m-thinking-of-ten-thousand-things kind either. Just comfortable. The kind of silence that only happens when two people have nothing to prove to each other.

Joel drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, thumb tapping once every few seconds. You drank coffee from the thermos he’d packed. It tasted like Joel—too strong, no sugar, with that bitter edge that clung to your teeth. You didn’t mind.

At a red light, he glanced over.

“You sure you’re up for this?”

You didn’t need to ask what he meant.

You met his gaze. “Are you?”

He exhaled through his nose. Looked back at the road. “Guess we’ll find out.”

By 6:47, you both pulled into the staff garage behind the ambulance bay entrance.

The hospital loomed above like a tired giant. Some of the windows still flickered from the backup generator cycle. Yesterday’s trauma team hadn’t even had time to hose down the exterior concrete where one of the blood trails had baked into the pavement under the sun.

You climbed out of the truck and walked beside Joel in silence.

At the security desk, Bill looked up from his paper cup of coffee and raised one brow. His face remained unreadable, but the faintest twitch of his beard might’ve been a smirk.

“Mornin’,” he said.

“Bill,” Joel grunted.

Bill looked at you. “Y’know, we should just assign you a cot somewhere in trauma. You basically live here.”

Joel’s jaw ticked. “She doesn’t sleep in trauma.”

Bill lifted both hands, innocent. “Didn’t say she did.”

You bit back a laugh. Joel walked a little faster after that.

Inside, the ER was already humming. Not screaming—yet—but definitely buzzing with the kind of low-level chaos that meant the night shift hadn’t completely imploded.

Maria stood at the nurse’s station, arms crossed, tablet in hand, her expression locked somewhere between impressed and murderous. She saw you both and didn’t even blink.

“You’re late,” she said to Joel.

“It’s 6:54,” you said.

“Exactly.”

Maria sipped from her mug. “We’ve had two walk-ins for lacerations, one minor burn from someone reheating their goddamn barbecue ribs, and a psych eval sitting in Bay 3 who thinks he’s Abraham Lincoln.”

“I’ll take Lincoln,” you muttered.

“Be my guest.”

Jesse slid past the station with a chart in one hand and a breakfast sandwich in the other. “Doc,” he said, nodding at you, “what are the odds I can bribe you into seeing my walk-in?”

“Negative a thousand.”

“Worth a shot.”

Ellie arrived next, a little too awake, a little too caffeinated, already bouncing on the balls of her feet. She spotted you and nearly tripped over herself.

“You’re here,” she said. “Didn’t you stay late last night? I thought Joel was gonna drag you out of here by the hair.”

Joel, behind you, muttered something indecipherable under his breath.

You smiled sweetly. “No hair-pulling necessary. I left voluntarily.”

“She was ordered,” Jesse added, grinning.

Ellie gasped. “You listen to him?”

“He's my boss.”

Joel coughed.

“Anyway,” you said quickly, “what did I miss?”

Riley poked her head out from the medication room. “We’re still trying to find where someone put all the tetanus shots. And Henry lost a patient.”

“What?” you and Joel said in unison.

“She walked out,” Riley clarified. “He said she was in Bed Nine, but turns out she got tired of waiting and stole someone’s vape on her way out.”

Joel exhaled sharply. “I swear to God.”

“Henry’s been in the bathroom since,” Riley added helpfully.

Joel growled something that sounded like "fucking hell" and walked toward the staff lounge like he needed to punch a wall.

Abby showed up right then, bag slung over her shoulder, hair still damp from the shower. She caught sight of Joel’s retreating form, then turned to you.

“Still alive?”

“Barely,” you said.

“Cool.” She paused. “Thanks again for yesterday.”

You nodded. “You okay?”

Abby looked down the hall, where Mel was just walking in, laughing at something Dina said.

“I’m working on it.”

You didn’t press. She didn’t offer more. But she stood there with you a moment longer before heading to the lockers.

The first trauma rolled in at 7:11 a.m.

A teenage girl, collapsed at a summer soccer camp from heat stroke. Vitals tanking. GCS of 9. Her skin was dry and hot, lips cracked, and by the time she hit Trauma Two, her body temp had climbed above 104.

You worked fast—Joel barking out orders from the head of the bed, Abby on fluids, Ellie on vitals, Jesse running labs, and you directing the cooling blankets like it was your second job.

Joel watched you the whole time, his jaw tight, but he didn’t correct you.

Didn’t override you. Just moved in sync. By 8:02 a.m., the girl was stable. Still groggy, but breathing on her own.

Joel peeled his gloves off and muttered, “She’ll be fine. Keep an eye on her sodium.”

“Already ordered a BMP,” you said.

He nodded. One of those short, gruff nods that meant good.

The morning passed in pulses. Nothing exploded. Nothing caught fire. It was all… controlled chaos. Predictable. Achievable.

But Joel never let you out of his sight for long. Every time he walked into a trauma bay and didn’t see you, his head would snap around like a predator searching for prey.

When you passed each other in the hallway, his fingers brushed your lower back—just a second, just a breath, always too brief to be obvious.

No one said anything. But they all saw. And no one dared fucking comment.

9:35 a.m. brought the day’s weirdest consult: a man who had somehow—somehow—fallen onto a pool noodle in a way that required a surgical extraction.

“Really?” Tess said, exasperated. “It’s always the pool toys.”

You snorted. “He said he thought it would float better with air pressure.”

Tess stared at you. “Did it?”

“No.”

Joel didn’t speak during the consult, just glared at the chart like it had personally insulted him.

“Can’t people just swim?” he muttered on his way out.

By 10:17 a.m., you had already diagnosed a kidney stone, popped a shoulder back in, and sedated a guy who thought his dog was a government spy.

And then Joel pulled you aside in the trauma hallway.

“You eaten?”

You blinked. “What?”

“It’s been four hours. You eaten?”

“No.”

He handed you a granola bar. “Sit down. Now.”

You didn’t argue. And he didn’t leave.

He sat next to you on the bench outside the medication room, arms crossed, eyes scanning the floor like it had wronged him. You ate in silence.

And then, after a beat, “You still hurtin’?”

You touched your collar. “No. It’s healing.”

Joel’s hand rose, thumb brushing the edge of the gauze. His touch was careful. Calloused.

“You tell me if it doesn’t.”

You nodded. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t stop watching you.

And it hit you all over again...

You were in the middle of a storm, inside a building held together by caffeine, trauma tape, and anger issues—

And still, every time Joel Miller looked at you, it felt like home.

Even here.

Even now—on the worn-out bench outside the medication room, surrounded by the hum of flickering fluorescents and the antiseptic stink of blood crusted into the grout.

Even after eighteen straight hours yesterday, after breaking someone’s chest open with your own hands, after watching a child code and a Roman candle take off someone’s face, Joel still looked at you like you were something safe.

Of course, he wouldn’t say it.

He’d just toss you a granola bar and glare at the floor until you finished eating.

Which, for Joel, was basically a love poem.

You took the last bite, licked peanut butter off your thumb, and leaned back against the wall. He didn’t move. Just watched you quietly, like he was still trying to make sure all your parts were accounted for. You couldn’t help but glance down at the gauze still covering the scratch at the base of your neck.

“Still healing,” you said softly.

“Good,” Joel muttered. “Otherwise I’d have to fire every nurse in this place and start over.”

You rolled your eyes. “Including Marlene?”

“She gets a warning.”

You almost laughed—almost—but before the silence could turn warm, the trauma radio cracked overhead.

“Incoming minor burn trauma. Twelve-year-old male. Backyard explosion. ETA two minutes.”

Joel stiffened.

“Another fucking firework?”

You stood up. “The holiday was yesterday.”

“Yeah. And the idiots were born today.”

The boy came in with his dad, a frazzled man in mismatched socks who kept saying, “I told him not to touch it. I swear to God, I told him.”

You and Joel met the gurney just as it was wheeled into Exam 4, Ellie jogging at your heels with a tray of supplies and Henry clutching an ice pack and his iPad.

The kid was alert. Crying, but not screaming. His arms were mottled red, patches of blistering skin already forming down both forearms. His hair was singed at the front, and the smell—burnt hair and plastic—hit you like a slap.

“Name?” you asked gently.

“Derek,” the kid whimpered.

“How old are you, Derek?”

“T-Twelve.”

You nodded. “Okay. You’re doing really good. We’re going to clean this up and keep you from hurting more. Do you know what kind of firework it was?”

Joel glanced at the dad.

“Big one,” the man muttered. “From yesterday, I think. One of those leftover mortars.”

“You didn’t throw it out?” Joel snapped.

The man flinched. “I thought I did—he found it in the back corner of the yard. I didn’t think—”

“Clearly.”

“Joel,” you said quietly.

He bit back the rest of it and stepped aside, hands flexing at his hips. His jaw ticked.

You went to work. Saline flushes. Cool compresses. Henry handed you a burn dressing, and Ellie worked fast with the IV.

Joel hovered behind you—watching, but not stepping in. He only did that when he trusted you completely.

You caught his eye once, just for a second. He didn’t say a word. But that look? That was him saying: I’ve got your back. I always do.

Derek whimpered. You knelt beside him, brushed the hair back from his sticky forehead.

“Hey. You’re gonna be okay, alright? You scared the hell out of us, but you’re gonna be just fine.”

The kid nodded. Sniffled. “Okay.”

Joel’s voice, low and steady, “We’ll monitor for inhalation injury, but he’s stable. Admit for observation. Abby’ll help you with the burn sheet.”

You nodded, and Joel finally stepped back.

When the door swung shut behind him, Ellie whispered, “He’s so intense. I don’t know how you do it.”

You smiled faintly. “He means well.”

“Yeah. But he says it with, like, a knife.”

You didn’t get a break before the next call hit.

Marlene appeared, holding a file and a cup of hospital coffee so black it looked cursed.

“We’ve got a lady in Exam 2,” she said. “Still drunk from last night. Fell in the shower. Split her head wide open. She’s conscious, but loopy. Needs imaging for a concussion and a shit-ton of sutures.”

“Any chance she’s friendly?”

“She asked if I was her mailman.”

You sighed. “I’ll take it.”

“Atta girl.”

In Exam 2, the woman was sitting up on the gurney, a towel clutched to the side of her face, blood soaking through the edge. Her mascara was halfway down her cheek, and her smile was bleary.

“Hey,” she slurred. “You’re so pretty. Are you a nurse? Or a lifeguard? I fell in the tub and thought I was drowning.”

“I’m a doctor,” you said, pulling on gloves. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Dottie. Like the baseball girl.”

“Okay, Dottie. Can I look at your head?”

“Sure, baby. You can do whatever you want. You’re in charge.”

You stepped closer, peeled the towel back gently. The wound was bad. A long, curved laceration just behind her ear, splitting the skin open like a broken eggshell. Definitely needed imaging. Possibly staples. Definitely stitches.

“Jesus Christ,” Abby muttered, stepping in behind you.

“She fell on the soap dish,” you said.

“Oh God

Riley stuck her head in. “CT’s clear. No bleed.”

“Good,” you said. “Abby, grab the suture kit.”

Dottie blinked at you. “Hey, baby? You married?”

You glanced up. Joel was leaning in the doorway. You didn’t even hear him walk in.

“No,” you said, smiling sweetly. “But taken.”

Joel’s brow arched slightly. His gaze swept over Dottie, then the bloody towel, then your hands, and finally back to your face.

“She stable?”

“Yep.”

“Need anything?”

You shook your head.

Joel lingered just a second longer than necessary. Then he left.

Dottie blinked at the door. “He your boss?”

“Something like that.”

“He looks like he could bench press a firetruck.”

“Only on Mondays.”

By 11:42 a.m., the ER was once again, somehow, overflowing. Tess was yelling at imaging. Mel was arguing with a pharmacist. Jesse was holding two urine samples in one hand and his lunch in the other, looking very scared and conflicted.

You slipped into the breakroom for thirty seconds and collapsed into a chair.

Joel followed. Closed the door.

“You okay?”

You nodded.

“Liar.”

You looked at him. “You okay?”

He paused. Then said, “No.”

You both laughed. It wasn’t even funny.

Joel leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

“I’ve never seen you do a thoracotomy before,” he said. “You handled it better than half the staff.”

“Thanks.”

“I meant that.”

You swallowed. “You didn’t have to let me do it.”

“I didn’t ‘let’ you do shit. You earned it.”

Silence. Warm. Tense. Real.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Joel said quietly. “Yesterday. When he scratched you.”

“I know.”

“I thought if I looked away for a second, you’d be the one on the table.”

“I’m not.”

“I know.”

But his jaw was tight. His hands clenched.

You stood. Crossed the room. And laid your palm over his chest.

His heartbeat was steady. Heavy. A little too fast.

“I’m still here,” you said softly.

His hand covered yours.

“I see you, you know,” he murmured.

You blinked. “What?”

“Even when you think I’m not looking. I always see you.”

Your breath caught. But before anything else could happen—

“Trauma alert. Code yellow. Two incoming. One penetrating, one blunt-force. ETA three minutes.”

Joel’s eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Duty calls,” you whispered.

He nodded once. “Stay close.”

You didn’t need to be told. You always did. Because this was Austin General. And there was no such thing as peace.

Only the seconds between impact.

It was 12:00 p.m. when the ER exhaled again. Not the quiet kind. Not the peaceful kind. Just a different kind of pressure—like a room that had been holding its breath for too long and now didn’t know what to do with all the oxygen.

You glanced up at the wall clock in the trauma hallway. Still ticking like a metronome to madness. The second hand clicked forward and you didn’t even register it anymore.

You lived in 15-minute increments now. The rest of the world could burn as long as you made it to your next trauma bay.

Joel was still beside you, silent after the last code yellow. One penetrating trauma, one blunt-force. Both stable now, upstairs for imaging and consults. Joel hadn’t even taken off his gloves when the doors swung open again.

A wheelchair rolled in. Pushed by Bill.

The man in it had to be at least eighty-five. Skin loose, shoes untied, button-up shirt with the collar wrong on both sides. His face was red, sweat pooled in the lines of his cheeks, and he was gripping his chest like it had insulted him in public.

“Said it was just heartburn,” Bill muttered. “I told him he needed to get checked. He argued. Then he nearly passed out in the lobby next to the vending machine.”

“Probably the vending machine’s fault,” the man wheezed. “Those goddamn Funyuns.”

You stepped forward. “Sir, what’s your name?”

“Leonard.”

“Okay, Leonard. Can you describe the pain?”

Leonard waved you off with a wrinkled hand. “Been having it since last night. Ate my niece’s chili. Too many beans. Feels like somethin’ goin’ on in my chest, but it’s just gas. Happens all the time.”

You blinked. Joel didn’t.

“Put him in Trauma 5,” Joel barked. “Now. Get EKG, draw a troponin. Monitor vitals. Oxygen, nasal cannula. I want a chest X-ray on deck. Now.”

“Joel,” you said softly, “he says it’s just—”

“Silent MI,” Joel growled. “Seen it before. Pressure like gas, no radiating pain, no nausea. Happens all the goddamn time in older men. They die in recliners because no one took ‘heartburn’ seriously.”

Leonard blinked up at him. “You always this dramatic, son?”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “You want to live or not?”

“Suppose I do.”

“Then shut up and let us do our jobs.”

Joel turned on his heel and stalked into the trauma bay, already pulling a fresh pair of gloves on. You followed, heart thudding.

Jesse arrived two minutes later, dragging the portable EKG cart, out of breath and covered in something unidentifiable. “Sorry—somebody vomited in the hallway and I slipped in it. I’m okay. My ego may be injured. But okay.”

Ellie peeked around the curtain. “Did someone say heartburn?”

“Silent MI,” you corrected. “Joel wants labs now.”

She saluted and disappeared.

You stood on the left side of Leonard while Joel worked the right, laying leads, pressing his fingers into the man’s wrist to feel the pulse.

His touch looked rough, but you knew Joel. You knew how careful he actually was. How tightly he held control when something inside him screamed.

“BP’s dropping,” Joel said sharply. “Ninety over sixty. Jesse, get a second line. You—” He jerked his chin at Henry, who had wandered too close. “What do you do when your patient’s having an NSTEMI?”

Henry froze. “Uh—start oxygen, get nitro ready, prepare for aspirin?”

Joel’s face was stone. “Did you say ‘prepare for aspirin’?”

“I—I mean—give it?”

Joel stepped closer, towering over him. “You either know it or you don’t. There’s no ‘prepare’ when your patient’s dying, kid.”

You touched Joel’s arm gently. He glanced at you. His jaw unclenched—just barely—and he stepped back.

You looked at Henry. “Aspirin’s in the second drawer. Grab two, chewable. Go.”

Henry bolted. Joel didn’t say another word. He didn’t need to. The EKG machine began its infernal printing, and you read the strip.

“ST depressions,” you muttered. “It’s real.”

Joel nodded once.

Leonard blinked up at you. “Huh. Not just gas, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Well, fuck me sideways.”

You smiled despite yourself. Joel huffed something that might’ve been a laugh.

You stabilized Leonard. Got him a nitro drip, pain eased, vitals up. He was admitted upstairs to cardiology with a sarcastic goodbye and an invitation to his niece’s funeral chili cookout next Sunday.

Joel didn’t look at you for a few minutes after the bed rolled out, just stood in the trauma bay, eyes on the floor, fists still flexing.

He didn’t like being right when being right meant someone could’ve died.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Old men are stubborn.”

“You’re one of them.”

He looked at you. Finally. “And I’m still alive.”

You shrugged. “For now.”

He smirked. Just a little. You let that be enough.

It was barely 12:35 p.m. when the nurse’s station erupted again.

This time, it was Riley who flagged you down. “We’ve got a walk-in. Kid. Came in with her older brother—he looks like he’s barely older than her. Said she’s been scratching her head for weeks. No insurance. No PCP. No meds.”

“Lice?” you asked.

“Yeah. Like, bad. Real bad.”

Joel was standing next to you, reading a chart. You watched his spine stiffen. He didn’t say anything. But his jaw locked.

You followed Riley to Exam 9.

Inside, the girl was maybe eight. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Her hair was matted and greasy, dark streaks where she’d clearly tried to scratch herself bloody. Her little fingernails were dirty.

She sat on the edge of the bed like she was trying to take up as little space as possible.

Her brother—maybe fifteen—stood in the corner, arms crossed, eyes flicking everywhere but you. His hoodie was ripped. His sneakers had holes.

But he was standing between his sister and the door like he’d fight anyone who looked at her wrong.

You knelt beside the girl. “Hey. I’m one of the doctors. Can I take a look at your head?”

She didn’t speak. Just nodded. Barely.

Joel stood in the doorway. You felt him before you saw him. That dense kind of presence he carried like a loaded weapon.

You parted the girl’s hair. Winced.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Hundreds. Literal hundreds of nits. Clumped at the base of the scalp, crawling along the strands. Her ears were crusted with scabs from scratching. This wasn’t new. This was neglect.

“She’s had it for months,” the brother said. His voice cracked. “I tried. I bought shampoo. She cried. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not a—” His voice broke. “I’m not a mom.”

Joel still hadn’t said a word. But his knuckles were white around the file in his hands.

“She’s not in school?” you asked gently.

“Not since May,” the boy said. “I had to keep her home. They called CPS last time. I can’t—she’s all I have.”

Joel turned. Left the room.

You blinked.

Ten minutes later, he came back. Carrying two pharmacy bags.

He handed them to the brother.

“Shampoo,” he said flatly. “Good kind. Gloves. Shower caps. Combs. Clean pillowcases. Antibiotic cream for the scabs.”

The boy stared. “I—I don’t have—”

Joel stepped forward. Didn’t yell. Didn’t scowl.

Just said, “You’re gonna take her home. You’re gonna wash her hair. You’re gonna follow the instructions. She’s gonna stop scratching. She’s gonna sleep on clean sheets. You’re gonna do all that. And you’re not gonna thank me. You’re just gonna do it.”

The boy swallowed. Joel leaned in, voice low.

“And if your parent lets this happen again, I will call every agency in the goddamn state.”

The boy nodded.

Joel turned to you.

“Discharge her,” he said.

Then walked away.

You caught up with him three rooms down, grabbing his arm.

“Hey.”

He didn’t look at you. You touched the inside of his wrist, where the pulse still jumped.

“You’re not fooling anyone,” you whispered.

He grunted. “Wasn’t trying to.”

You smiled. He didn’t. But his shoulders loosened. And that was something.

It was still 12, but edging closer to 1 p.m.

The air inside Austin General’s emergency wing had shifted—not louder, not even busier, just…stranger. Like the rhythm of the day had slowed just enough to notice it was about to snap.

You were reviewing discharge paperwork for the lice girl when Riley stepped into the nurses' station, looking pale.

“We’ve got a walk-in,” she said. “Elderly. No ID. Found wandering outside the H-E-B on 7th.”

You blinked.

“She walk here?”

“Not sure,” Riley said. “Bill brought her in. She didn’t resist, but she’s confused. Doesn’t know where she is. Keeps repeating the same name.”

Joel, across the station, stiffened.

“Put her in Exam 7,” he ordered. “Monitor vitals. No restraints unless she tries to bolt.”

You followed Riley down the hall, into Exam 7, where the woman sat alone on the gurney. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. Wiry. Her blouse was stained, shoes on the wrong feet, and her white hair was frizzed into soft static. Her hands twisted in her lap like they were searching for something they’d lost decades ago.

You approached slowly. “Hi. I’m one of the doctors. Can I ask your name?”

She looked at you with watery blue eyes that didn’t quite see you.

Her voice came small, papery, “Angie. Angie. Angie.”

She said it again. Then again. Just one name. Over and over. Not in fear. Not in panic. Just…lost.

“She won’t stop saying it,” Riley whispered. “We tried the emergency contact on her bracelet—no answer. No address in the system.”

Joel arrived two minutes later. He didn’t speak at first. Just stood in the doorway. Watching. Like he was trying to remember someone. Then he moved forward. His whole frame tense, jaw tight.

“Ma’am,” he said gently. Gentle, for him. “Do you know where you are?”

“Angie.”

He crouched beside her, his voice lowering.

“Can you tell me who Angie is?”

She reached out. Clutched his forearm. Her grip was strong. Joel didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just sat there and let her hold on.

“She was my girl,” the woman whispered. “She was mine. And I lost her.”

Your throat went tight.

Joel nodded. Quiet. “We’ll find her, alright? We’ll look.”

You blinked hard, looked down at your tablet.

“Vitals stable,” you murmured, clearing your throat. “Labs ordered. Jesse’s on the phone with Adult Protective Services. Henry’s calling nearby care facilities.”

Joel stood slowly. His eyes flicked to you.

“She’s not goin’ anywhere,” he said. “Not ‘til someone claims her.”

You nodded. “And if no one does?”

He didn’t answer. But his hand stayed clenched at his side.

You left the room, heart heavy. And then the trauma doors opened again. Because of course they did.

“Room 3,” Mel said, moving fast beside you. “Sixteen. Football player. Came in with chest pain during summer conditioning drills. Dizzy, shortness of breath. Coach made him come in ‘just to be safe.’”

You blinked. “Vitals?”

“BP 110/72, HR 98. No fever. Clear lungs. Slight systolic murmur on auscultation. No known cardiac history.”

You looked at her sideways. “You said sixteen?”

Mel nodded. You pushed open the curtain.

The kid on the bed looked older than sixteen. Broad-shouldered, lean muscle, tan lines from Texas heat. His football jersey was wadded under his arm. Sweat plastered the front of his undershirt to his chest. His eyes were scared, but trying to play it cool.

“Name?” you asked.

“Cory.”

“Okay, Cory. You said this started during practice?”

“Yeah. We were doing sprints, and my chest felt weird. Like tight. I got dizzy. Coach said maybe it was the heat. But I’ve played through worse.”

You glanced at the monitor. “Has this happened before?”

He hesitated. “...Once. A few weeks ago. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t want them to pull me from reps.”

“Any family history of heart disease?”

He looked down. “My uncle died of a heart thing in his forties. I think.”

You exchanged a glance with Mel. She was already typing.

“Okay,” you said, keeping your tone light. “We’re gonna run some tests. Just to be safe. You’ll be outta here in no time.”

Cory nodded, trying to smile. You stepped outside with Mel.

“Order an ECG,” you said. “Echo, too. Let’s rule out structural causes. Maybe a stress test if cardiology doesn’t scream at us.”

Joel appeared beside you like a shadow. “You talking about the kid in 3?”

You nodded. “Systolic murmur. Episodic chest pain with exertion. Could be heat stroke. Could be anxiety. Could be nothing.”

“Could be HCM,” Joel said flatly.

“Yeah.”

Joel’s jaw tensed. “I’ll get Imaging. We’re not missing this one.”

It didn’t take long. The echo told the truth. Joel called you into the radiology reading room himself.

The image flickered on the screen—thickened ventricular septum, diastolic dysfunction, the unmistakable pattern of hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.

Your stomach dropped. Joel didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at the monitor, his arms crossed, tension rippling through every inch of his body.

He finally looked at you. “He doesn’t know, does he?”

“No.”

Joel exhaled, low and slow, “Want me to do it?”

You shook your head. “No. I’ve got it.”

He looked at you—really looked—then nodded. “I’ll be right outside.”

You sat beside Cory on the edge of his bed, the curtain pulled closed to block out the chaos of the ER.

He looked at you like you were about to hand him the keys to his future.

“Good news?” he asked.

You didn’t sugarcoat. You never did.

“We found something.”

He blinked. “Like, something bad?”

You swallowed. “It’s a condition called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. It means your heart muscle—specifically the wall between the two lower chambers—is abnormally thick. It makes it harder for your heart to pump blood effectively.”

Cory stared at you.

“No. No, I—I feel fine most days. I’ve always passed physicals.”

“It often doesn’t show up until something triggers it. You’re lucky it did. If you’d passed out without anyone around…”

You let it hang there. He didn’t move. His mouth opened, then closed again.

“So... what does this mean?”

You paused. “It means no more football.”

Silence.

Then, “No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. No, no, no. That’s not—” His voice broke. “I’ve been training for this since I was ten. I just got invited to the summer showcase at UT. I’ve got coacheslooking at me. I can’t—I can’t—”

You didn’t stop him. You let him feel it. You stayed right there as he buried his face in his hands.

And when he finally looked up, eyes red, lips trembling, you said, “You’re alive, Cory. You’re going to stay alive. But you have to change course. That’s what matters right now.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t throw anything either. So that was something.

Outside, Joel was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. When he saw your face, he didn’t ask.

Just said, “You did good.”

You shook your head. “I hate this part.”

Joel nodded slowly. “Means you still got a soul.”

You didn’t speak again until you were back at the nurse’s station.

Jesse handed you a chart, Abby appeared with a new tray of IV kits, Ellie was arguing with someone about a urinal, and Henry was missing again.

Just another moment. Another beat. Still 12:57 p.m. Still not screaming. But the wind had shifted. And everyone could feel it.

The shift in the ER—subtle but total. Like someone had cranked the volume of the world to one notch below unbearable. No screaming yet. Just the weight of everything pressing down.

That’s when she came in.

You didn’t catch her name at first. Only her voice—sharp, cracked, desperate—and the unmistakable phrase, already being said before the curtain was even closed,

“I need Dilaudid. Just give me the Dilaudid.”

You looked up from the trauma board.

Across the hall, Jesse stood outside Exam 11, arms crossed, face locked in that uneasy grimace he wore whenever he was trying to hide discomfort behind professionalism.

“She say Dilaudid?” you asked.

Jesse nodded once. “Yelled it. About four times. Then cried.”

Mel passed behind you, muttering under her breath. “This again. Jesus.”

“Vitals?” you asked.

“BP 132/89, HR slightly elevated. Says she’s a chronic pain patient. Fibromyalgia, lower back disc degeneration, migraines. Lists ten meds she’s ‘allergic’ to.”

You winced. That checklist. The impossible one. The one that throws the whole room off-balance.

You stood, snapping on gloves.

“I’ll take it.”

“Of course you will,” Jesse said, smiling faintly. “You’re the only one she hasn’t screamed at yet.”

She was in her late thirties, maybe forty. Hard to tell—her face was drawn, eyes sunken with fatigue. Not from lack of sleep, but from years of wear. Her hair was tied back, but uneven. Her nails were chewed raw. Her hands trembled with the kind of exhaustion that made your throat ache just watching it.

She looked up when you stepped in. Her first words weren’t a greeting.

“Please don’t tell me it’s Tylenol. Please don’t fucking tell me it’s Tylenol again.”

“I’m not telling you anything yet,” you said gently, pulling the curtain closed. “I’m just here to talk.”

Her eyes narrowed, waiting for judgment. You didn’t offer it.

“I’ve been through this a hundred times,” she said. “I get it. You think I’m a junkie. That I’m drug-seeking. That I’m trying to score. But I’m in pain. I’ve been in pain since I was twenty-one. My spine is a fucking mess. My doctor retired last year and I’ve been in withdrawal ever since. No one will touch my chart.”

“Okay,” you said. “Let’s talk about it.”

Joel arrived ten minutes later. You knew he would. He always did when the air got like this—tense, cracked like thunder waiting to fall.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stood outside the curtain, arms folded, listening to your voice as you walked the patient through the same set of questions you’d asked every chronic pain case before her...

When did the pain start?

What does it feel like?

What helps?

What’s made it worse?

She cried. Quietly. You stayed still. And Joel finally stepped in.

His eyes flicked from you to the patient and back again.

“What’s your name?” he asked flatly.

“Trina,” she whispered.

“You’ve been here before.”

“I have.”

“You’ve asked for Dilaudid every time.”

“Because it works.”

Joel’s gaze didn’t soften. “You know we’re not a refill station, right?”

“I’m not asking for a month’s supply. I’m asking for one dose. To stop my legs from feeling like they’re being set on fire.”

You saw it. The twitch in Joel’s jaw. That old scar that flared when he gritted his teeth too hard.

“She’s in pain,” you said softly, more for him than for her.

He didn’t look at you. Not yet. But his silence cracked.

“She allergic to morphine?” he asked.

“Yes,” Trina said, too fast.

“Hydrocodone?”

“Also yes.”

Joel exhaled. “What about Toradol?”

“Gives me hives.”

“Tylenol?”

“Do you really think I’d be here if Tylenol worked?”

Joel was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, low, sharp, “Jesse. Get me her chart from the last three visits. I want full tox screens. And a list of filled prescriptions.”

Jesse moved fast.

Trina shook her head. “You think I’m lying.”

“I think we have a system that doesn’t help people like you,” Joel said flatly. “And I think you’ve been burned so many times you stopped trying to prove you’re telling the truth.”

That shut her up.

Joel turned to you. “Walk with me.”

You followed him outside the trauma wing and into the hallway, where the walls weren’t bleeding pain.

He stopped. Looked at you hard.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered. “But I don’t like watching someone twitch like that either.”

“She’s not faking,” you said.

“I know.”

“She’s terrified of being labeled again.”

“She already is.”

He rubbed his hands down his face.

“This system is broken,” he growled. “We treat pain like it’s a negotiation. Like people should earn relief. Like we can guess who’s in agony by how polite they are.”

You blinked. “So…what do we do?”

Joel met your eyes. “We treat the fucking pain.”

When you walked back into Exam 11, Joel was already writing the order. Single dose of IV Dilaudid. Low dose. Under supervision.

Jesse came back with her history—no flagged behaviors, no record of prescription fraud. Just an endless trail of bounced-around providers, ERs, urgent cares, and desperate attempts to find anyone who would believe her.

You administered the dose yourself. Her eyes filled with tears the second it hit.

“I’m not high,” she said. “I’m just…I don’t hurt. For the first time in a week.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

Outside, Joel leaned against the wall, watching the floor. When you came out, he looked up at you. Just once. You nodded.

“She’ll be out in an hour,” you said. “Then Ellie will talk to her about follow-up care.”

Joel nodded. Said nothing. But when you reached for his wrist—quiet, unseen—he let you hold on.

His pulse was steady. But now the screaming had started. And you weren’t letting go.

But the hospital didn’t care about things like stillness, or intimacy, or the fragile moment where you could feel someone’s pulse through your fingertips.

The ER didn’t care that you’d just poured your soul into a woman who hadn’t known if she deserved relief. It was 1:00 p.m. now, and the shift had turned.

Afternoons always brought something. The morning was for predictable chaos—broken bones, missed meds, barbecue injuries, and complications from last night’s poor decisions. But one o’clock? That was when the weird showed up. That was when the city remembered you existed and decided to test your limits.

You were barely logging the Dilaudid patient’s chart when Riley jogged toward you, hands flailing like she was chasing a balloon.

“Influencer in triage,” she hissed.

You stared at her. “What?”

“She’s live-streaming.”

“What?”

“She said it’s very important for her community to see her medical journey in real time. Jesse’s with her. He’s trying not to lose it.”

You followed her back to triage. And there she was.

Hot-pink leggings. Some light thing attached to her phone. False lashes that looked heavy enough to injure someone.

She was sitting on the triage cot like it was her dressing room, iPhone held high in one hand, the other dramatically bandaged with a gauze square the size of a postage stamp.

You heard her before she saw you.

“Hey my babies! So, I was viciously attacked by a bee at Barton Springs—like, full-on survival moment—and now I’m in the ER because I have a severe, deadlyallergy and my throat literally almost closed.”

Jesse was standing beside her, trying to get a blood pressure reading without being captured in the livestream. He looked like he wanted the fluorescent lights to explode and bury him in debris.

You cleared your throat.

The influencer whipped around. “Oh my God—are you my doctor? You look so young. She looks so young, right?” She gestured to the camera. “Everyone say hi!”

You didn’t say hi.

You turned to Jesse. “Vitals?”

“All normal. No swelling. No signs of anaphylaxis. She drove herself here. Took a Benadryl an hour ago.”

“Tongue? Throat?”

He shook his head. “Clear.”

You turned to her.

“You said you have a deadly allergy?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t use your EpiPen?”

She blinked. “I didn’t bring it.”

“You didn’t have someone drive you?”

“I didn’t want to wait.”

“You took Benadryl?”

“Yes.”

“And you can breathe?”

“Obviously.”

You stared at her. She smiled, perfectly white teeth catching the light of her phone. You stepped forward and gently tapped the screen of her phone, turning it off.

She blinked. “Um—what—?”

“You’re in a medical facility,” you said. “Not a film set.”

“Oh my God,” she whispered, scandalized. “You didn’t just touch my—”

“HIPAA,” Jesse muttered like it was a prayer. “HIPAA, HIPAA, HIPAA.”

You turned to Jesse. “Get her a discharge summary and a lollipop.”

The woman gasped. “I’m going to post about this—”

“I encourage it,” you said with a smile.

As you walked away, Jesse fell into step beside you.

“She tried to ask me to pose for a ‘we made it’ selfie.”

“Did you?”

“She said her brand is about healing through visibility. I think I disassociated.”

You reached up and patted his shoulder.

“You’re a soldier.”

He nodded solemnly. “Vietnam flashbacks. Except worse.”

At 1:18 p.m., you barely made it through three bites of a protein bar before Ellie appeared.

“There’s a new mom in 6. Fever. Pain. Baby’s here. She looks rough.”

“How rough?”

Ellie hesitated. “Like... I think she hasn’t slept in a week. She’s got that twitchy eye thing going on. And she’s reallytrying to hold it together.”

You finished the bite and followed her back.

Room 6 was darkened, the baby cradled in a bundle in a too-big hospital bassinet next to the bed.

The woman on the bed looked pale, blotchy, fevered. Her sweat-soaked tank top clung to her back, her breasts visibly swollen beneath it. One side red and inflamed. Her eyes flicked to you like she expected to be judged before you even opened your mouth.

You spoke softly, “Hi. I’m one of the doctors. What’s going on today?”

Her voice broke on the second word. “It hurts. My boob—it’s hot, and red, and he won’t—” she looked at the baby—“he won’t latch, and I’ve tried everything, and I haven’t slept in four days, and I think I’m dying.”

You pulled gloves on. “How old is he?”

“Thirteen days.”

You nodded. “This your first?”

“Yes.”

You glanced at Ellie. She stepped back, knowing this was yours.

You moved slowly. Sat beside the bed.

“You’re not dying,” you said gently. “You have mastitis. It’s a breast tissue infection. It happens, especially when a baby has trouble latching or feedings are inconsistent.”

The woman bit her lip.

“But I’ve been pumping. And massaging. I tried warm compresses. I even—God, this is so stupid—I googled something about cabbage leaves. I’ve been putting lettuce in my bra.”

“That’s not stupid,” you said. “That’s desperate. And you’re allowed to be desperate. You’re exhausted. You’re in pain. You’re feeding a human with your body and nobody told you it would feel like being hit by a truck and then asked to do calculus.”

She started to cry. Not loudly. Just the soft, hiccuping sobs of someone who finally got permission to fall apart. You stayed.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” you said gently. “We’re going to get you on antibiotics. We’re going to get you a lactation consult. We’re going to bring your fever down and manage your pain. And you’re going to sleep. Even if I have to sedate half the wing to give you peace, you are going to rest.”

Her hand gripped yours. Tight.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

You stayed a little longer. Then got up to start her orders. When you turned, Joel was there. Leaning in the hallway. Watching. He didn’t speak. Just met your eyes. And something in his gaze—soft but sharp—wrapped around your ribs like a wire pulled tight.

You walked out into the hallway, toward him.

“She’s gonna be okay,” you said.

Joel nodded.

“She was scared out of her mind.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how people do it. Alone.”

He looked at you. Really looked.

“They shouldn’t have to,” he said.

And he didn’t say more. Because it was the afternoon, high times. And Austin General was still full of screaming. But with him standing there, watching you like that? You weren’t screaming anymore. But the world outside your skin was.

The clock ticked past 1:17 p.m., and Austin General spun on without pause. The afternoon haze crept in through the automatic doors like breath through a cracked rib, uneven, persistent, fragile. The AC buzzed too loud in the nurse’s station. Someone spilled coffee near the crash cart. A fluorescent light in Room 12 flickered so fast it gave Mel a headache.

And the cases? They didn’t slow. They just changed shape.

A post-op patient arrived just after the new hour mark—transferred from another hospital across town.

He came in on a gurney soaked in sweat, with surgical dressing that reeked of necrotic tissue the second it hit air. His wound site—deep in the lower abdomen—was leaking pus that ran dark yellow, laced with streaks of green. Red, angry skin stretched outward from the edges of the incision like it was being peeled from the inside.

He didn’t even try to sit up. Didn’t have the strength.

You read the transfer note. Appendectomy. Four days ago. Complained of fever and worsening pain. Told to "monitor at home."

No antibiotics. No follow-up. Just “Tylenol and fluids,” according to the record.

Joel read it over your shoulder. Said nothing at first.

Then, very quietly, “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

You glanced at him. “He should’ve been here days ago.”

“He should’ve been in the OR again days ago.”

He turned and walked out. You followed. He didn’t go to Trauma or Radiology or even the consult rooms.

He went straight to the break room. Shut the door. Pulled out his phone. You heard him dial. Then tap the speakerphone.

“Dr. Kevner.”

Joel’s voice dropped into the register he only used when he was holding a scalpel or about to verbally eviscerate someone.

“Kevner. Miller from Austin General.”

“Joel, hey. You got the transfer?”

“Yeah. The one with the abscess the size of a grapefruit.”

“Right. We figured it was best he go to you guys since you’ve got more trauma coverage—”

“You let a post-op with signs of sepsis walk around for four days?”

“We were monitoring remotely. His vitals weren’t concerning—”

Joel’s fist slammed against the break room table. “You think a rotting gut smells like nothing, Kevner? You know what kind of post-op infection this is? The kind that eats people.”

“Joel—”

“You abandoned this kid. He came in tachycardic, hypotensive, oozing pus out of a dressing that looks like it was stuck on with duct tape. You didn’t even give him Augmentin?”

“We didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think at all. You dumped him on us ‘cause you didn’t want him crashing on your floor.”

“That’s not fair—”

Joel’s voice cut sharp and flat. “He could’ve died in a goddamn Uber, Kevner. So here’s what’s gonna happen, I’m writing a formal review. I’m calling the state board. And if this kid doesn’t walk out of here whole, I’m sending his mom your malpractice address directly.”

Silence on the other end. Then the line clicked dead. Joel stared at the phone. Then looked at you.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

He just shook his head. “I fucking hate this job sometimes.”

And then you heard it. The doors. Bursting open. You turned, gut coiling instinctively.

Frank was running. Covered in blood. Tommy was behind him, hauling the stretcher with a speed that made the wheels scream across tile.

On the gurney, a teen. Seventeen, maybe. Thin. Torn clothes. Blood on the chest. On the jaw. Across what was left of his right leg.

Your heart slammed in your chest.

“Hit by train,” Frank shouted. “Intentional. Jumped. Emergency stop missed. He was trying to die.”

The kid was missing skin. From his hips down. Left thigh torn open, right side fully degloved—flesh ripped back like a sheet, exposing red muscle and shattered bone. The meat of his body was visible. Raw. He looked like a person half-finished.

No pulse. No movement. Nothing.

“We can't give up on him!” Tommy barked. “He was crying when we got to him. He wanted help. He changed his mind!”

You threw your body into motion.

“Get him in Bay 1!” you screamed. “Now!”

Joel was already sprinting beside you, barking orders.

“Massive transfusion protocol! Jesse—run the O-neg. Mel, grab crash kit. Riley—intubation tray. Henry, get out unless you’re ready to bleed.”

Frank stayed. His knuckles were red from where he’d done compressions all the way here. Tommy stood against the wall, hands shaking. You didn’t flinch.

“You’re not dying here,” you whispered to the kid. “Not on my fucking table.”

It was chaos. The kind of chaos that strips the skin off your soul.

You intubated. Jesse missed the first line. You got it on the second. Ellie handed you a chest tube. Blood pooled beneath your shoes.

Joel’s hands were moving fast, precise. His voice was sharp, relentless. Every word from him cut through the noise.

“Three units, wide open.”

“Another 8.5 ET. He’s swelling.”

“Where’s ortho? We need vascular now.”

But you could see it. People were starting to doubt. You saw it in Abby’s eyes. In the silence from Henry. Even Riley flinched when she saw how much of the kid’s leg was just gone.

You stood over him. Chest compressions in progress. Bleeding not slowing. Vitals flatline.

“He’s D.O.A.,” someone whispered.

“No, he’s not,” you snapped. “We’ve got a window. He was alive ten minutes ago. He was crying. We are not letting him die because we’re tired.”

Joel’s voice barked, “You heard her. Move.”

You cracked ribs with your own hands. Pushed epinephrine. Tilted the table.

Blood pressure came back. Faint. But it came back. You felt it. A flutter. A whisper in the radial.

You stared.

“He’s perfusing,” you gasped.

Joel looked up at you. And in that moment, he didn’t look mean. He looked awed.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

But you weren’t done. Not yet.

Not until he was intubated. Not until you had tourniquets in place and trauma had arrived with the crash team. Not until his mother arrived—shaking, sobbing—and saw that her son was still breathing.

You walked out of Trauma 1 covered in blood. You peeled off your gloves in one motion. And Joel was waiting. Right outside the door. He said nothing. Just looked at you.

You wiped your arm on your scrub top. “He wanted help.”

Joel nodded.

“You saved him,” he said.

You stared. “We did.”

Joel stepped closer. There was blood on your cheek. He wiped it with his thumb. Then stepped back.

But his hand lingered a second longer than necessary. You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t need to.

It was still just past two. And you weren’t letting anyone die today. Not if you had anything to do with it. But eventually—because it had to—the adrenaline slowed.

Your body remembered that it was attached to muscles and bones and nerve endings that ached. Your stomach, neglected for the last six hours, growled loud enough to startle Jesse as he walked by with a chart.

And right then—like a miracle made of takeout foil and white plastic forks—the break room door opened to reveal something that almost felt like salvation...

Lunch. Real lunch. Catered. Paid for by the hospital’s owner—someone you’d never met, who apparently existed solely in Board meetings and vague references to lawsuits—but they’d bought food.

For you. For the chaos warriors who’d dragged themselves through yesterday’s Fourth of July madness, who’d patched gunshots and peeled melted plastic off children’s hands, who’d kept hearts beating, lungs breathing, and somehow still made it to work again today.

Jesse poked his head out of the break room. “Sandwiches. Tacos. Pasta. There’s even cold lemonade in one of those big-ass jugs.”

Abby trailed behind him, face flushed, ponytail crooked. “There’s salad too, but it’s Austin. Everything’s got quinoa.”

You finally exhaled.

Then you turned to find Joel—but of course, he wasn’t with the rest of the staff. Not in the hallway. Not near the triage desk. Not hovering beside the trauma bays like he usually was, scanning for errors in posture or medication orders.

Joel was gone.

In the break room, the noise was louder than it had been all day—but it was a different kind of loud.

This wasn’t the shriek of monitors or the scuff of gurney wheels or the metallic ring of dropped surgical tools.

This was laughter. Riley perched on the edge of a chair with her feet on a cooler, stuffing a taco into her mouth and trying to explain something about a failed Tinder date with a guy who claimed to be “emotionally polyamorous but spiritually monogamous.”

Mel snorted lemonade through her nose. Henry looked traumatized but impressed.

Ellie was cutting up her food into impossibly small bites and pretending she wasn’t listening to Maria’s story about a bachelorette party injury involving an ill-advised pole and three tequila shots.

Jesse was leaning back, both feet up on the table, eating pasta like he hadn’t seen carbs in weeks.

You saw Dina step in too—eyeliner smudged, hair pulled back, smiling in that sleepy, warm way she did after hours of difficult conversations with scared families. She grabbed two tacos, no plate, and stood beside the fridge with her hip against the counter, finally letting herself just be for a minute.

Even Tommy and Frank had stopped in—Tommy pulling Frank a chair like he was courting him all over again, both of them sweaty, still in EMS gear, still stained from the train call.

Everyone was here.

Except Joel.

You found a takeout container and began assembling a plate.

You knew what he liked—sliced brisket, no sauce, potato salad, not too much—one of the little cornbread muffins, the kind no one else touched because they looked dry but he liked them anyway.

You wrapped it tightly in foil. Wrote his initials on the top with a Sharpie you borrowed from Jesse, who gave you a knowing smirk and didn’t say a word.

You placed it in the staff fridge like it was sacred. It kind of was. Then, only after, did you sit down. Your feet ached. Your scrubs were stained.

There was dried blood beneath your fingernails and pressure still echoing in your chest from the compressions you'd done less than an hour ago—but for this one breath, this tiny sliver of a break room universe, everything felt normal.

Warm food. Smiling faces. The hum of microwaves and dumb inside jokes. It was the kind of peace that didn’t last long in an ER.

But god, it mattered. And when you finally stood, stretching your arms overhead, the quiet in your limbs was the only thing louder than the laughter.

You didn’t find Joel until almost an hour later, near the ambulance bay.

He was alone, as always, leaning against the edge of the wall like he belonged to the concrete.

You could tell he’d washed his hands—again—because they were still red. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows. His expression unreadable.

“You missed lunch,” you said softly.

He glanced at you. Then back at the parking lot.

“You eat?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

There was a beat.

Then you added, “I saved you a plate.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just nodded once.

Then, just barely audible, “Thanks.”

You stepped closer. Not too close. Not where anyone could see. But close enough that he could hear the difference in your breath. Feel the way you looked at him.

“You need to eat, Joel.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

He exhaled through his nose. “Didn’t think I’d survive another one of those cases.”

“But you did.”

He looked at you then. And for just one second, the mean lines in his face softened.

“Because you were there,” he said.

You didn’t smile. But you reached out, your fingers brushing against his wrist. That was enough. No one said anything else.

Not until the alarms blared again, and your pagers lit up, and someone in the nurse’s station called your name.

But in that quiet space between bites and blood, you’d built something. Something soft. And real. And his.

That word sat in the back of your throat for the next twenty minutes. Didn’t leave. Didn’t try to. It just lived there quietly, pressing against your pulse every time you remembered the way Joel had looked at you when he said it.

“Because you were there.”

Because you always were.

That moment might have lasted longer—maybe even slipped into something softer, something even riskier—but just then, the intercom crackled.

“Doctor Miller and third-year, please report to the nurses’ station. Family on line two.”

Joel sighed like it was a personal attack.

You followed him back in, glancing up at the board as you passed, everything still full. Every bed still filled. Every name glowing under fluorescent helllight.

Kathleen was manning the phones even though it was technically not her shift yet. She handed Joel the receiver like she was handing off a grenade.

“It’s the dementia patient’s family,” she said quietly. “Finally called back.”

Joel blinked. “They just now called back?”

“Yeah. Line was disconnected all morning.”

You leaned in, listening.

Joel pressed the receiver to his ear. “This is Dr. Miller.”

The voice that came through was young. Male. Rushed. Guilty.

“Oh my god—I’m so sorry. I just got this message. I—I lost my phone this morning at my son’s soccer practice, and I didn’t realize until after lunch that I’d missed like six calls from the hospital. I just— Is she okay? Is my mom okay?”

Joel’s mouth tightened.

“She’s stable. Came in around noon. No ID besides a bracelet. She’s been repeating the name Angie.”

“Yeah, that’s my daughter. Angie’s her granddaughter. They’re very close.”

Joel glanced at you. You nodded. It made sense now.

“I can be there in twenty minutes. I swear. I—I didn’t mean for her to be alone that long. My wife was watching her during the game and thought she was napping upstairs. But then...”

His voice broke.

Joel exhaled. “She’s safe. Come to the main ER entrance. We’ll walk you back.”

Twenty-five minutes later, a tired man in cleats and a youth league jersey stepped into the unit. One sock still grass-stained. His face drawn with guilt, worry, exhaustion.

You saw him before he saw her. When he did—when she turned toward the doorway, blinking like she was waking from a dream—his whole body just collapsed inward.

He rushed to her side. Kissed her head, “Mom. It’s okay. I’ve got you. Angie’s okay. You’re okay.”

She looked up at him, confused for a second. Then her face changed.

“I missed the game,” she said softly.

The son’s eyes welled. “I know. Its okay.”

“No,” she whispered. “I missed it.”

He crouched beside her, face pressed into her hand. And for a moment, you and Joel just stood there. Silent. Watching.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel murmured. “I’m not made for this part.”

You smiled. “Yes, you are.”

He didn’t argue. The spell didn’t last. It never did.

You were halfway through prepping a patient with an infected foot ulcer when Tess appeared beside you.

“Hey,” she said flatly. “Need your help with a situation.”

You looked up. “What kind of situation?”

“The yelling kind.”

You blinked. “Verbal or physical?”

“Unknown,” Tess said, already walking. “But if it turns physical, I get to hit first.”

Room 9. The door was shut but not sealed, and even from the hallway you could hear the argument happening inside.

You stepped in just behind Tess.

A man in his late forties sat on the edge of the bed, clearly agitated. His chart said “chronic shoulder dislocation,” but you could tell from the way he was gripping the call button that pain was only half the problem.

His eyes locked onto Tess immediately. “I said I wanted another doctor.”

“You got one,” Tess said, pointing at you. “She’s better than me anyway.”

He scoffed. “She’s a kid.”

You didn’t flinch. “I’m a third-year. You’re in a trauma facility. You came to us. So let’s work together.”

He bristled. “You’re gonna listen to me?”

“That depends. You planning on throwing anything at my face?”

“Not unless you treat me like a junkie.”

You met his stare. Dead on.

“Sir, I’m going to treat you like someone in pain. That’s it. You be mean to my staff, I will have you thrown out.”

Tess smirked behind you. The patient didn’t blink. But after a moment—he sighed.

“Fine.”

“Good,” you said. “Now take off your jacket so I can look at your shoulder.”

Twenty minutes later, his shoulder was relocated, the swelling addressed, and he’d even asked if you were “one of the good ones.”

You said, “Aren’t we all?”

He muttered something about you having a better bedside manner than Joel.

You grinned. “Don’t let him hear that.”

When you stepped out, Tess nudged your shoulder with her fist.

“You’re gonna be chief one day,” she muttered.

“I don’t want to be.”

“Yeah, well. That’s why you should be.”

You returned to the nurse’s station, found your coffee from earlier, now lukewarm and neglected.

Joel passed you a fresh cup. Didn’t say a word. Just handed it over. You took it. Sipped. Winced.

“No sugar?”

Joel shrugged. “You’re sweet enough.”

You blinked at him. “Did you hit your head today?”

“Shut up.”

And he walked off. But his hand brushed your back as he did. Just barely. Just enough.

And for now, that was enough. Until it wasn’t. Because the ER never let you be full for long.

Around 3 PM, you got the usual trickle—low-stakes, high-frustration patients who were always sprinkled like salt across your chart. A man who’d had a panic attack on the bus and insisted it was a heart attack. A toddler with a plastic bead up his nose. A woman who demanded stitches be done by a plastic surgeon only,as if this were Beverly Hills and not an Austin trauma bay where blood was still on the floor from a degloving.

At 4 PM, six more beds were filled.

A teenage girl who fainted after fasting for a fitness challenge—Joel had muttered something about the world being broken before ordering a bag of D5 and a banana.

Then a man who’d been trying to remove a mole on his own with a butter knife.

You didn’t ask.

By 5 PM, everyone was tired again. You could feel it. The tension in the staff’s collective shoulders. The quiet way Ellie was curled up in a corner chair with a bag of goldfish and her head against the wall. How Abby and Mel were both standing too still while they wrote up discharge summaries. How even Maria looked like she might consider caffeine an inadequate substitute for a coma.

You were standing at the crash cart, double-checking supplies with Riley, when your pager vibrated hard against your hip.

Trauma incoming. MCI. Multiple victims. Truck rollover I-35. ETA 7 min.

Seven minutes. You didn’t even have time to swear before Joel’s voice cut through the air like a bullet.

“Mass casualty protocol. Jesse, get on the loudspeaker. Ellie—triage out front. Tess, you’re with me. Everyone not actively coding a patient, suit up.”

The break room emptied like floodgates opening. People ran without asking where.

You’d trained for it. You’d run drills. But nothing prepared you for the noise. Nothing will ever prepare you for the noise.

The first ambulance came in like a screaming red siren of the apocalypse. Behind it, a second. Then two more. You heard the unmistakable wail of Tommy’s voice yelling from behind the gurney, “Four trapped under the rig, we got two with crush injuries and one flail chest!”

Frank shouted, “Driver ejected. Helmetless. Pulseless on scene. We brought him anyway!”

Jesse and Kathleen threw triage tags like confetti. Red. Yellow. Black. You watched Riley pale when she saw the black one—expectant. Not saveable.

“Don’t look at the tags,” you muttered to her. “Look at their eyes. Look at their breath.”

You were thrown into Trauma 2 before you could breathe again.

A girl. 22, maybe. Covered in gasoline. Glass embedded in her legs.

Abby was cutting through her jeans with trauma shears. You held pressure on her abdomen. Mel came in behind you with a crash cart and blood.

“She was in the back seat,” Henry said from the doorway. “Not belted. Hit the seat in front of her when the cab rolled.”

Her pulse was thready. Her pupils sluggish.

“She’s tamponading,” you said. “Prep for chest tube.”

Joel’s voice from across the hall, “Do it! Don’t wait for me!”

And so you did. By 6:10, the ER was a battlefield.

Three bays were full. Four more patients were lined against the wall on backboards, IVs taped to their arms like lifelines. Tess had gone through two pairs of gloves and one set of scrubs. Maria had yelled at the ortho resident and then Jesse.

Joel hadn’t stopped moving once.

He was yelling. Barking orders. Throwing himself into the middle of every collapsed airway, every exposed femur, every chest full of blood. He was mean, but he was brilliant. And everyone followed him because he didn’t let people die unless he had to.

You worked on a man who had glass lodged in both hands and a piece of rebar poking from his side.

When he screamed, you leaned into him and whispered, “We’re not going anywhere. You hear me?”

He nodded, tears leaking into the surgical drape.

Outside the trauma bay, Dina was trying to calm a young woman who’d just watched her boyfriend pulled from the wreckage with no face left to recognize. Kathleen held a clipboard like a weapon, ticking off names, counting bodies. Even Bill—the usually stoic, quiet security guard—was hauling gauze boxes and water bottles down the hall like his own life depended on it.

And Tommy?

Tommy had blood on his uniform, his hands, his face. He leaned in the hallway, catching his breath, but when he saw you stumble, he caught your elbow.

“You good?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He didn’t smile. Just nodded. “You’re doing good.”

And you moved on. Because more were coming. Always more.

Joel finally paused near the nurses’ station. Just for a second. Just to find you.

And you were there. Bloodied, sweating, but still standing. He looked at you. You looked back. And no words were spoken.

Because you didn’t need them. Because everything you were was in that moment—the carnage, the chaos, the calm between it.

And that look? It said, I’m not letting you go. Not here. Not ever.

The doors opened again. More sirens. More blood. And you went.

Because this didn’t end with quiet. It ended with screaming. And you were still listening. Still moving. Still breathing through blood-soaked gloves and adrenaline that wouldn’t leave your bloodstream even if you begged.

It wasn’t until you caught a glimpse of the clock above the medication room that it hit you...

7:48 p.m. The whole goddamn day had disappeared.

You blinked, chest rising, eyes burning. Your last actual sip of water had been sometime around noon. Your stomach was an empty cavity. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d sat for longer than twenty seconds. And still—you kept going.

Because the truck rollover had swallowed the hospital whole.

No one had noticed time moving. Not you, not Jesse, not Riley or Ellie or Maria or Kathleen, who still had her reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose even though she wasn’t reading a damn thing.

Even Joel, who usually noticed everything, had missed it.

The ER had never fully quieted—it just shifted pitch. And then you heard it...

That strange, bittersweet sound of relief.

Night shift was coming in.

You heard Dina first, talking to Gail, the night counterpart.

“Two still critical. Five stable. Four being observed. One transferred to ICU. One—” Dina’s voice dropped—“black tag.”

Gail nodded, already tapping her badge for access. She didn’t flinch. Just stepped into chaos with the deadpan precision of someone used to storms.

“Where’s Joel?” she asked.

“Still barking at the trauma bay,” Dina muttered. “Still bleeding brilliance all over the floor.”

You smiled without meaning to.

Then saw Ellie, shoulders slumped, yawning so hard her mouth cracked like a hinge.

“Go home,” you told her. “You’re done.”

“You sure?”

“Go. Before I sedate you.”

Ellie flashed a thumbs up and disappeared toward the locker rooms.

As the shift change solidified—chart updates being handed off, new meds prepped, triage re-opened—you paused. Just for a second. You leaned against the wall outside Trauma 2 and let your head fall back.

The hallway buzzed in waves. Squeaking shoes, IV pumps clicking, the murmur of names being handed over like heirlooms.

You felt something like satisfaction. And exhaustion. And something else you didn’t want to name yet.

You saw Joel before he saw you.

He was in the far corridor, talking to Tommy and Tess—gesturing with one hand, still wearing a drying bloodstain on his sleeve.

But his eyes shifted. And then, he was walking toward you.

The hallway fell quiet behind him. Just for you.

And when he got close—close enough to make the rest of the world vanish—he tilted his head and said,

“You alive?”

You nodded. “Barely.”

He sighed. “Let’s go.”

You were almost to the exit when you remembered.

You grabbed his plate from the fridge—the one you’d made hours ago with food that was probably tepid and a little sad by now, but it was still his.

Still a reminder that someone had thought of him.

You held it out wordlessly. He took it from you and didn’t say a word either. He didn’t need to.

The parking lot was a dreamscape—soft shadows under orange lights, buzzing insects echoing across the concrete. The world outside didn’t know the trauma that had happened just beyond those double doors.

Joel walked with you in silence.

He wasn’t limping, but he moved like something in him ached. You understood. Your own joints felt like chewed leather.

You reached his truck. He moved to the passenger side and opened the door for you. And just as you turned to climb in, you felt it.

His hand. On your hip.

And then...

His mouth. On yours.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow, intimate, full of all the things he hadn’t said today.

His hand slid up your spine, holding you flush to him, his chest still warm from the heat of the hospital. His other hand rested just above your hip, steadying you like he thought maybe you’d fall apart otherwise.

You gasped softly into him. Not because you were surprised.

But because it was the first time all day you’d felt something that wasn’t pain or duty or adrenaline.

You felt like his.

He pulled back just enough to speak against your lips.

“You were a fuckin’ force today,” he murmured. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

Your hand clutched the front of his scrub shirt.

“I didn’t want you to.”

He chuckled low. “I know.”

Then pressed his forehead against yours.

“You’re everything in there,” he said. “You know that?”

You nodded.

And whispered, “So are you.”

He kissed you again. Slower this time. Not the kiss of survival. The kiss of belonging.

Then, finally, he helped you into the truck. Closed the door gently. Walked around the front. Climbed in beside you.

And pulled away from the curb—toward home. The hospital shrank behind you in the mirror.

But the blood on your shoes? The pulse in your throat? The memory of your hands holding someone back from the brink?

That stayed. And so did he.

Joel’s truck rumbled beneath you like an old, steady heartbeat. The sun had finally dipped below the skyline, casting Austin in a warm gold that faded fast into dusky blue. The windows were cracked, letting in a breeze that smelled faintly like asphalt and humidity. The AC was on low. One of Joel’s hands was wrapped around the steering wheel.

The other? Firm on your thigh.

His thumb rubbed slow, absentminded circles against your scrub pants, just above your knee. Like he was reminding himself you were real. That you were there, not a ghost of adrenaline or a fleeting high of some trauma-stained day.

Neither of you talked at first.

Not because you didn’t have things to say—God, you both did—but because the quiet between you was too good to break just yet.

You watched the trees pass by, each intersection blinking soft yellow as the city wound down. Joel looked ahead with that same furrow in his brow he always wore post-shift, like he was cataloging every life you’d both touched, every one you couldn’t save.

Eventually, you reached over, fingers brushing his wrist.

“Long day.”

Joel let out a dry breath. “Understatement of the fuckin’ year.”

You smiled, eyes still on the road. “You were incredible.”

He scoffed. “You saved that kid with no pulse. Don’t think I missed that.”

“We all saved him.”

“No,” Joel said, shaking his head once. “You did. You never backed down. I saw you. I always see you.”

The truck slowed at a red light. His hand squeezed your thigh gently.

“You’re the reason I’m still doin’ this,” he said, voice soft enough it barely made it over the hum of the engine.

You turned toward him, brows pulling in slightly.

“I thought you hated this job.”

“I do.”

“Then why stay?”

He finally looked at you. And his voice dropped, low and certain.

“‘Cause it brought me you.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment.

The red light turned green. And the truck rolled forward again.

But you reached for his hand this time—threaded your fingers through his, grounding both of you in something real, something steady.

Something yours.

His house smelled like a mix of you two.

That warm, familiar scent, something earthy, grounded, lived-in. The second you stepped through the door, you peeled off your shoes like they were made of concrete. Joel locked the door behind you, then watched silently as you reached up, untying your scrub top with tired fingers.

He followed suit, tugging his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. He toed off his boots with one heel, not even bothering to look where they landed. The soft thud of fabric on the hardwood floor was the only sound between you.

You met his eyes. No words needed.

Your hands found the hem of your scrub pants. His fingers were already at his waistband.

Every motion was slow. Heavy. Not sexual, not frantic.

Just… tired. Intimate.

A ceremony of shedding.

You padded quietly toward the bathroom together, your bare feet on the cold tile making you shiver slightly—until Joel stepped in behind you and turned the water on, checking it with his wrist before nodding toward the showerhead.

He pulled you into the warm steam with him.

And for a while, nothing existed but the water.

Joel’s hands found your hair first. You leaned forward, eyes closed, and he carefully lathered the shampoo through the strands, massaging slow and patient like he was reading scripture. His fingers were so gentle they almost tickled. You hummed under your breath, leaning into it.

Then he reached for the body wash, poured it into his palm, and rubbed slow circles into your shoulders, down your arms, across your back. Every touch deliberate. Caring.

He kissed your neck once, lingering there like he didn’t want to let go.

You turned and took your turn, washing him the same way.

You traced the scars on his chest like memories. Watched the muscles of his stomach flex under your touch. Washed his hair with care. Rinsed the dried sweat from his collarbones, the bloodstain from his wrist that hadn’t come out yet.

You both stood under the spray for a long time after that. Water pounding against your bodies. No talking. Just existing. Together.

The couch welcomed you both like an old friend.

Joel pulled on a pair of sweats and tossed you one of his ancient, threadbare t-shirts—the gray one with a faded Longhorns logo and a hole near the hem. You crawled beneath the blanket with your knees tucked beside you while Joel microwaved the plate you’d saved him.

The smell of brisket and cornbread filled the room.

He brought it over with a fork.

You both ate, passing the fork back and forth between bites, eating slow, savoring the quiet.

On the TV, some rerun from a cooking competition show played in the background. A judge was yelling about under-seasoned risotto. Neither of you really watched.

Joel looked so different out of the ER. His face a little softer. The worry lines across his forehead had faded just slightly in the warm lamplight. His arm was slung behind your shoulders, fingers occasionally grazing your upper arm like they were drawn there on instinct.

“Didn’t think I’d make it through today. After everything with yesterday...” you murmured, watching him chew.

He swallowed, then passed you the last bite of cornbread.

“But you did.”

“I did.”

“Because you’re tough as hell,” he said.

You looked at him. “Because you were there.”

Joel’s eyes met yours. He leaned forward, kissed your temple, and didn’t move away for a long time.

You didn’t walk to the bedroom. You were carried.

Joel scooped you up the way he had before—one arm under your knees, the other around your back, pressing you to his chest like something sacred.

You buried your face in his shoulder. His skin still smelled faintly like your soap.

He set you down gently on the bed, pulled the covers back, and slipped in behind you without a word.

His body curled around yours instinctively—the big spoon, always—and he dragged one arm over your waist until your back was snug against his chest, your legs tangled, your heartbeat steady.

The house was silent except for the hum of the fan.

His fingers splayed against your stomach. You reached back and rested your hand over his.

And just before you fell asleep, you heard him murmur into your hair...

“I love you.”

You didn’t need to say it back. He already knew.

And the hospital could wait. Because tonight, this was the only shift that mattered.

taglist: @secretlettersfromyourlove @areamir @hermionelove

[dindjarinsslut]

oh so i need him

Third Sunday of June | Husband!Joel x Wife!reader | one-shot | 18+ minors DNI

| Jackson!Joel | established relationship | canon divergent | ~3.8k words |

Summary:Father’s Day comes quietly this year. Your daughter is asleep on Joel’s chest. The world is still. There’s no fanfare, no gifts—just softness and the weight of what you’ve built. He’s not sure he deserves it. You spend the day reminding him he does.

A/N: Spent my morning thinking about Jackson!Joel with a newborn on Fathers Day. So I made this. It’s grief, healing, memory, devotion. And Joel Miller saying “mama” in a way that will stick to your ribs. if you like to get horny and cry at the same time this one is for you. ps. i wrote and edited this real quick, sorry if its a mess

Warnings: 18+ MDNI , grief (Sarah mentioned), BREEDING KINK,SMUT, ITS ALL SMUT,baby in established relationship, domestic softness, emotional intimacy, smut (fingering, oral f receiving, piv, creampie, praise kink, use of “mama,” slight dom!Joel, tooth rotting.

You wake up slowly. Sunlight filtering through the little gaps in the curtains, painting the room with streaks of gold and pink. You reach over beside the bed, arm searching. You find nothing When you roll over, you feel him, solid and warm against you. Joel is lying there, pillow propped up behind his head, awake. His eyes are puffy, you can’t tell if he’s even slept at all. Your daughter is sleeping on his chest, he’s got one arm wrapped below her, cradling her. He makes her look so impossibly small. “Good morning, lover,” you whisper, voice barely awake. He rolls his head toward you, looks down, and smiles softly. “‘Mornin', darlin’,” he mumbles, his voice too rough with sleep, maybe something more. His throat sounds a little tight, eyes are wet. “Did you sleep alright?” you ask. He just nods once, slow, looks down at her in his arms. “She woke up for a while an hour or so ago, got her back down quick,” he whispers. “You always do, think your voice makes her feel safe,” you say, “probably all that talkin' n’ singing to her you did before she was born.” He smiles again, just barely. Doesn’t say anything. He just curls his hand a little tighter around her back. You watch his thumb start to move, rubbing tiny absent-minded circles—like he’s grounding himself. His face is set in soft worry, as if he’s scared that if he stops touching her, one of them will drift away. You shift closer to him, tucking into his side, resting a hand over his. “She’s perfect,” you murmur. His jaw shifts some, and he closes his eyes. You feel it in the way his breath catches in his throat. The way his hand stills. “She looks just like her sister,” he says. You nod. “Yeah, I see it too.” The words, the room, the light. It all hangs there. Fragile. You don’t try to patch it, just listen, just let him speak if he wants. “I keep thinkin’—“ he starts, then shakes his head. “Hell. I don’t know what I’m thinkin’”

You press your lips to his shoulder.

“It’s okay if it’s everything all at once.”

You hear him swallow hard.

“Feels like I’m cheating. Lovin’ her like this. Havin’ her at all.”

You sit up slowly, shift so you can take the baby gently from his chest, and lay her down in the bassinet beside you. She stirs once, just for a moment, then settles.

Joel watches you the whole time, eyes fixed and glassy, throat working around something he can’t quite say.

Once she’s settled, you turn back to him, knees tucked at his sides, your hands bracing on his chest.

“Joel,” you say, voice gentle, but firm. “You never stopped loving Sarah.”

He stays silent.

“You just… didn’t let the world stop forever. Didn’t stop living. And that’s okay.” You bring your hand up to his face, caressing his jaw. “You’re allowed to keep moving forward, she’d want you to, baby.”

“I don’t know how to do this.” He exhales something shaky from his chest, “It’s been so long, I feel like I forgot how.”

You’re scratching the nape of his neck now, both hands on him, reminding him you’re here, you’re real. 

“You don’t have to know everything. That’s why we have each other.” 

You prop yourself up on an elbow, kiss the corner of his mouth. “Why don’t I make somethin’ for you to eat?” you offer, “pancakes?” 

He looks at you, caught off guard. Like he wasn’t expecting kindness today.

“You don’t need to do that.” He says.

“Let me take care of you.” You whisper, kissing him again, on his lips now.

 He doesn’t keep protesting, just looks at you with his big brown eyes as you slip out of bed and walk out of the room.

The light in the kitchen is still gentle, golden.

You move through it quietly, just to let him have the stillness.

You cook, shape the pancakes into little hearts.

It's simple, but it's the simple things that take you back to before this. Before everything got dark.

You go into your pack and pull out the gift you've been holding onto for a few weeks.

You put the card on the table. The one you scrawled in crayon. The one you spent an hour trying to get just right while he was on patrol.

Paint everywhere, from her head all the way into every nook of her toes. She'd fussed the whole time.

Her little footprint was perfectly stamped in the middle of the paper in blue.

You set the table, and plate the food. Put the card on his seat.

You know he'll come out as soon as he smells it.

You boil the water and take it out. Coffee.

You traded one of the gentlemen who came through town a few weeks ago. Joel didn't know. He thought you were at Tommy and Maria's, but you were really with that man's family, painting them a portrait. He gave you a tin of coffee beans, you thanked him, and thanked him, and thanked him. He didn't know.

You grind them up, and as soon as it hits the hot water, you hear his feet hit the ground.

After a few minutes, he rounds the corner with your baby in his arms, both of their hair messy from sleep.

He doesn't speak, just walks up to you and leans his forehead against yours, holding her between you like she's the most precious thing in the world. Like she's everything. Because she is.

You eat in silence. Nothing but the sound of birds outside, the sound of cutlery scraping, and her cooing every so often.

When he opens the card, his eyes go glassy all over again. He picks it up and turns it over in his hands like it might crumble. Or maybe he will.

"You're too good to me," he murmurs as he sips the coffee. 

"Not possible," you say, sitting right next to him, resting your hand over his on the table.

"You are my heart, Joel. You always have been, always will."

You squeeze his hand, he lifts it and kisses the back of it, looking right into your eyes. His gloss over with something too soft to name, no edges today.

The rest of the day passed like a dream.

But not in the way where it felt unreal—no. In a way where everything blurred at the edges. Where the light felt like it stayed warm a little too long, the breeze was too gentle to be anything but divine.

You sat on a blanket in the grass while Joel strummed the guitar, back leaning against the old porch post, your daughter nestled in his lap.

She kicked her feet, babbled. He stared at her, listening like she was preaching scripture. She swatted at the strings, and he just smiled, letting her. Didn't even try to stop her when she slapped the frets and giggled like she'd invented the very concept of music herself. He just kept strumming, singing something soft and low, the melody familiar and broken in, like an old t-shirt.

You watched them like that for hours, something deep in your chest, something you couldn't speak either. Something much too big for just love.

When the sun sank low behind the horizon, and the bugs came out, you cooked again. Something simple, warm. Pasta. You stood in the kitchen together, and he kissed your shoulder as you cut herbs. The baby giggled at every sizzle of the pan.

Later, you both bathed her. Joel held her like she was made of porcelain, crooning quietly under his breath while you rubbed soap through her soft little curls.

Eventually, when you put her down, he read to her. The same dog-eared books he always chose. Sesame Street, Robert Munsch… His voice was steady and soothing. Her little hands clung to his finger even as she nodded off.

You played cards, sitting cross-legged at the coffee table. You let him beat you at rummy. Twice. Then you teased him, accused him of cheating. He looked smug as hell, happy. After, you told him that if he was gonna hustle you, he'd better be the one doing dishes. He said, "Yes, ma'am," in what was still left of that lazy southern drawl you loved so damn much. It made your stomach flutter.

Now you’re in the bathroom, running the shower. You make him get in, reluctant as he is, you convince him. He trusts you. He loves you. You pour shampoo into your palms and lather it, scrubbing his hair with all the tender care in the world. He sighs into your chest as you scratch at his nape. Tipping his head down so you have easier access. He does the same for you. When the soap is rinsed and the water begins to cool, you press your body to his, arms wrapped and wet around his shoulders. You kiss him. Not hard, not desperate, or fueled. You just let your bodies melt together while the water runs over you like rain. When you break the kiss, you look up at him, water cascading through his curls, over his face. His lips are red and a bit swollen, his eyes aren’t glassy anymore, they’re dark. Hungry. The water seems to have been able to wash away some of the weight of today. He leads you out of the shower, wraps your hair up in one towel, and takes a second to dry off your body, paying perfect detail to every inch. You do the same for him. There is something so special about days like these. Where everything feels slow, comfortable, connected. They don’t come often anymore, not since the baby. You both get dressed in pajamas, he puts on pants, you just a shirt. Trying your very best to be quiet as you open drawers so the baby stays sound. He stands behind you as you stand at the end of the bed and watch her for a while. He wraps his arms around your middle, palms flat on your belly. He  leans his head onto your shoulder, mouth beside your ear, whispers, “Thank you for giving me her.” You turn your head, look him in his eyes for a minute, and respond. “No, Joel.” You kiss him again, “Thank you. Thank you for making me a mama.” “I love you.” is all he responds, mumbling it into the curve of your neck, kissing the soft skin there, sending static waves all the way through you. He wraps his big hands tighter around your belly, kissing up from your shoulder to your jaw as he slowly walks you backward toward the bedroom door. As soon as you let the door softly click closed, the air in the house changes. It charges. He doesn't say anything when you guide him toward the couch—no. He just follows, like you're tethered to each other. His hands are still locked on you as you make your way to the couch in the dark.

He pushes you down onto it, then drops down to his knees. You reach forward and run your fingers over his bare shoulders, digging them into the tension that's there, today, every day. You massage him, cradle his face, and touch everything you can reach. He kisses you like he means to undo you. Slow at first, like he's still not quite convinced this is what he deserves. Like every inch of you is prayer, and he's scared to speak it too loud. His hands trail up beneath the shirt you're wearing. His shirt. Callused fingers palming gently at your sides, up and down like he's relearning the shape of you. He leans in and kisses you, harder this time. Still not demanding, it's like he's just claiming you as his. It's the kind of kiss that breathes in you like he's starving for oxygen and tastes like memory. Like every version of him that's ever loved you is all showing up at once.

You moan into his mouth when he slides his hand down from your jaw, over you collarbone, down lower. He stops to cup your breast, circling his fingers so gently over your nipple. His mouth moves down your body and replaces his hand. He sucks and flicks at your skin through your shirt, rolling his tongue over and over.

You can feel his restraint start to slowly slip. Feel it leaving him through short, little panting breaths.

The way he touches you is slow, full of that all-familiar ache. His hands find your thighs, your waist, and finally up under your shirt. When he pulls it over your head he pauses like he's seeing you for the first damn time.

Your hands reach for his face, thumbs brushing the sides of his jaw, rough with stubble.

You watch his eyes darken as they make their way over your body, traveling, lingering at the softest parts. Your belly, your chest. All of the places that bore witness to what you built together

He lays his palms flat against your stomach and stops.

"She was right here," he says, voice quiet. "You carried her right there."

You cover his hand with yours, pressing it tighter into your skin. "She was," you whisper. "And you loved me through every second of it."

His other hand slips down, cupping between your thighs—you feel him shudder when he finds you already wet, needy.

"Still love you like that. More, even."

You breathe out something shaky. "Then take me there again, Joel."

You watch his throat as he struggles to swallow, his brows twitch into the smallest furrow for a moment. He leans into you, rests his head against your bare thigh.

"I've been feeling like the word was gonna end again," he murmurs. "Like this peace...this quiet...this thing we built is just borrowed." he keeps his head down, "I don't wanna waste it. I wanna remember everything."

You slide your fingers into his hair and tug. Not hard, just enough to make his eyes flick up to you, glinting in the low light.

"The world isn't ending again, Joel, we're gonna keep building ours, together. Everyone's safe," you say.

He kisses the inside of your thigh, then higher, then higher, then higher.

He hooks a finger underneath the waistband of your panties and then looks up at you, like he's asking for permission.

You nod, and when he peels them down, he doesn't just look—he stares.

"Fuck, so wet already" he says, voice dripping in awe "You miss me too mama?"

That word—oh god, that word. Mama. It hits you like a chord strummed right through your ribs, makes you pussy clench, has your whole body aching. It wrecks you every time. The way he says it is like praise. Like a god damn title.

"Think I'm not always like this for you?"

He grins, its soft, not cocky, but maybe proud.

Pleased.

"You ruin me so easily," he says, voice low and worn. "Every fuckin' time."

"Joel," you whine, grinding your hips down toward his face.

He chuckles against you, then flattens his tongue, licking a long stripe right down your center, groaning when he tastes you. His lips wrap tight around your clit and he sucks, gentle at first—then firmer. He works you until your back arches and your hands are fisting the cusions.

He eats you like it's the first time, maybe like it might be the last. Like this is the only way he knows how to say thank you for staying.

You whimper, tilting your hips, thighs tightening around his neck.

"Baby, fuck--"

"Yeah, that's it," he murmurs against you. "Give it to me. Let me take care of you."

Your whole body arches when he slips two fingers inside, curling them just right. It's too much, it's not enough. It's perfect.

"God damn, I love the way you sound when I got my mouth on you," he says. "Wanna feel you, c'mon, wanna feel you fall apart for me."

You come, mouth parted in a soundless cry, legs trembling, until his name pours out of your mouth like a broken hymn.

His pace doesn't falter; he doesn't stop. Just licks you through it, lets you ride it out on his tongue. Holding you still, taking everything you give.

When he finally rises from your thighs, his beard is glistening, his eyes are dark.

He kisses your belly, then higher. Then your lips, like he's giving it back to you. Your taste, your need, your surrender.

"Gonna let me love you right?" he asks, voice rasped. "Let me give you everything?"

"Yes, please, Joel--need it. Need you."

"Been thinkin' about this all night. You. The way you looked this morning with her in your arms." He crawls over top of you. "You were made to be a mama."

Your breath stutters, heart kicking.

"You know, you're real mean when you talk like that," you whisper.

He looks down at you, grinning as he tugs down his sweats. You watch as his cock springs free, thick, flushed and leaking.

"You sayin' it's a turn on?"

You nod, biting your lip.

He groans low in his throat, wrecked, and lines himself up. The head of his cock drags through your slick.

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time. Eyes wide, mouth open in awe.

A moan is torn from you, loud, head falling back. He sinks in all the way, hips flush to yours now.

He stays still once he’s buried deep. His hands frame your face.

“I’ve never loved anything like I love this,” he says. “You. Her. Us.”

Your eyes sting. Your chest cracks open.

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

He starts to move—slow, deep thrusts that drag along every inch of you, rolling his hips into yours.

He grabs your hand and puts it over your belly with his. Pressing down right where you’re full of him.

“Wanna give you another one” he breathes. “Wanna keep fillin' our life with good things”

“Joel—”

He grabs your hips tighter, ruts harder, deeper. It doesn't feel like fucking. It feels like this is carving. This is memory. This is making something.

“You want that?” he asks, voice breaking. “You wanna give me another?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Fuck, yes.”

He slows down some, shallower, grinding against you, the head of his cock catching on your opening over and over driving you insane.

“Turn around,” Joel murmurs, he growls. “On your hands and knees, baby.”

You don’t argue. You don’t ask. You feel it in his voice—that threadbare edge, the way he’s holding back like it’s costing him something. And you want to take the leash off.

So you nod. Slow. Wordless.

And roll.

Every limb feels loose, useless, boneless from how hard he just made you come with his mouth, but you shift, dragging your trembling body onto your stomach, then pushing up to your knees.

Your arms buckle a little under you. Joel’s hands are there instantly, one bracing your hip, the other gliding up your spine.

“Easy, sweetheart. I got you.”

You arch for him, shuddering, and you hear the crack in his breath. The way he exhales, like it hurts. Like the sight of you like this just knocked the wind out of him.

“Goddamn. Look at you,” he whispers. “Still fuckin’ cryin’ for me.”

You whimper when his hand spreads you open, thumb brushing through your folds. You’re slick everywhere. Down your thighs. Pooling between them. The contact makes you gasp.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he says, almost like it’s a prayer. “All over my fuckin’ couch. That from me, mama?”

Your voice is ragged. “It’s all from you.”

That earns you a moan.

You hear the soft slap of him stroking himself, the wet sound of his cock in his palm. You arch a little deeper, offer him everything.

And then he’s there.

The head of his cock presses back to your entrance and you both gasp as he slides inside.

The stretch hits different from this angle. Sharper, meaner, fucking heavenly. He presses in all the way, to the hilt, hands locked tight on your waist.

“Jesus Christ,” he hisses. “You feel like you’re fuckin’ made for me.”

You drop your head between your arms, mouth falling open. “I am, Joel.”

That makes him grunt. Low and rough.

He pulls back and thrusts in again, and it makes your knees slide an inch forward on the couch. Makes your voice break on a gasp.

The rhythm he sets is brutal—faster, deeper now. Dragging, grinding thrusts that punch the air from your lungs. “Still got more in you?” he pants, hand sliding up your back. You nod, forehead to the cushion. “As much as you want.”

His hand slides down again. Palms your ass. Spreads you wider.

“You said you wanted to feel it,” he murmurs. “Want me to make it count this time?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, Joel.”

He leans in over your back, one hand dragging up your belly now, wet with sweat, with slick, with heat.

“Then take it, mama,” he growls in your ear. “Take all of it.”

The sound you make is wrecked. Raw, wordless.

The filth from his mouth has your head swimming.

“You feel that? That’s me. All of me. Still fuckin’ hard for you. You’re wringin’ me out, baby. You want another one so bad? I’ll give it to you. I’ll fuckin’ give it to you.”

You don’t even recognize your own voice when you sob, “Please—please don’t stop—I need you—”

He grabs your hips, both hands now, and drives into you so deep it’s like he’s trying to break you.

You cry out. Eyes wet. Skin burning.

He moans, broken.

“Gonna come—fuck, baby.”

“Do it,” you whisper. “I want it, Joel, I want all of it.”

That’s it. He breaks.

He slams in once, twice. Then groans loud, slurred and filthy as he buries himself deep and pours into you.

You feel it. Warm and thick. A slow bloom of heat that makes your whole body tremble.

He stays there, cock still pulsing, his breath ragged, his hands bruising your hips like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

You both collapse on the couch, spent, wrecked. Happy Neither of you moves for a long, long moment.

He lays a kiss between your shoulder blades. “I hope it sticks,” he breathes. You turn your head to look at him, eyes glassy but glowing. “It will,” you murmur. You guide his hand to your belly, covering it with yours. Anchor to anchor.

“Happy Father’s Day, baby.” Then,  from down the hall, soft and sudden. A cry.

Tiny, insistent, familiar.

Joel’s breath catches in his throat. He presses his forehead to your back. You feel his shoulders shake.

You whisper, “She knows.”

And he laughs, choked up and tear-wet. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, she does.”

[dindjarinsslut]

sweet girl - joel miller x reader

synopsis: things are getting hot and heavy with joel, your older boyfriend, but in a moment of nervousness, you stop him. content: mentions of smut/sex, angst, panicking, fluff and comfort, joel is a gentleman as always, older bf younger gf, 1k ish words author's note: i tried to find the gif of joel standing in a bedroom with the christmas lights around bc thats what inspired this but alas i had to go with a generic pinterest pic :(

joel knows he shouldn't have gotten so excited to see your name come across his phone with a message that read "i'm home alone, can you come over?" joel knows he shouldn't be putting on his shoes with urgency and throwing on a jacket to walk 3/10ths of a mile to your house in jackson. but when he's fallen for the sweet 20-something that hasn't got to move out of her parents house yet, his inhibitions lower significantly.

he can do this walk blindfolded, having been around several times before then, some under innocent circumstances, others with a rushed visit to kiss you goodnight. he sees your bedroom light on with the rest of the house dark and heads to the back porch where he kicks his boots off. before he can even knock on the door, it swings open, revealing your smiling face dressed in a matching set of pajamas.

"hey," you say and the sugar lacing your tone could give him a cavity. "you came over quick."

he smirks, leaning against the doorframe. "any chance to see my girl," he responds, the deepness of his voice echoing deep in your chest. your cheeks flare as the name rolled simply off his tongue. my girl. you could've turned into a puddle then and there.

rather than forming a response, you move to the side so he can slip through the door into the dark kitchen. as you shut the door behind him, his hand finds the small of your back as he pulls you closer. bending down, he plants the softest kiss on your lips.

"did you have a good day?" he asked, as if he had just come home from work to you in a normal setting. you nodded, walking up to your bedroom with him in tow.

"i did," you answered. "mom and dad left with the rest of that group to cheyenne. i just...i wanted to see you. actually have a night with you."

he smiled, taking a seat on the edge of your bed as you entered the bedroom. you stand before him awkwardly, having never been put into this position before. sure, there's been some make out sessions against the outside walls of the bar and touches against thighs at dinner, but in the few months you'd been dating, there was never this. the promise of going further.

joel noticed the nervousness in the way your hands fidgeted with your shirt and your eyes glanced over his frame. he reached out his warm hands, wrapping them around your own.

"you okay?" he asked.

you looked down at him, meeting his dark brown eyes that seemed to be incredibly gentle. it was still strange to see him this way after so long of knowing him as one of the more brutal, strong men of the town, succeeded only by his own brother.

"yeah," you said, through your voice was entirely unconvincing. you decided to sit next to him on the bed, playing with his fingers that were warm and strong. hesitantly, you looked up at him once more and he turned to face you more. one of his hands left yours and found your jaw.

he was intoxicating as he came in closer and even more so as his lips intertwined with yours. it was slow and sweet, unlike the rushed makeouts you've had before. very gently, he pushes you down on the bed, hovering over you, his lips never leaving your own.

your hands rest at your sides, unsure of what to do with them. it was as if you didn't know him. something about the aloneness of the house, about the night you were bound to have with joel, it made you panicked. your lips paused against his own and he pulled back with concern.

"what's going on?" he asked, an eyebrow raised.

you tried to stammer out words, but found nothing. instead, your chest rose and fell at a quicker rate than normal. "i don't...i don't know," you answered. "i'm sorry. i'm fine, joel."

his hand caressed your skin softly, unconvinced that you were actually fine. when you wrapped your hands around his neck and drew him in closer, he believed you a little more. his lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, then down to your neck where the hollow between your shoulder and throat felt warm against him.

his kisses were slow, but needy. at first, your body responded to him, chest arching into his own. but then, that panicked feeling came back in your chest. like what was to come after was a nightmare.

feeling too much of the fear, your hands met joel's chest and you gave him a slight push. it was too much, all at once. you needed time. you needed to ease into it.

"talk to me, sweet girl," joel said, looking down at you with concern lacing his expression.

"i'm sorry," you responded quickly. "just moving too fast. i...i'm not used to this. it's not you, i promise." apologies spilled out of your lips until joel shushed you with a quick tut of his mouth.

"it's okay," he said, scooting up to the headboard where he sat against it. you looked at him sideways, out of breath. "we haven't been alone, yet. i get it. i'm not offended or nothing, darlin'. just worried 'bout you."

joel miller, ever the gentleman. you were admittedly shocked by his sweet understanding and could've cried on the spot. you scooted next to him and threw your legs over his, half sitting in his lap. he easily swept you up into his arms, holding you against his stable, firm chest.

"how 'bout we just lay here for now, yeah?" he asked, his voice settling you instantly. joel had a way of doing that. just calming you down with a look or a whisper. you nodded at his suggestion, leaning your head against him comfortably. "besides, that cheyenne group won't be back for another night or two. we have time."

you smiled at his words. "i'm sorry, joel. sorry if i got you all the way over here for nothing."

he shook his head immediately. "no, no. not for nothing. i was gonna turn in and be lonely the rest of the night. this is better than that."

you let his words marinate, enjoying the way they sunk into your heart and bloom. "i like you a lot, joel," you whispered, shutting your eyes. soon, you'd be able to say the next words, but for now, you felt they conveyed your feelings enough.

"i like you too, sweetheart," he answered. "i like you a lot."

[dindjarinsslut]

i’m loving this

blue. | chapter four

pairing: bfd!joel miller x curvy!fem!reader

chapter warnings: series is 18+ only, MINORS DNI, age gap (reader's age is set at 25, joel is 40), best friend's dad trope, reader works at a bikini bar (race is a blank slate but reader is described as being curvy/plus size and is very much comfortable in her skin), divorced!joel, dual POV, pining, fantasizing, one little moment of something 🌶️

word count: 2.7k

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“So…” 

The air in the can of Joel’s truck is thick with tension and awkwardness. Neither of you can think of anything to say, despite the ease in which you’d spoken to each other back at the bar. It’s as if inside those four walls, the two of you truly become different people. You’re just a bartender and he’s just a guy. No complications and nothing forbidden about the two of you. 

But out here? Yeah, it’s different. 

Joel’s hands grip the wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white, and you haven’t stopped picking at the frayed hem of your shorts since you buckled your seatbelt. Both of you are on edge, but neither of you know what to do about it. 

“Sarah tell you about that promotion she’s up for?” Bringing up Sarah seems like the safest option for conversation. The only option, really. 

“Mmhm,” he hums, one hand gripping the wheel while the other rubs at his jaw. His eyes are locked on the road, focused and devoid of any emotion. 

“I think she’ll get it,” you say, shrugging your shoulders. It’s awkward and almost embarrassing, but you need to fill the silence. Even if it means making nervous small talk. “Has she always been that way? Good at everything under the sun.”

Joel runs a hand over his jaw, smoothing out the coarse hairs that cover it. “Yeah. No clue where she gets it from.”

“Give yourself some credit. You seem pretty smart,” you say, offering him a smile. Joel’s eyes trail over to you, but they’re gone just about as quickly as they came. 

“A smart man would’ve called you a cab,” he mutters to himself, just loud enough for you to catch it. 

“And a smart woman would’ve cashed in some of my savings for a decent car by now,” you joke, trying your hardest not to dwell on the hidden meaning in his words. 

Joel lets out a soft hum of agreement, but gives you nothing else to work with. Seems he’s content to spend the rest of this drive in painfully awkward silence. 

Too bad you’ve never been all that good at it. 

Nearing one of your favorite greasy burger joints a couple blocks from your apartment, your stomach starts to growl. It doesn’t hurt that a pit stop means more time spent with Joel, even if you don’t know what to say to one another. “Hey, could we stop for some food? I haven’t eaten all day.”

Joel’s eyes find yours with a glare. “You haven’t eaten? It’s the middle of the fuckin’ night.”

A simple shrug is all you give him as an explanation. It’s not like you don’t enjoy eating or are purposely trying to starve yourself, you just don’t always have the time or energy to remind yourself to grab breakfast or lunch before a shift. And while the trail-mix and peanuts served at the bar are fine to snack on here and there, it’s not exactly the kind of food that makes your mouth water. Easier to just grab a bite on the way home and figure out a proper meal the next day. 

Joel lets out a heavy sigh and flicks his turn signal on before pulling into the parking lot. Instead of heading to the drive-thru lane like you normally would, he parks his truck and shuts off the engine. “I’m buying your food since you didn’t let me pay for my drink.”

With a smile, you nod. “Sounds like a good trade to me, Miller.”

JOEL

I have no business sittin here in a booth, gawking at the beautiful twenty-five year old across from me as she alternates bites of a greasy burger and sips of her strawberry milkshake, but here I am anyway. 

And damn it if I don’t enjoy the sight. 

She’s not a neat eater, nor is she shy about it like Shannan always was, but I like that about her. A woman who can unabashedly enjoy a meal shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does, especially when that woman is as off limits as this one, but the sight triggers something animalistic in me. It makes me wonder what else she’d do unabashedly. How much of a mess she’d enjoy making with me. 

My chest pings with shame at the mere fact that I’m entertaining these thoughts. 

“So you never went to college?” she asks as she plucks the cherry off the top of her milkshake and pops it into her mouth. I feel my dick twitch with interest as I watch her lips part around the red globe.

I wish it was me she was parting her lips for.

I wish I didn't wish that, too.

I set my burger down and swallow the food in my mouth before speaking. “Went to trade school. Got my carpentry license there.”

She nods as she sips on her milkshake. “Seems that worked out well for you.”

It did, though it wasn’t all roses and butterflies these past twenty or so years. Miller Construction was a labor of love, and hadn’t been much of a money maker until about ten years ago when we started building commercial contracts. Ever since then, I’ve been able to take a breather from the eighty hour work weeks and back-breaking labor. 

“S’that what you always wanted to do? Construction?” She’s awfully inquisitive tonight. I’m not sure how I feel about it. Between the meal, the questions, and the inevitable drive back to her place—even if all I’m doing is dropping her off—tonight feels eerily like a date. 

It doesn’t stop me from answering, though. 

“Yes and no,” I say, settling back into the vinyl cushion behind me. My eyes scan across the almost empty burger joint to avoid hers, finding only a few high schoolers out past curfew and the just slightly older workers behind the counter. “My dad was a handyman, so I grew up helpin’ him out on projects. Always kept it in the back of my mind as a fallback plan in case my bigger dreams didn’t work out.”

“And those dreams were?” she asks with an eager grin, like she just stumbled on a goldmine. My eyes find hers despite my head warning them to stay away, and it takes only a beat for me to regret it. Those eyes, shimmering and beckoning even in the bleak fluorescent light, very well might be my undoing. 

I clear my throat and straighten my posture as I mindlessly wipe crumbs off the table and onto the linoleum floor that’s seen better days. “I, uh, wanted to be a guitarist, believe it or not. Tour with musicians and bands and all that. But then Sarah came along, and it was an easy choice between tourin’ the world and being at home with her, especially after her mom passed. So I went into contracting, made a living doin’ somethin’ stable.” 

“Well, it’s never too late to follow your dreams,” she says simply, giving me one of those soft smiles that kill me. “You know, Henry Ford didn’t build his first car until he was forty-five. Toni Morrison didn’t write her first novel until forty. Hell, even Colonel Sanders didn’t open his first KFC until he was sixty-two.”

I give her an odd look as a chuckle bubbles out of me without permission. I’m still smiling as I ask, “Where’d you learn all that?”

She smiles and shrugs a shoulder. “I have a late-night googling addiction. Keeps the mind sharp.”

I think I have a late-night Blue addiction. Keeps the mind ladened with guilt. 

“Well, how about you?” I ask. “Any dreams yet to be brought to life?”

She gives me a coy smile and shrugs her shoulder as she turns to look out into the lamp-lit parking lot through the window beside us. “Not sure yet. Got all the time in the world to worry about chasing my dreams. I’m still young, too.”

Don’t I know it. 

“Thanks for the ride.” 

Hopping out of Joel’s truck feels like putting a period at the end of the sentence of your night together, so you stall for as long as possible by gathering up the contents of your purse that you may or may not have—but definitely did—purposefully knocked over on the ride from the burger place to your apartment. 

“Need me to flick the light on?” Joel asks, his voice deeper than it’s been all night. He sounds tired. Maybe a little bit irritated. Whichever it is, it’s a bucket of ice water to your little delusions about whatever tonight has been. 

“No,” you say, gathering the last of your items. “No, I got it. All good.”

You sit upright and unclick your seatbelt, your eyes flickering up to his profile in the process. He looks so painfully handsome like this, his masculine features lit up by the yellow streetlights as he stares ahead. Beneath the dark hair on his jaw, you can see him clenching and unclenching his teeth. It does more to you than it should, especially when he’s clearly just annoyed he’s still out with you rather than in bed. 

Maybe he was supposed to be in bed with Janelle and you’ve inadvertently ruined his plans. 

That thought makes you stall a little more, just to spite him. 

“Sorry about you having to drive me home,” you say, sliding your purse straps over your shoulder before reaching for your duffel bag that sits between your feet. “Don’t worry about tomorrow. I’ll call a tow truck and—“

“I’ll have Tommy come pick it up,” he says, cutting you off. “Not a problem.” 

“Okay,” you manage, your voice softer than you’d like it to be. But it’s late, and you’ve been talking all night. Your battery’s running low. It’s definitely got nothing to do with Joel’s tone, that’s for sure. “Well…” You reach for the door and pop it open. “Thanks.”

Your feet hardly have time to reach the ground before Joel’s door is opening and slamming shut behind him. You can only watch as he steps around the hood of the truck and finds you standing between the open passenger door and the seat. Without saying a word, Joel scoops the duffel bag out of your hands and slings it over his shoulder. “Which way’s your place?”

You’re frozen for a moment, stuck on the sight of him with your bag slung over his shoulder, his hands in his pockets as he stands with his back turned to you, asking to walk you home.  

“It’s okay,” you finally reply, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine to walk home myself.”

“It’s late,” he says, eyes avoiding yours. “Your complex isn’t exactly well-lit. Just want to make sure you get home safe.”

“Right,” you breathe. 

Forcing your feet to move, you brush past him to lead the way into your outdoor complex. It isn’t exactly the nicest apartment building in Austin, or even in the area, but it’s affordable and relatively safe. Definitely safe enough for you to walk yourself from the curb to your second-story apartment, but Joel seems fixed on the idea, so you don’t bother to argue. 

“Didn’t realize you lived so close,” he says, his voice deep and quiet, just like it has been all night. “Sarah mentioned you lived in the area, but I thought she meant a few miles, not a few blocks.”

“Yeah,” you say, unsure of what exactly to say to that. There’s a thousand reasons he could have brought up the proximity of your homes to one another, but your delusional little mind seems to fixate on the least likely option. “Well, at least I know who to call in case of an emergency.”

“911’s probably the safer bet,” he jokes as the two of you turn a corner to the stairs that lead up to your floor. 

Your shoulder brushes against his arm as you climb the well-worn concrete stairs in silence, matching each other’s pace step for step. 

“You can call me, though,” he says as you reach the top of the stairs and stop in front of your apartment door. “If you’re in trouble or whatever. Just, you know, you’re Sarah’s best friend, which makes you as good as family to her.”

His eyes find yours as you stand there for a moment, each of you taking a moment to simply look at one another. Maybe you’re both looking for something. Maybe you’re looking for the same thing—a green light, a brick wall. Anything that will give the other a single clue on how to proceed. But for now, you find nothing. 

Swallowing your emotions down like a horse pill, you nod, letting your eyes fall to your keys as you dangle them from your fingers. “Yeah. Right. Family.”

“And it’s because of that—you and her—that this is all it’s gonna be between us,” he says through a whisper as he contradicts his words by taking a step closer to you. His fingers lift to graze across your cheekbones, forcing your eyes to lift to his. His voice falters as he drags his thumb lower, brushing across your bottom lip. “Even if all I wanna do is kiss these pretty fuckin’ lips.”

Your breath catches and your lips part, inviting him in to the warmth of your mouth. Joel lets out a soft groan as he presses the pad of his thumb in deeper. Your lips wrap around him, soft and plump and hungry for even the slightest taste of him. It’s simple and it’s depraved, the act of running your tongue over his thumb, sucking it like you would a popsicle or his dick. But it’s all you have, and it’s all you’d dare let him take. 

“Fuck,” he sighs, popping his finger out of your mouth and stepping back almost as fast as this whole thing began. He drops your duffel onto the concrete at your feet and turns around, and without another word, he barrels down the stairs before disappearing into the night. 

Just like the moment you just shared. 

[dindjarinsslut]

i actually need him

Till Death Do Us Part (Or Unparted By Death)

Joel Miller x fem!reader part 1 | part 2 summary: When your mother asks you to take Joel to a family wedding, you start opening up to him in ways you haven't with anybody else. word count: 24k warnings: dbf!Joel, control kink, decision making kink (?), age gap (20s & 50s), praise kink, asphyxiation, unprotected p in v, Joel calls reader kid or kiddo, edging, orgasm denial, orgasm control, reader works out her family issues on Joel's cock, Joel is very understanding and sweet, Joel is something of a fatherfigure and had a relationship to reader when she was a child, I need to be shot, reader presents herself in a feminine way (wears a dress and makeup), reader has a tattoo (not described), description of reader's family, reader drinks alcohol

note: this is what happens when my cousin announces she's getting married! It's been stewing in my drafts since February, I am very proud of it. Inspired by a scene from Fleabag — you’ll understand why. Enjoy reading, and tell me what you think if you'd like. Keeps me motivated and makes me smile

Your mother should be crowned queen of awkward, bad ideas. And this one surely takes the cake.

"I’m going alone, Mom, it’s not the nineteen-thirties."

"It’s a wedding, darling, who will you dance with?"

You scoff – if you know one thing, it’s that you certainly will not be dancing in front of people, not without the sufficient amount of alcohol.

"Are you gonna ask aunt Ruth the same thing just cause she divorced uncle–."

"You don’t have to be such a smart-ass," she interrupted,  "Joel would be going alone otherwise, and this way you both get to have someone there with you! I think he’s been lonely ever since Sarah moved out."

And what’s that got to do with me?, you want to ask, but your mother is right. Your next door neighbor has been sulking all summer, drinking beer on the porch and staring at the driveway as if that will make his daughter magically reappear. Sometimes when you get home in the evening you chat with him for a few minutes. You like Joel – he has the same aversion to smalltalk as you do, so the conversation isn’t superficial. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s pushing his late 50s.

"It wouldn’t be a real date, honey, I’d never set you up with him," you mother starts again, and you sigh. "I just think it’d cheer him up to spend time with someone who isn’t your father."

You almost ask your mother to go with him if it’s so important to her, but of all the guests there he’s probably the easiest to talk to. Not one to make a fuss, Joel Miller. You could just sit quietly next to each other, and if he’s your partner you doubt there’ll be much dancing. Maybe you could convince him to tell any other man who asks you to dance to fuck off. It would make your evening much more enjoyable than pressing your sweating body against the friend of a distant cousin and awkwardly swaying to some romantic pop song from 2009 with your parents watching. It’s a mystery to you why Joel is going at all – it’s not like it’s someone in his family who’s getting married. Your mother mentioned something about the groom and Joel having worked together on a job, but you weren’t paying attention much, as it was before she was trying to pimp you out to a guy basically triple your age.

"I’ll talk to him about it," you concede, and she smiles, clearly taking your answer as success already. You’re not as sure Joel will be thrilled about this idea, can almost hear his grumpy response: you even old enough to stay up past 9 pm? Still, maybe it will get your mother off your back if you at least try to convince him.

***

So you knock on Joel’s door, a tray of cookies your mother made for him in your slightly sweaty hands. You know he’ll find the idea absurd, and you’re not looking forward to being teased for proposing it.

"Hey, kid," Joel drawls when he opens the door, an easy smile tugging on his lips.

"Hi," you answer, pushing the tray towards him, "Mom made these and wanted you to have some."

"Geez, she thinks I don’t eat now that Sarah’s in Boston."

You get the inkling your mother isn’t entirely wrong about that, you haven’t seen Joel do his usual run for groceries in weeks. He probably eats steak every day, no vegetables. The thought almost makes you grin. Joel takes the tray from you and raises an eyebrow.

"You wanna come in?"

"Yeah, I’m definitely eating those," you say, nodding towards his cookies. He scoffs good-naturedly and kicks the door open further with his foot.

"No way, I’m not givin’ these away. Your mother’s bakin’ is sublime."

"Think of it as payment."

He snorts.

"What for?"

"Bringing them over."

Joel shoots you a look that clearly says stop whinin’, you live across the street, but doesn’t answer, just leads you to his kitchen and gets out milk and two glasses. He pushes one over to you, and you dunk one of your mother’s chocolate chip cookies in the milk, watching Joel do the same thing. You eat quietly for a moment, just enjoying the sugar melting into your tongues.

"Mom wants you to take me to my cousin’s wedding," you say once you’ve swallowed your first bite. Joel looks like he has dough stuck in his throat, and when he starts coughing you briefly wonder if you’d be able to perform the Heimlich maneuver on a man of Joel’s size, but he recovers quickly, and gulps down some milk.

"Why?" he asks, voice hoarse. You could lie, but Joel would know – you’ve never been able to hide stuff from him. He knew you were smoking behind his garage when you were seventeen, recognized the boys you snuck in and out of your bedroom window. He never told on you, though.

"She thinks we’re both loners."

Joel scoffs, and takes another bite of his cookie. You shrug.

"I told her it’s a bad idea. She said we needed a dance partner."

You’re grinning, the idea of Joel in a suit and dancing more than absurd. The most you’ve seen him do is tap his foot while listening to his classic rock radio station in his garage.

"I don’t dance," he answers, his brows furrowing.

"Neither do I."

He looks at you inquiringly, and you raise your eyebrows.

"What?"

"You’re what, twenty-one and you don’t dance? Aren’t you supposed to be spendin’ your weekends in clubs, makin’ all sorts of bad choices?"

"Okay, then, let me rephrase that: I don’t dance without at least four shots of tequila in my bloodstream and I doubt my parents would approve of me getting wasted at a family wedding."

Joel hums, as if to say fair point, and looks thoughtful for a second.

"You wanna go with someone else?"

The question is unexpected, you can’t help but answer it honestly.

"No."

Joel holds your eye contact, and you sigh.

"I’m not seeing anyone at the moment and my family is fucking insane, so I’m definitely not taking any of my friends."

That makes Joel chuckle, and for a brief moment you wonder what he thinks of your family.

"So let me take you, then. Wouldn’t have to waltz or nothin’."

No comment about your age, no teasing remarks about the boys Joel knows you see without your parents being aware of it.

"Why?"

Even to your own ears, your voice sounds suspicious. You lean on Joel’s kitchen island and stare up at him inquiringly. He doesn’t look away, not intimidated in the slightest.

"Your Dad’s been tryin’ to get me to ask out Loretta Henderson."

"What, and you’re not interested?"

You know Loretta, a nosy woman who knows all the gossip in the neighborhood. The thought of Joel going out with her makes you frown, he’s so much nicer than her.

"No," Joel just answers, but doesn’t offer much more. You sigh, and he cocks an eyebrow. "What, are you Loretta Henderson’s personal cupid now?"

"It’s not that," you say a little grumbly.

"What, then?"

His voice is uncharacteristically gentle, and you find yourself giving into his question before you can change your mind.

"I don’t wanna go to that stupid fucking wedding at all."

There, it’s out in the open, all your childish and petulant disdain for family events. Now he’ll demand explanations, say you’re silly, to grow up and make your parents happy.

"So don’t go."

You stare at him. He stares back, and after a couple of seconds the corners of his mouth lift in a brief, tentative smile.

"You don’t gotta go, kid, with me or with anyone. You’re an adult."

Sure, but it’s your cousin’s wedding. Who bails on something like that? Joel Miller, maybe. He’s not exactly known to be the life of every party, although you know he can stomach quite a few beers. The thought of him building a tolerance on his own makes your frown reappear.

"It’s not that simple," you answer, staring at the crumbs of cookie in what’s left of your milk. "My parents would kill me. Like, genuinely, they’d put an axe to my neck."

Joel chuckles and the sound feels warm in your ears.

"I highly doubt that. You wanna talk about why you’re skippin’ a free three course meal and unlimited drinks?"

"I’m not skipping anything," you argue, then sigh, and look at your hands. "I’m the second oldest after my cousin, and she’s got this great guy, and a degree, and probably twin babies who won’t ever cry on the way, and I…I just don’t think I can handle every single one of my aunts asking me why I’m still single."

Joel is watching you, and hums as if to say he understands, and before you change your mind, you keep rambling.

"I always gotta justify every decision I make to them, you know? Like when I started my first degree, and when I quit it, and when I cut my hair, and got a tattoo. It’s exhausting. I’m awful at decision-making on the best of days, but my whole extended family scrutinizing me makes it hell."

You know you’re being dramatic, that there’s people with worse problems than a distant family member’s snide comments about a tattoo. But still. Still, you don’t want to spend your precious free day defending the choices you struggled with making in the first place, choices you question yourself, day after day.

Joel looks thoughtful, and he contemplates your words for so long, you think he might not answer at all, but then he pushes the cookies over to you, as if to say you need these more than me.

"I was so young when I had Sarah," Joel says to your surprise, "and everybody had somethin’ to say about it. Kept askin’ me if I was sure about havin’ a kid at that age, while I was holdin’ her in my arms, as if I could’ve just gotten her receipt and returned her like a pair of jeans."

You’re not entirely certain, but you think this might not be the kind of thing Joel tells people easily. He sighs.

"Look, I know it’s exhaustin’ to always have to stand your ground, ’specially when it’s shaky even without people voicing their unwarranted opinions. If peace of mind is what ya want, I’d say definitely avoid them. But if you wanna stand up for yourself and tell them to mind their business, I’ll drive your getaway car."

It’s so very much like Joel to offer something like that – taking you to a wedding just so that you can leave it. You can’t help it, you smile. He smiles back, and it makes the crinkles around his eyes more prominent. It’s a good look on him.

"Alright," you say after a second, thinking that if all else fails, you’ll be able to explain all the family gossip to Joel – maybe the day doesn’t have to be all bad.

"Alright," Joel agrees, "what color dress are you wearin’? So I can match my tie."

You groan – partly because the image of Joel Miller in a suit and tie is, for some reason, devastating, and partly because the idea of picking a dress makes you want to scream.

"Fuck, Joel, they’re gonna hate whatever I wear anyway," you mutter, aware you’re making something big out of something small, that any girl would be happy to get to pick out a pretty dress for a wedding – you can see the judgmental looks already, though: too overdressed, too underdressed, too colorful, too conservative, too this and that.

When you look up, Joel is watching you, brows furrowed while he’s thinking. You kind of wish he’d just tell you to suck it up and stop whining.

"Want me to pick it?"

You stare at him. It’s an odd proposition, and the absurdity of the situation is catching up to you – Joel Miller asking to pick your dress for the wedding he’s taking you to, so that the decision won’t fall onto your shoulders. Flannel-wearing, denim-loving Joel, picking a dress he thinks is best suited for you and for the occasion, perhaps even one he would like to see you in. It makes your head spin. It’s strange, absurd, weird, but the idea is oddly soothing. Would you feel self-conscious under your family’s stares if you knew Joel liked the dress? If the choice wasn’t yours in the first place, would you still find a way to feel guilty about it?

"I do," you answer quietly. You know you’re treading in dangerous waters now. Something feels blurry about this conversation, and although you trust Joel not to have ulterior motives, you’re also aware you both know there’s something happening here beyond a choice of dress.

"Alright," Joel says again, just like that.

"Alright," you say. Just like that.

***

Joel takes you shopping, because in his own words he’s never had to buy a fancy dress for Sarah, so you hop onto the passenger seat of his Bronco and try to find a radio station with songs that aren’t several decades older than you, but Joel doesn’t seem to enjoy anything past the 80s, so you opt for a 60s station – Dusty Springfield coos into your ear as you watch Joel turn on the engine.

"My parents somehow don’t think this is strange," you say, and Joel shoots you a glance – you’re clearly implying they should.

"Do you?"

You hum, then shrug.

"I’ve never met a straight man who went shopping for dresses voluntarily. Is there a specific reason you’re not interested in Mrs. Henderson?"

Joel looks over at you with a raised eyebrow.

"Sarah says it’s not politically correct to joke about bein’ gay," he answers seriously, and you grin.

"Yeah, but it’s funny in this case. Poor Loretta, she’s so blissfully unaware of just how small her shot at going out with you is."

Joel shakes his head, but you can see his mouth twitching under his beard.

"Your teasin’ don’t affect me, sweetheart."

"Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, Miller."

"I have."

You gape at him, and an involuntary giggle leaves your mouth.

"You’re kidding."

Joel laughs, and runs a broad palm over his beard.

"I’m not. Had a friend called Bill who kissed me once. Hell, I must’ve been your age."

"What happened?" you ask impatiently, a broad smile on your face. Joel shrugs.

"Nothin’. Was a good kiss, but the beard sorta bothered me, so I told him I wasn’t interested like that and that he should ask out Frank. He was another friend of ours, ’n I knew he liked Bill. They’re married now, as far as I know."

It’s oddly sweet instead of funny, and you watch the scenery pass with a smile on your face.

"So why are you spending your Saturday at the mall with me instead of…I don’t know, tinkering with your car? Missing Sarah already?"

Joel looks over and smiles, and in that brief second something in your stomach flutters.

"I’m practically forcin’ you to go to that wedding, the least I can do is spare you the stress and get you your dress myself."

"Technically, you’re not sparing me much if you make me come with you because you don’t know shit about dresses."

Joel scowls and you grin.

"Technically, I could turn this car around right now and make you go in a jeans and t-shirt."

"Can’t make me do anything, Miller."

He doesn’t answer.

***

Turns out Joel’s idea of shopping is getting every single dress in the shop in your size, and making you try them all on. Although his intention was to relieve you of the decision, he’s sort of unhelpful – he tells you it looks real pretty every time you come out of the changing room, and when you can’t stifle a laugh after the fifth time, he clumsily tries to explain why – he likes the purply sort of color.

After around ten dresses, each a different color and style, you feel exhausted – you do like a few, but some have more cleavage than you usually wear, others might be too casual for a wedding, and you sit down on the little bench in the changing room while Joel puts the last dress back on the hanger.

"I changed my mind, Miller, I’m not going to the wedding," you groan. Joel leans against the wall of the changing room, the red dress you tried on last still in his hands.

"I’m no good at this," he says apologetically, "told you I’d help ya pick one and it’s still stressful, sweetheart, I’m sorry."

The nickname makes that flutter in your stomach reappear.

"No, it’s not your fault," you answer and play with the hem of the dark blue dress you’re currently wearing, "I just…I don’t wanna buy a dress cause they’ll like it."

Joel considers you for a couple of seconds.

"Which one would you get if your family wasn’t there?"

You sigh.

"But they are there, Joel–"

"Which one?"

His tone doesn’t allow any arguing, so you look at the dresses, chewing on the inside of your cheek. You liked a baby blue one, a black one, and a light pink one. You lift them up to show Joel, and he smiles.

"So get one of these," he says, as if it’s that easy.

"The blue one has too much cleavage–"

"You’re twenty-one, sweetheart, and you ain’t a nun."

It makes you chuckle, despite yourself.

"I think the baby pink one might be too close to white, you’re not supposed to wear white to somebody else’s wedding."

Joel snorts.

"’S your cousin colorblind?"

You groan, looking between the three dresses.

"Which one would you most like to wear in your own apartment, when you get dressed up just for yourself?"

You stare at Joel, heat rising in your cheeks, as if he caught you doing something you weren’t supposed to be doing.

"I’m a girl-Dad," he reminds you softly, and you have a sudden image of Sarah playing dress-up in front of Joel’s bedroom mirror in your mind. Again, that flutter in your stomach.

"This one," you say quietly, and lift the hanger of the light blue dress. Joel nods, takes the dresses from your hands, drapes the blue one over his forearm, and clutches the curtain of the changing room in his massive fist.

"I’m returnin’ these, you’re changin’ into your jeans again and then we’re gettin’ the blue one."

It’s more expensive than the black one, you want to say, but Joel closes the curtain without giving you the time to argue, and you hear his heavy footsteps as he makes his way out of the changing rooms. All of a sudden you have to smile – relief washes over you now that a decision is made.

When you walk out of the changing rooms in your jeans and t-shirt again, the dress you changed out of long forgotten on its hanger, you can see Joel at the checkout, handing the cashier something, and you practically run over to him.

"Absolutely not, Joel, you’re not payi–"

"Thank you," Joel says to the cashier, putting his card back into his worn leather wallet and looking at you, "It’s done. Quit whinin’ and take your new dress."

He hands you the bag with a smile, and although you feel guilty, there’s also a strange sort of comfort in knowing Joel payed for it. Sure, it’s yours, but in a way you’re giving the weight of your family’s reactions, good or bad, over to him.

"Thank you," you say softly, "you didn’t have to do that."

"I know," Joel just answers, "you got matchin’ shoes?"

***

The wedding is still a week away, when you get a message from Joel.

Are you driving to the wedding with your family, or with your date?

You smile, and consider his question for a second. You’re all spending the weekend in a hotel, arriving a day early, and knowing your parents, the packing and driving won’t be exactly peaceful. You don’t know what they will think if you tell them you’re going with Joel, but then you remember your mom asked you to spend time with him so he isn’t lonely. It’s the perfect excuse, and the idea of spending the hours with Joel in his Bronco rather than in the backseat of your parents’ car, trying hard to keep the peace between them while they’re stressed, makes you feel almost giddy.

With my date, you don’t know him tho ;)

You can practically hear Joel’s huff.

Smartass. I’ll pick you up at nine on Friday, don’t oversleep.

From then on you text Joel from time to time. You’re not sure why, but you like the way he responds to you. It never takes him long, even when he surely must be working, and the idea of him checking his phone at a construction site makes that flutter in your stomach reappear. You know it’s stupid, and although it’s not technically flirting, it’s also not innocent, but you tell yourself you’re only going to the wedding because your mother asked you to, so you might as well have a little fun while doing it. And anyway, Joel sure doesn’t seem to mind.

Picked a suit yet? Or r u going in a flannel?

Funny. Picked one that goes well with your dress.

Pic pls??

I’m working. Sorry, sweetheart.

The nickname feels somehow more solid in text than it does in conversation. It’s not a slip of the tongue, he took his time to type it out on his phone, probably with his forefinger, using his other hand to hold the phone.

When the wedding is a week away, your mother starts stress-baking, and asks you to bring Joel one half of the carrot cake she made. You think about asking her how one person is supposed to eat half a cake, but consider your chances of Joel sharing it with you higher if you keep your mouth shut.

When you knock on his door once again, it takes him a second to open the door. He’s drenched in sweat, his old shirt damp and his curls unruly.

"Oh, hey kid," he says with a surprised smile, his eyes flickering towards the cake. "What’s it this time, an uncle’s funeral?"

You snort, and he opens the door wider.

"Are you working out?"

"No," Joel say in a tone that suggests the idea is absurd, "I’m gardenin’."

You watch him lead the way to his kitchen, his broad back and thick arms making you feel a little squirmy. His answer suggests he doesn’t work out, and you wonder if he got so fit just from his job. You always figured contractors just managed the construction sites, but maybe Joel does the construction himself. You think you enjoy entertaining that thought a little too much.

"Can I see your suit?"

Joel glances at you, and you place the cake on his kitchen isle as he gets out two plates.

"No," he answers, a little gruff.

"It’s a common misconception, but it’s actually just the bride who shouldn’t show her outfit to her date," you tease, "the guests are allowed."

Joel scowls, and shakes his head.

"I don’t know anybody who talks back as much as you do."

"You might not know many smart people. I’m quick."

Despite himself, the corners of Joel’s mouth twitch into an amused smile, and he hands you a piece of cake.

"Come on, Joel, you got to see my dress, too," you try again, almost begging now.

"You’ll see it on Saturday."

"Why?"

Joel clears his throat, but you don’t let him off the hook, just chew your piece of cake in silence while you wait for him to answer.

"Cause it’s…it’s ridiculous. I’m not a suit guy."

He’s shy, you realize, maybe even insecure about it. You wonder if he fished out the last suit he wore from the back of his closet, probably still with 80s shoulder pads.

"Now I’ve got to see it," you decide, and when Joel sighs, you know you’ve won. He glares at you for multiple seconds, not breaking the eye contact. Then he shakes his head again, and leaves to get it.

When he returns, he hasn’t put the suit on like you hoped, but you’re relieved to find a classic black suit jacket and pants draped over his arm. You take it from him, holding the jacket up and nodding appreciatively.

"This is nice," you tell him honestly, "no flared pants or fringes."

Joel laughs, the sound traveling up your spine and settling in your chest.

"I’m not that old."

You grin, and hand him the suit back.

"You’ll look really handsome in it," you say softly, because you can tell the idea of wearing it makes him uncomfortable, and because it’s true. You like the way he looks even in his sweaty old t-shirt, but in a suit he’ll surely turn heads. He looks slightly embarrassed at your comment, and smoothes over a wrinkle in the fabric.

He mutters something under his breath and gently drapes the suit over the back of a dining chair. "Wish I could go in a pair of jeans."

It’s endearing, and you wonder if Joel is unaware of how attractive he is. He’s certainly not one to make a fuss about his looks.

"Well, you’d just embarrass me, cause some crazy guy picked and bought a real fancy dress for me. We have to match, sorry."

Your words have the desired effect, and Joel chuckles.

"It’s not too late to bail, though," you offer, "if you’re just coming cause of me."

Joel’s eyes don’t leave yours.

"Gettin’ cold feet?"

You shrug.

"Mine were never really warm. Yours?"

"Toasty," he says softly, eyes still on yours. All of a sudden is a little harder to swallow you mother’s carrot cake.

"You’re still nervous about goin’," Joel says, and it’s more an assessment than a question. You shrug again.

"Why?" he asks, " ’S not about the dress, I saw how happy you were when I made the decision for you."

Something about that sentences makes your stomach flutter again. Make them all for me, you want to say, and instead shove more cake into your mouth. You chew slowly to give yourself more time to sort out the words in your head.

"I just find these sorts of things exhausting," you explain, "I hate figuring out what’s socially appropriate, you know, how much to drink, what jokes to make, when to laugh, what to say and not say."

"I hope ya don’t take this the wrong way, sweetheart, but your family sounds like a piece of work."

You laugh, and watch Joel’s eyes get all crinkly with amusement at your reaction.

"They’re alright," you say honestly, "they’re normal. I’m just sensitive."

"They put that idea in your head?"

That shuts you up. It’s just a quick remark from Joel, but it hits home, and the smile freezes on your face.

"Sorry," Joel says quietly, "I’m sorry, that wasn’t my place–"

"No, don’t worry," you say quickly, "you’re right. They’re still normal, though. Usual amount of uptight and judgmental, I guess."

Joel watches you, and it seems like he’s thinking about something. When he speaks, his words are almost tentative.

"You can stick to me, if you want to. You can…ask me if you want a second opinion on what’s socially appropriate."

Your stomach swirls. You swallow and nod.

"I think that might be a relief," you say honestly, and try hard to ignore the pull of want in your stomach.

"Alright," Joel says, and as if it’s an inside joke by now, you answer.

"Alright."

***

He does pick you up at nine on Friday. You parents seemed slightly surprised Joel is taking you to the hotel in his car, but when you asked your mother what the point of going with him was if he still spent most of his time alone, she seemed convinced. You aren’t sure why you felt the need to convince her of anything in the first place, but you try not to think about it, when your doorbell rings. You spent the night at your parents’ place for convenience instead of in your apartment, so that Joel doesn’t have to drive the extra couple of miles. Your father opens the door before you can, and pats Joel’s shoulder.

"So, you’re taking my little girl to the wedding," he says, holding up one finger in a mock-scolding. Joel laughs, but you wonder if it sounds slightly strained. He meets your eye and nods in greeting. You nod back.

"Do you have your suitcase?" your father asks.

"Yeah, it’s right here."

You go to grab it, but Joel is quicker.

"I got it," he mutters, and you try hard not to stare at his arms bulging under the weight, not in front of your father.

"Careful, Miller, don’t be too much of a gentleman, or none of her collage boys will stand a chance," your Dad jokes.

"Oh, I won’t be," Joel drawls. You turn towards the door to hide your blush – you’re sure Joel didn’t mean anything by that comment, but that flutter in your stomach is stronger than ever, and you almost clench your thighs together. Joel doesn’t seem to notice anything, just carries your suitcase to the door.

"See you there, Dad," you say, "where’s Mom?"

"Rearranging the snack box," your Dad answers, "I’ll tell her you said bye. See you there kid, don’t let Joel drive like a lunatic."

Joel is about to quip something back, but you practically shove him out the door, your fingers digging into his biceps. He can barely tell your father goodbye before you close the door behind the two of you.

"Rearranging the snack box," you groan, "they’re so…so…so not chill."

Joel chuckles.

"I ain’t got a snack box, I thought we could make a stop at Burger King or somethin’."

"Finally," you answer, and open the trunk of his car so he can put your suitcase inside, "a man with sense."

***

"So, what do I gotta know about your family? Anyone I should avoid?"

You grin and turn up the radio a little.

"Don’t bring up vaccines with aunt Ingrid, in fact, just don’t bring them up at all. Steer clear of politics, unless you’re pro-life and think gay people shouldn’t get too close to kids, but if that is the case, steer clear of me."

Joel laughs.

"Got nothin’ to worry about, sweetheart. No politics or human rights, got it."

"Don’t ask uncle Jules if he has children. He does, but it’s…complicated."

"Who’s uncle Jules again?"

"My Dad’s brother. Bald guy with a beard. Don’t call him uncle, though."

"No callin’ people uncle, no questions about family, or politics. Geez, I’ll have to think of some conversation starter."

You chuckle and suddenly feel ridiculous for making such a fuss about attending a family wedding, when Joel is going to have to navigate dozens of people he’s never met before.

"I think showing up there with me as your date might be the starter for most conversations you’ll have," you say, not quite managing to keep the amusement out of your voice.

Joel clears his throat.

"Right, well, I’m sorta hopin’ they won’t dwell on that too much so as to not make things awkward."

"Oh, they’ll make things awkward," you answer, amusement evident in your voice, "but honestly, I think that’ll be the fun part. I wonder if aunt Susie will hit on you, she hits on everybody’s spouses."

Joel shoots you a glance.

"You were worried enough about a dress to consider not goin’ at all, but showin’ up with your Dad’s friend is the fun part?"

You admit, when he puts it like that, it sounds illogical.

"Those are two different things, though. They’ll judge my dress regardless of what I wear, I guarantee you someone will make a comment about it. If you hadn’t helped me, I’dve spent the night wondering if I should’ve gone with a different one."

"You don’t don’t think you should have gone with a different…date?"

You glance over at him.

"No," you say earnestly, "it was never a question of who to go with. I wasn’t gonna go with anyone else, had you said no."

"Right," Joel says, and changes lanes.

You’re quiet for a while, watching the scenery outside your window, but Joel seems to keep thinking about what you said.

"Why does it bother you so much? Whether they like your dress or not?"

You sigh, and he looks over at you briefly.

"You don’t gotta tell me, sweetheart, I was just wonderin’."

You pick at your fingernail.

"No, it’s alright. I guess I just…dislike not living up to expectations. I can deal with it if things are out of my hands, you know, but if my family is questioning my choices, I start to question them myself. It’s the difference between…being late because my flight was cancelled, and being late because I overslept. If it’s out of my control, it’s fine."

Joel hums, and it’s quiet again in his car. The radio is playing Mother’s Little Helper softly in the background.

"I think you’ve made solid choices," Joel says after a moment, "You don’t gotta…doubt yourself so much. I always got the feelin’ you knew what’s right for you, except for those boys I watched climb up and down your drainpipe at night."

You blush at the mention of your teenage hookups, but Joel chuckles. His words mean something to you, though you’re not sure how to tell him.

"Yeah, well, I’m good at overthinking," you say quietly, and Joel hums.

"Cause you’re smart. Dumb people don’t question themselves."

You smile.

"Thanks, Miller."

Joel switches lanes again, and nods.

"I mean it, kid, you’re doin’ just fine. ’N if you need help at the wedding, you come to me and ask for it."

"Alright," you say softly.

***

When you arrive, there is a blur of hugs and kisses and half-shouted greetings between aunts and nephews, cousins and grandmothers, fathers and sisters. Your family isn’t necessarily big, but they’re loud and restless, so you feel relieved when your parents pull you and Joel to the side right after you step out of the car.

"What took you so long?", you Dad asks, but keeps talking before you can tell him about the Burger King break due to a lack of a snack boxes in Joel’s car. "Anyway, we’ve got a problem. They didn’t know you guys aren’t really dating, so they gave you a double room instead of two single ones. We shouldn’t have put your names down together on the attendance list for the wedding, but I was thinking Joel and I can take one room, and you and your mom the other one!"

He’s clearly pleased with how he solved this dilemma, and it takes everything in you not to grit your teeth. You love your mother very much, but living in a single room with her is sure to drive you completely mad.

"Oh no," Joel says, "I don’t wanna cause any trouble. There’s a motel down the street, I’ll just get a room–"

"No way," you answer immediately, momentarily forgetting your parents, "you’re my support at this thing. You’re like my therapy dog. If anyone sleeps at that crappy motel, it’s me."

Joel actually snorts.

"Right, like I’d let ya. Place looked way too sleazy. You’re sleeping in the hotel your cousin booked, end of discussion."

"Fine," you answer, narrowing your eyes, "but so are you. You’re a guest, and I’m a good fucking host."

You hold his gaze, even when he shakes his head in something close to annoyance.

"You’re not the host, you’re a guest yourself. And anyway, it isn’t socially appropriate to decline someone who’s offerin’."

He’s telling you to give in, let him make the decision for you. In any other situation, that thought would get you all tingly.

"Well, I’m offering to share with you, so don’t decline," you say, crossing your arms in front of your body. It feels a little childish.

"Alright," Joel grumbles, sounding defeated, and looks at your father. "Your kid’s a piece of work."

Your parents watched your discussion quietly, and you can see mild distaste on their faces at how you talked to their friend, but for some reason it makes you want to grin. Usually it stresses you out when your parents aren’t satisfied with your behavior, but in this case it fills you with a strangely giddy feeling – if only they knew the sort of things you tell Joel about your family. It would turn those frowns into shouts.

"I’m sure we’ll find a solu–"

Joel’s quicker than your father, and waves him off with an easy hand.

"Ah it’s alright. Piece of work, but good company."

There’s an amused glint in his eyes and you frown at him, half contemplating kicking his shin.

"I’m a piece of work? You’re the one who–"

Your mother’s eyebrows furrow and you fall quiet. For some reason you don’t want to let on just how close you and Joel are these days. You don’t want your parents to see Joel doesn’t mind your bickering, that he does it, too, that it’s not harshness, but barely disguised tenderness underneath the irony. Joel’s eyes are on your face, but you don’t look at him.

"It’s only two nights anyway," you grumble, and Joel nods.

"That’s settled, then. I’ll get the suitcases."

***

You’re rooming with Joel Miller. For some reason you didn’t fully consider what that entailed while you were arguing about it with him – you’ll share a bathroom, possibly a bed. A blanket. You understand your mother’s frown now, it’s certainly strange for you and Joel to be so fine with this situation. You make a mental note to mention only doing this so Joel isn’t lonely to your mother.

"You sure you don’t mind?" Joel asks you when you step into the elevator – your room is on the third floor.

"Depends. Do you snore?"

Joel doesn’t answer, but after a second he shakes his head, though more to himself than as an answer to your question.

"If you’re uncomfortable with this, I really don’t mind staying at that motel," he continues, and you watch him play with the little button on the handle of his suitcase.

"I’m not uncomfortable," you answer, "are you?"

"No."

You don’t know what else to say, so you fall quiet again. Joel seems oddly conflicted, but you don’t blame him, he surely noticed your mother’s expression when you decided to share the room.

When you get there, Joel opens the door, lets you step in first, and you hoist your suitcase inside. It’s a light room, airy curtains, a big double bed that looks cozy. You’re relieved to see it’s big enough for things not to get awkward between Joel and you, and thankfully, there’s two blankets and pillows.

"Which side do you want?"

Joel’s voice is kind, like he really wants you to pick, and you smile.

"Window," you say, the decision coming easily for once. You didn’t consider which side Joel would prefer and picked the other one, you just chose the one you wanted because you were able to hear in Joel’s voice it’s what he wanted you to do.

"I’m gonna change and then I’ll have to say hi to my family," you say, and don’t manage to keep the annoyed tone out of your voice completely. Joel plops down on his side of the bed with a quiet grunt, and watches you.

"You’re not looking forward to the smalltalk," he says in that way of his that is less question and more statement. It spares you from having to answer, but you still sigh.

"No, not really. They’ll ask a million questions about my degree, it’s like nothing else interests them."

Joel’s eyes are still on you, as you open your suitcase and pull out different shirts and pairs of jeans, suddenly realizing you brought too many options.

"Wear that one," Joel says when you hold up and consider a shortsleeved blouse with a flowery pattern, "looks real pretty."

You take the blouse and grab your favorite jeans to change into, glad to finally change out of your sweatpants after the long drive.

"I’ll deflect the conversation when they start talking about your degree," Joel says, crossing his arms, "I’ll mention my age or somethin’."

It makes you laugh, because the idea is so absurd – that talking about your fifty-something year old date would be more comfortable than talking about university.

"Thanks," you say genuinely, "you’ll be the topic of conversation, by the way. Hope you don’t mind gossip."

Joel smiles an easy smile and shrugs.

"Ah, you heard your mother, I’m a loner. Gossip don’t affect me."

You know he’s not being honest – with his connection to the groom, any gossip about his controversially young date is sure to reach his colleagues’ ears, but you’re grateful for his support in this. He’s risking his own reputation just to make this event less dreadful for you. You smile at him, and slip into the bathroom to change.

***

You can see your family from a distance, sitting on some sort of terrace, and you can tell some of them are looking over at you, assessing yours and Joel’s form already. You groan, and tuck your blouse into your waistband.

"Don’t worry," Joel says quietly, "you look great. ’N I picked the blouse anyway, so it’s on me."

You nod, and Joel nudges your shoulder with his softly.

"Cheer up, kid. Won’t be awkward, I got you."

You believe him. You trust Joel to handle the smalltalk with your own family, which should make you feel pathetic and childish and weak, but it’s so easy to let him take the reins. He leads you over to them with a gentle hand on the small of your back and a polite smile on his lips.

"Hey guys," you say, waving awkwardly when you’ve reached the terrace, "this is Joel."

You’ve got to hand it to your family, they’re being polite. You can see their eyes move over Joel’s crowsfeet, his hand on your waist, his flannel shirt, and for a second you feel nervous, but Joel seems so at ease, the judgement pearling off of him like drops of water. 

You hug people, Joel shakes hands, says hello in that gruffly charming manner of his, there’s names being exchanged, and during all of it he doesn’t leave your side. He keeps his left hand on your back, lets you know he’s there for you. It feels like a secret somehow, even though it’s not – but you’re tricking your family, and they have no idea what your relationship to Joel is really rooted in. They look at the two of you and see something intimate, sure, but they’ve got it all wrong. It’s intimate in a different way.

"So what do you do, Joel?" one of your aunts asks him, when you’ve sat down – Joel pulling out your chair for you.

"I’m a contractor," he says, and throws his arm around your shoulders. You want to grin when you watch a dozen pairs of eyes follow the movement. Under the table, you nudge Joel’s foot with your own and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches.

They ask him more questions, the sort of superficial things most people think will conjure up an accurate image of the person they’re asking, and you’re more than amused by how Joel deflects them easily with that southern charm, but without backing down. The entire time, his thumb draws circles on your shoulder. You welcome the touch – you know it’s partly to keep up the show of dating you, but nevertheless it’s soothing, real or not. You wonder what Joel gets out of this charade – you get to fool the people who regularly make you feel inferior, you get to have some sort of entertainment at an otherwise boring event, but Joel doesn’t. He seems at ease, though, talking to your uncle about his business, fingers toying with the collar of your blouse at the nape of your neck.

"And how did you two meet?"

Your aunt’s question is sickly sweet, her judgment barely disguised. Her outrage makes you want to laugh and yell at the same time, because it’s not your well-being she’s concerned with, it’s etiquette.

"Oh, I’m friends with her parents," Joel says easily, "known each other ages."

It takes everything in you not to snort at the way your aunts eyes widen, and you’re sure Joel’s cough is really a well disguised laugh.

"Yeah," you say once you’re sure you’ll be able to control your voice, "he taught me how to drive when I was sixteen."

After that, someone hastily changes the topic, and when no one is looking, you throw Joel a grin. He winks at you, and doesn’t take his arm off your shoulder when you lean a little closer to him.

***

"You guys going to the beach, or the city?"

Your father smiles at you, squinting against the sun, backpack already slung over his shoulder – your parents are clearly doing the latter. There’s still time before dinner, and your family decided to split into two groups – you’re not sure which one to join. You look up at Joel, and your eyes meet. He holds your gaze for two seconds, and you don’t need to say anything.

"The beach," Joel decides, looking at your father again. "Could both use a bit of nature after that drive."

You say goodbye to your parents and are grateful for the few moments alone with Joel before joining the others for a walk down the beach. It’s what you would have picked, if you had to, but Joel didn’t need you to pick. Just like with your blouse and dress, he made the decision for you, and even though they’re completely mundane choices, it seems to lift a weight off your shoulders. You can just exist around Joel.

"That okay with you?" he asks you now, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

"Yeah," you answer, "anything you pick’s okay with me."

It’s more honest than you necessarily wanted it to be, but you find it hard to care when Joel seems so tuned into you. He watches you, and nods.

"Do you think that’s strange?" you ask, all of a sudden worried he finds your need for a lack of autonomy revolting, or pitiful. Joel’s eyes are glued to yours, when you look up at him.

"No," he says softly, "I think you’ve been made to question yourself way too much. Creates stress and pressure I’ll gladly take away if I can."

There’s no judgement in his voice, just acknowledgement. You look at your shoes, then back at him again. You aren’t sure what to answer – you know it’s a strange conversation to be having with your parents’ friend. Before you can answer, Joel does it for you.

"Look, don’t overthink it. This weekend you don’t gotta worry about anythin’, alright? I’m takin’ the reins."

You probably shouldn’t find it as easy to accept this as you do, but then again you probably shouldn’t have brought a man more than twice your age to a family wedding, so you might as well go all in. Joel’s taking the strain. You can just nod and go along with it. For the first time in a long time, you feel oddly silent. Steady.

***

The beach is beautiful and you and Joel take off your shoes and socks to walk barefoot along the water. The steady sound of the waves and the salt in the air makes you feel calm. Your family is close by, walking in little groups, chatting and laughing. You’re enjoying just walking quietly with Joel, but after your conversation with him, you really wouldn’t mind talking to your family either – Joel understood what you were trying to tell him, and offered to take your worries and doubts away from you. There’s no responsibility weighing heavily on your shoulders, and suddenly it seems easy to show your religious aunts your tattoos, and even defend the degree you chose. Joel’s got your back. He’s got your choices, your decisions.

"You’re quiet," Joel tells you over the sound of the wind. You watch it mess up his hair.

"I feel quiet," you say, "in a good way."

Joel hums, and you’re reminded he’s a man of few words, too.

"What you said," you start, voice uncertain, "about them making me question myself. It’s not…they don’t mean any harm."

You watch your toes dig into the wet sand as you walk, soft, cold waves rolling over them in a steady rhythm.

"Yeah, no-one ever does."

You glance at Joel and back at your feet again.

"It’s just…I know I’ve been talking shit about them a lot, but I don’t want you to think they’re bad people or something."

Joel’s eyes are trained on a seagull landing on the sand close by when he answers.

"I don’t think that, I don’t even know ’em. Your parents are good people, and from what I’ve seen, they’re good parents, too."

You nod.

"Still, even if something is well-intentioned, doesn’t mean it can’t have negative repercussions."

You frown, thinking about his words, and Joel sighs.

"I don’t wanna criticize your folks, God knows I’ve made mistakes with Sarah. But I see you constantly tryin’, you know, always workin’ to please them. Even if it comes from a place of wantin’ the best for their kid, I don’t think it should be like that. Parents should be workin’ to make their kids proud, not the other way around."

His words punch the air from your lungs – his assessment of your relationship to your parents so perplexingly correct, you don’t know what to say. And then his immediate acknowledgment of what you feel in your heart, and don’t have the nerve or guts to voice. You feel your eyes begin to prick, and it’s not the sand or the salt. You swallow hard, feel Joel’s eyes on you.

"Hey now," he mutters, noticing your tears, "I didn’t mean to make that happen, darlin’."

The pet name seems to rip something open inside of you, and your tears start to spill silently, your face unmoving. Joel reaches out for your tentatively – the lines between what’s acceptable have blurred. It’s okay for him to put his arm around you to make fools of your family, but this feels different. You decide you don’t care anymore – you want to feel his warm body against your side, you want him to wipe the tears from your cheeks with his huge palms, you want to hear his voice whisper in your ear. Something about Joel Miller soothes an ache inside of you you didn’t even realize needed soothing at all, but now that you’re aware of it, you can’t help but give in completely. 

His gentle palm on your arm is all you need, a clumsy but warm gesture of comfort, and you lean against him, your face against his collarbone. You know your family can see you, they’re close by, walking ahead or behind the two of you. You find you don’t mind – if anything, this will fuel the hoax of the two of you being together even more.

Joel is hesitant at first, but your tears seep into his pullover, and when you inhale shakily, he starts to stroke your back. You hear the sea, Joel’s heartbeat, someone laughing and screaming, possibly your cousins.

"I’m sorry kid," Joel says and rests his chin on the top of your head, "it’s alright. You’re alright."

"S-sorry," you mutter, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.

"Don’t gotta apologize. Did I hit a nerve?"

"Yeah," you answer quietly, not stepping back from Joel, just resting your face against his chest. You’ll take what he’s willing to give you, for as long as he is.

"I like it when you choose for me," you whisper after a minute. Although you’ve talked about it before, it feels different to admit this pressed against Joel’s big, warm body. "I really like it."

You feel Joel inhale and sigh, his hand still patting your back softly.

"I know, darlin’. I know."

"It’s weird."

"It’s unusual."

"You’re not, like…grossed out by me?"

Joel holds you a little more tightly.

"No, of course I’m not. Jesus, no. Why would you think that?"

You shrug, and Joel brushes the back of your head with his hand.

"You want me to make your decisions for you this weekend?"

He has been hinting towards that, inching closer to the realization, but he hadn’t put it quite that way before, and you feel something in your belly stir at the directness of his words.

"Yes," you whisper, "please."

You feel him nod, but he doesn’t say anything for a couple of seconds.

"I gotta know what that entails, kid. We gotta…have a conversation about this."

You don’t want to do that – you haven’t had to explain yourself to Joel this plainly before, he always seemed to just get it, even the things you don’t say.

"Tell me what that means to you," Joel asks you gently. It’s not phrased as a question – already he’s doing it so perfectly, not giving you the choice to decline answering, but deciding you will. It’s easy, this way. You inhale again, and close your eyes for your confession.

"I…I just…I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat, what to like, what to hate, what to rage about. What to listen to, what band to like. What to buy tickets for. What to joke about, what to not joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in. Who to vote for and…and who to love and how to tell them. I think I just want someone to tell me how to live my life, Joel, because so far…I think I've been getting it wrong."

He’s quiet, and you think you’ve said too much, made it too weird, and for a split second you feel like running, but then Joel looks down at you, and brushes one stray tear away with his thumb.

"I want you to put on your socks and shoes, again," he says softly, and you feel relief wash over you in synch with the waves. "Can you do that for me?"

You nod, and bend down to get your socks, all the while feeling Joel’s eyes on you.

"Good," he says when you’re done, and gives you a small smile. Your head feels blissfully empty.

***

You catch up with your parents and the rest of your family before dinner, where they hover awkwardly just outside of the doors to the dining room in an old, renovated stable.

Joel keeps his steady hand on your waist, a sign of belonging to your distant family, inconspicuous to your parents, and a clear gesture of comfort to you. He looks handsome in his dark jeans and dark green knit pullover. You’re used to him wearing flip-flops and a grease-stained black tee, gardenhose in hand, but he cleans up nice. You feel your family’s eyes on the two of you as you approach and lean into Joel’s touch a little more.

"Heya," your Dad says with a smile, and immediately shows Joel a book he got in the city, something about cars you can’t be bothered to look at for longer than two seconds. Joel seems interested, though, and when you move to talk to one of your aunts, the hand on your waist tightens. You could easily go anyway, but his touch makes it clear he doesn’t want you to, so you stay, letting the car-talk wash over you, oddly at peace with everything. Joel throws you one look and his thumb starts tracing circles on your waist. It feels like a reward for doing as he said, and the thought makes you feel light-headed.

Eventually you all make your way to the dinner table, and Joel pulls out your chair for you, not sitting down until you’re seated. It makes your stomach flutter, and you can see your aunt watching him, apparently having noticed his good manners, too.

You flip open a menu, trying to decide on a drink – you’re not sure if it might not be too risky to start drinking alcohol this early in the evening, your tongue might become a little too lose, especially among this group. You look over at Joel, and when he notices, he subtly points to Cherry Coke on his own menu, tapping the word once, and you think he must remember you drinking the sticky-sweet stuff all summer as a teen. You give a small nod, to show him you understand, and flip the pages of your menu to look at the food.

"The salmon is supposed to be delicious," your mother is telling your father. She turns to Joel and you, and smiles.

"What are you two having?"

Before you can open your mouth, Joel closes his menu.

"The lamb chops," he answers simply, and when your eyes meet, it punches the air from your lungs. He looks proud, satisfied, like nothing pleases him more than to see you do as he says.

"Yeah," you say quietly, "lamb chops."

***

Dinner is perfectly nice, the lamb chops and your cherry coke are delicious, though you switch to wine after Joel asks you if you prefer red or white and then orders a glass for each of you. From time to time, he brushes your back with his hand when your parents aren’t looking, and even though you don’t get a minute to talk just between the two of you, you can tell he’s making an effort to be present and attentive.

Your younger cousins leave the table to play outside after a while, and you wish you had a few your own age to raid the bar with, as Joel seems to be stuck in a conversation about contracting with your uncle. You drain the last of your wine, your foot tapping rhythmically against the table leg, and you suddenly feel a hand just above your knee, effectively stopping your movement. Joel’s palm is huge as it burns a warm imprint into your skin, squeezing your leg slightly. It’s like a quiet acknowledgment of your restlessness, and enough for you to feel an odd calm wash over you. Joel seems to have realized you want to go to bed, or at least to leave the table and these boring, useless conversations. He also holds the power to decide whether you will or not, so you don’t have to worry about being rude at all. The ball is entirely in his court. You sigh in strange contentment and Joel’s thumb starts moving as a response, his eyes glued to your uncle’s face, nodding and answering whenever it’s appropriate.

After around a quarter of an hour, their conversation seems to fizzle out, and Joel glances down the table. Half the people have left, either to put the kids to bed, or to rest themselves after a long day of traveling. Joel’s eyes meet yours, warm and piercing, and he gets up from his chair, hand slipping from your thigh. Your uncle is talking to your parents now, and Joel waits a beat so as not to interrupt them.

"We’re goin’ to bed," he says when there’s a pause in their conversation, and you nod, getting up, too.

"Already?"

Your Dad sounds surprised.

"It’s eleven," you say, stifling a yawn, "and God knows Joel could use a bit of beauty sleep."

He scoffs and you grin, which makes your father chuckle and shake his head.

"Don’t let her give you hell, Miller. We can still switch rooms if this little union has turned sour."

It’s clearly a joke, but the idea of sleeping in a different room than Joel is distinctly unpleasant all of a sudden, so you chuckle.

"Don’t worry, Dad, still sickly sweet."

You hug your parents goodnight, and Joel promises your uncle to continue their talk the day after, and then, finally, he’s leading you back outside and towards the actual hotel building. His hand is a ghost on the small of your back, not quite touching, but guiding. You breathe in the cool evening air as you step outside and sigh. The change in temperature is more than welcome after the noise and buzz in your head.

"Alright?" Joel asks, voice quiet.

"Yes," you say, and suddenly feel shy about the decisions he made for you throughout the evening. "Sorry about…you don’t have to…I mean, I can just pick my own drinks and food tomorrow."

Joel is quiet for a second, but his hand doesn’t leave your back.

"Was it too much?"

You don’t answer, don’t know how to tell him it was perfect and not enough at the same time, that his hand seems to be burning a whole into the fabric of your blouse, that you want him to decide to take it off of you.

"Jesus," Joel says, interpreting your silence as confirmation, "I’m sorry, kid, I thought it’s what you asked me to do back at the beach, but if I got that wrong, I’m rea-"

"You didn’t," you say quietly, voice cracking on the last word a little. "Don’t apologize, please. Don’t make this into something…weird or, I don’t know, something to feel guilty about."

Joel falls quiet.

"I hate feeling guilty," you add after a stretch of silence. You can feel Joel looking at you.

"You don’t gotta," he says, shaking his head when you shrug, "no, sweetheart, I mean it. I’m tellin’ ya not to feel guilty."

You shudder, you can’t help it – Joel’s tone has an air of finality you can’t resist. As if Joel pressed a button, you feel the emotion seep out of you. He’s still watching you, and you feel your cheeks burn up. You know it’s a little sick, a little depraved and twisted to want Joel to act like this.

"You know," Joel says suddenly, "when Sarah was ten, you two begged your Dad and me to take you to buy you these headbands you wouldn’t shut up about. They had them in purple and green. Sarah chose the green one, but you just couldn���t decide, you stood in front of that damn shelf for half an hour, until your Dad said he wouldn’t get either if you didn’t pick one."

You don’t remember the shop, but you do remember crying on the way home, Sarah petting your arm and lending you her headband the next day.

"Your Dad didn’t mean bad," Joel continues, "probably thought it was a valuable lesson, but you just needed someone to tell you purple suits you, or green goes with your shoes, or whatever."

You’re still quiet, walking beside Joel in the dark, not quite believing he noticed and cared enough to remember such an innocent incident years later. After a while, you swallow.

"I don’t remember buying that headband," you say softly, "or…not buying it, I guess."

"Why was it so hard for you?" Joel asks, voice sincere "to pick one, I mean."

"I…I’m not sure," you answer, not looking at him, but at your feet moving over the cobblestones. "I think I…I think I learned pretty early on a wrong decision could make people angry or disappointed. By not making one at all I just…disappointed myself, you know? Turning the reaction inward, or something."

Joel hums, and contemplates your words for a while.

"Your Dad, does he…did he…if you’d picked the wrong color, would he have gotten angry?"

You glance up at him, see a slight frown on his face, his muscles pulled tight, and you understand what he’s asking.

"No," you say softly, "no, it’s not like that."

Joel visibly relaxes and nods.

"Sorry," he says with an exhale, "didn’t think it was, but geez, that’d you’d be worried about his reaction to the goddamn color of a headband…"

You sigh.

"I don’t know why I’m like this," you say so quietly, you’re not sure Joel hears, but his hand on your back squeezes slightly, an unconscious gesture of comfort. "I wanna please everyone all of the fucking time. It’s pathetic."

"It’s not pathetic, it’s empathetic," Joel argues, and you frown.

"I got no backbone," you say softly, saying out loud the worst you think about yourself to another person for the first time. "I’m a pushover and a narcissist who can’t handle anyone not liking them, as if I’m the centre of the fucking universe."

Joel stops walking, you sigh almost petulantly, and before you can keep walking, Joel’s hand catches your arm.

"Stop," he says, and without thinking about it, you do. He’s frowning, dark eyebrows pulled tight and casting a harsh shadow over his face.

"I don’t want ya sayin’ shit like that," he tells you, "don’t want ya thinkin’ it either, for that matter."

You don’t know what to answer, except that you do, so you just stare at him.

"Were you a pushover when you argued with me until your parents were pissed, just so I wouldn’t sleep in that shithole motel down the road?"

You look at your hands, and pick at your cuticle.

"Answer me, sweetheart," Joel says, and you can hear the order in his voice.

"That was different, it didn’t have anything to do with me," you say, and Joel shakes his head, as if in exasperation.

"Course it didn’t, it was completely selfless. Just like you don’t want to upset your grandma when she sees that little tattoo of yours, or your parents when you pick a career they don’t like. You’re too goddamn nice for your own good. Too empathetic."

 You can feel his gaze glued to your face, but you keep staring at your thumbnail, until Joel sighs again.

"You think a narcissist would have worried about your dress stealin’ your cousin’s show?"

You shrug, aware what Joel wants you to say, but unable to do it.

"You think a narcissist would have sprinted across that shop to stop me buyin’ it for ya?"

"I’m still mad at you because of that," you say softly, and despite himself, Joel’s mouth softens into a smile.

"A narcissist," he repeats, voice dripping with irony, "and I’m the fuckin’ tooth fairy."

"Even if you’re right," you say finally, "I don’t think you can separate concepts like that, you know, egoism and altruism. It’s like, if you donate money, do you ever truly do it to help, or do you do it because you like thinking of yourself as someone who helps?"

"You’re overthinkin’ this, sweetheart. It ain’t philosophy. You had an occasion to buy a pretty dress, and considered your cousins’s feelings – that’s kind. You’re…you’re good."

For some reason that makes you swallow, your throat thick. Good. You don’t think of yourself as a bad person per se, but sometimes being kind does feel like making amends. Joel thinks you’re good. He called you empathetic, nice, got angry when you disagreed. Your chest feels a little warm.

"You can’t see inside my head, Miller," you say, finally meeting his eyes, as he’s towering over you. "You don’t know my intentions."

"You’re not as mysterious as you think, kid," Joel answers gruffly, "why are you so adamant about makin’ yourself into some kind of super villain?"

"I’m not," you answer, cheeks flushing, "I just…"

"Just what?"

You shrug, don’t know yourself what you were going to say, and Joel raises his eyebrows.

"You’re a good girl, a really good person, you always were. So kind to Sarah when you were kids, and now that she’s in Boston, you’re kind to me, just so I’m not lonely."

"Ah," you answer, face heating up, "that. Well, to tell you the truth, Joel, this is one of those times where altruism and egotism are…congruent."

Joel stares at you, and your stomach flutters.

"That so?" he asks quietly, unmoving and still staring at your face. Your neck grows hot, and images of him telling your father what you said rush through your head, of him being uncomfortable, of him seeing you as a substitute daughter and being freaked out by your attachment to him. You swallow, don’t answer, look at your hand again. Suddenly there’s a finger on your chin, and Joel’s lifting your face back up to meet his eyes.

"I’m not makin’ that decision for you, sweetheart," he says, face serious, but a with hint of something in his voice that wasn’t there before. "You ask for it yourself, or you don’t."

His warm hand lingers on your chin for just a second longer, and then he crosses his arms in front of his body. You two continue walking, as if you’re not headed to sleep in the same bed, as if Joel didn’t put his skin to yours in a way that felt new.

***

You’re slightly embarrassed when you’ve changed into your pajamas, which consist of an old pair of pink shorts, and a Micky mouse shirt much too big for you. When you leave the bathroom, Joel is lying on his side of the bed, arms crossed behind his head, a grin spreading across his face when he sees your outfit.

"Nice," he says, and you feel your cheeks heat up.

"Well, I didn’t know I’d be sharing my bed, did I?"

Your voice is close to irritated, but for some reason it makes Joel’s smile widen, and you scoff.

"Unless you’ve got silk pajamas packed, your humor is misplaced."

You walk over to your suitcase and get out your face cream. Joel keeps watching you and seems to have no intention of brushing his teeth any time soon.

"I like it," he says after a beat, and your eyes shoot up to meet his, your knees still pressed into the carpet next to your suitcase. "Suits ya. That blouse is real pretty, but you were tuggin’ on it all evening."

"Yeah, well," you mutter, rubbing the cream into your skin, "I got it for occasions like this one, cause it’s modest."

"Your Micky Mouse shirt is pretty modest," Joel answers, mouth still twitching, "should wear that tomorrow in case you have second thoughts about your dress."

You snort and look down. Micky’s face is all wrinkled, the print faded from how often you’ve washed it.

"I want you to wear something you like tomorrow," Joel says quietly, and you look up. He’s still watching you, voice steady. "Before the ceremony, I mean. Wear somethin’ that feels like you."

It’s a decision he’s making for you, and you swallow.

"Okay," you answer, voice cracking on the last letter. Joel nods.

"Good."

Joel gets up to brush his teeth and change, and you get comfortable with your book while you’re waiting. You know it should feel awkward, being with him like this, but even though your stomach gives a pleasant leap whenever you think about the man in the bathroom, you’re not nervous. Yes, you’re sleeping in the same bed as Joel, but the conversions you’ve had ever since you asked him to take you to this wedding feel much more intimate than this physical closeness.

When he slides under the covers next to you, smelling of three-in-one shower gel and toothpaste, you turn around to face him, one cheek smushed against your pillow, something in your stomach tugging.

 Joel turns his head to look at you, and smiles.

"Comfy?"

"Yeah."

"This ain’t too weird for ya?"

"No," you say, "not too weird."

Joel nods, and takes a gulp from the glass of water on his nightstand. You watch him slide his reading glasses away from the edge, so that they won’t fall to the ground during the night, and think of how he got you the dress you wanted, how each nudge and decision he made for you was always in your favor, always meant to give you pleasure or make things easier for you.

"Joel?"

"Hm?"

"Why do you enjoy…I mean why aren’t you you freaked out by…making my decisions for me and, you know, picking my clothes and food and all that?"

Joel is quiet for a moment, and you wonder if you shouldn’t have asked him that, but then he sighs, and looks at you again.

"When I took you dress shoppin’, you looked at those dresses the way you looked at the headbands when you were a kid," he begins to explain, "I don’t care about the dress, sweetheart. But I could tell you’dve gone with one you thought everyone else was gonna like, and it wouldn’t have been the one you wanted. So I helped you pick it, just like I should’ve helped you pick a headband."

Joel’s eyes are warm and understanding when you swallow, and for a second, he lifts his arm as if to reach out to you, but then he drops it onto the covers. You want him to pull you towards him the way he did at the beach, but you know it would mean something else here, alone in a bed.

"I don’t tell people what I told you," you say quietly, "about my family, and my indecisiveness."

Joel watches you with an unreadable expression.

"Whatever you wanna tell me," he says gently, "is safe with me."

You take Joel Miller by his word, when you lean towards him, shuffling close to him, until you can feel the heat of his body through both your blankets, and you can see the hesitation in his warm eyes. You trust he’s telling the truth about keeping your secrets, when you arch your back so your lips reach his, and you brush your mouth against his, his beard tickling your skin. It’s soft, and a little clumsy, until your lips part, the fire in your stomach catching, and Joel lets out a groan right into your mouth. 

Finally, he kisses you back, warm lips coaxing yours, his big hands coming to rest on your upper arms, and tugging your body towards his. It’s exhilarating to feel how strong he is, to hear his gruff voice not in words but in little sounds of desire for you. Before you can press your hips to his in a reckless moment of need, Joel breaks the kiss, and your eyes open. His pupils are dilated, his mouth is red and shiny with a mixture of both your saliva.

"Jesus," he says quietly, hands still on your arms, "Jesus, kiddo."

You feel nervous, but as so often, the decision lies with Joel, and that makes everything easier. You were honest with him, stripped yourself bare, right down to the skeleton of your want for him and all of the depraved thoughts you have, and now Joel can do with that what he wants – you’ve offered him all you have to offer and feel your limbs relax at that thought. Joel’s thumb starts drawing its familiar circles, his eyes glued to your face.

"I think we should sleep on this," he says after what feels like a long time, "but, God, I wish I didn’t."

The corners of your lips pull up into a smile.

"It’s your choice," you say, and watch Joel swallow – you think this might be affecting him just as much as you.

"You shouldn’t give me that much power, sweetheart," he breathes, and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. "Gonna make me go mad with it."

You lean into his palm, which is now cupping your face, and Joel sighs.

"Go to sleep now," he mutters, and the disappointment is dulled by the pleasure of doing as he says. Instead of moving over to your own side of the bed, you rest your head on Joel’s chest, and after a sharp inhale, he drapes his arms over you, pulling you against him and holding you securely.

"Good," he whispers into your ear, making you shudder, and you're almost certain you hear Joel chuckle softly above you.

***

You wake at night, Joel’s arms still wrapped around you, though limp with sleep now. He’s breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling under you as if you weigh nothing, as if you haven’t been lying on top of him for hours. You feel a little bad for crushing him like this, and move away slightly to lay down right next to him, but his arms tighten around you as soon as you pull away, and he keeps you locked in his iron grip, still unconscious, his eyes closed. You can smell his aftershave with your face resting high on his chest, can hear his heartbeat and the air rushing in and out of his lungs. His arms are like a cage around your body, and instead of waking him up, you give in, closing your eyes again, one of your legs sliding between Joel’s. You feel something in your stomach ache pleasantly, but you’re too tired to examine the feeling, just let Joel’s steady breathing and scent lull you into darkness again.

***

The sun pours into the room like honey when you open your eyes again, this time alone in the big bed. You can hear water running in the bathroom, then a quiet cough. Joel Miller is getting ready after holding you all night, even through his deep sleep. It’s a little hard to wrap your head around, so you just press your face into the pillow and inhale, smell his sweat and shower gel, his laundry detergent.

"Mornin’," Joel says quietly, and you turn around to face him. His hair is wet, and he’s wearing a simple black t-shirt and a pair of clean, black jeans. He looks excruciatingly attractive, all solid and masculine and warm.

"Morning."

"Sleep well?"

You nod, unsure of how to address the shift in dynamic between the two of you in the daylight.

"Did…you?"

Joel hums, still leaning against the bathroom door and watching you. Your eyes flicker towards his chest, and you think of the way it felt pressed against your face at night, how his arms wrapped around you so securely. You swallow, and Joel’s eyes track the movement.

"Do you…want to go have breakfast?" you ask timidly, your voice cracking.

Joel shakes his head, and you start picking at your thumb again. You’re not generally awkward around him, but nobody told you how to deal with a situation like this, with you father’s best friend after you kissed him.

"No, I wanna talk about last night," Joel says, and you can’t stop a little groan escaping your mouth.

"Joel, look, I don’t…I didn’t mean to…I was caught up because you understand me so well, and you smell so good, and I just…I acted on instinct, I didn’t think, and if I made you uncomfortable, I’m really really sorry."

Joel is so quiet, you’re afraid he’s going to yell at you, or walk out of the room and tell your father, but the feeling of his arms tightening around you keeps reappearing in your mind, so you push your worries aside. Joel didn’t have to hold you the way he did.

"Instinct, huh?"

You flush, and look at your hand.

"I…yeah."

"’S a hell of an instinct, sweetheart."

You sigh, and nod.

"I know."

"Your father’s goin’ to behead me with a dull axe if he finds out about this."

Despite yourself, a chuckle escapes you, and your stomach flips pleasantly. Joel runs a hand over his beard and walks over towards you, his hair still wet from his shower.

"He’s never been the dull axe type," you argue, "he’ll try to outsmart you with words, though."

Joel snorts, and for a second you feel bad about making fun of your father when Joel so clearly would have the upper hand in a fight, but then Joel cups your face in his massive palm and you stop thinking all together.

He hums thoughtfully, as if contemplating his options, his eyes drifting over your face, and you don’t dare say anything, scared of spooking him when he’s so close to finally giving into this weird tension.

"I’m not doin’ anything while we’re here," he finally says, and you sigh. The disappointment must show on your face, because Joel’s mouth twitches under his beard.

"Not while I’m a guest," he adds, "wouldn’t be right."

"You’re not a guest, you’re my date," you argue, Joel’s hand still cradling your face.

"Yes, the date your mother picked to distract me from the fact that my daughter moved across the country. Who is your age, by the way."

You know he’s saying it to stress the absurdity of the situation, the reason why he can’t kiss you again, but his words make your stomach flutter instead of deterring you.

"I’m not a kid," you mutter, realizing it’s the most childish thing you could have said.

"Jesus," Joel answers quietly, shaking his head. "We’re goin’ to have breakfast now, before I…"

And he lets go of you, steps back, runs his hand over his beard again in that nervous habit of his, and even though it feels like you somehow turned liquid in his hands, you manage to get up.

"You know, we could just skip breakfast," you suggest, "order room service. Nobody would miss us if we –"

"Get dressed," Joel interrupts, watching you with his jaw clenched tight.

***

It feels different, walking with Joel to meet your family for breakfast. He still puts that calming hand on the small of your back, you still tease him the same way you did before, but there is a new tension between you now, as if you’re each holding on to one end of a rubber band. You wonder if it’s going to snap.

"Mornin’," Joel says, smiling at your parents, and you try hard not to let it show on your face that you kissed their 50-something neighbor just last night. When your mother smiles at you, you’re sure it must be visible in your eyes, that any second now she will start yelling. But she just asks you how you slept, tells you how comfortable she finds the beds and that the water pressure of the showers is just perfect. You agree, indulge her in her good mood.

After a couple of minutes, you look towards your father, and find that Joel is staring at you, face carefully neutral in a way nobody else would notice. You give him a tentative smile, and his jaw clenches again, but his expression softens.

During breakfast, he doesn’t put his hand on your thigh like he did the night before, no matter how much you pathetically bounce it just to get his attention. He keeps talking to your uncle again, and you would feel hurt by how clearly he’s trying to maintain distance between the two of you, if you didn’t catch him looking at you whenever there’s a break in the conversation. You wish you were able to read his thoughts, then wonder if he thinks you’re pitiful, and are glad you can’t.

When you’re almost done with your coffee, a waiter comes over and asks everyone to pick something for dinner – meat, fish or a vegetarian option. Your parents start telling a story of the best fresh fish they ate last time they went on a holiday, as you open the little folded menu and read the options.

You can feel Joel’s eyes practically burning a hole in the side of your head, even thought his hands are carefully kept to himself. Then he lifts up his hand just slightly and points to the fish on his own menu, clearing his throat. Your stomach flips again – whatever it is you’re doing, he’s still willing to do it after you kissed him. You close the menu, and smile.

***

The day passes in a blur of playing with your little cousins, talking to various family members, helping with your cousin’s bridal makeup (mostly, you just hold the mirror, which you’re grateful for – too much pressure to actually apply anything on her big day). Joel keeps his distance, charms your family with that twinkle in his eyes, and keeps looking at you wherever you are.

When you’re pushing your little cousin on a set of swings, there he is, sitting on a hotel garden chair with one of your aunts and looking at pictures she’s showing him on her phone. He nods and smiles, seems to answer when appropriate, but you just know it’s boring him to death. Whenever your aunt looks down, his eyes find you, and you grin at him, giving him a thumbs up. He shakes his head just slightly to himself, but you can see his smile even from this distance. It makes you feel warm inside.

In the afternoon, everyone retreats to their rooms to get changed for the ceremony, and you feel your stomach jolt at the thought of finally seeing Joel in the suit he refused to put on for you before. You meet him at the front of the hotel, where he and several of the younger children are kicking a ball back and forth. They laugh when he cleverly dodges their little feet, and then kicks it through their legs. He laughs, too, ruffles their hair, lets them beat their little fists against his legs when he tricks them again.

"You like him."

It’s your aunt, and she caught you watching Joel, a subconscious smile on your face. You glance at her and look at your feet, then shrug.

"I thought it was some rebellious streak to drive your parents up the wall," she admits, and you snort at that, "but I guess you’ve never been the type to do that."

"No," you say softly.

"They don’t mind?"

You don’t want to lie to her directly – a conversation like this, one on one, feels way different than some vague excuses and stories when fifteen people ask where you met.

"I don’t think they know…how close we are."

Your aunt smiles and nods.

"Well, looks like they’ll have to get used to it. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you."

Her last words make your stomach flutter, but it’s the beginning of her sentence that makes you think. Your parents, having to arrange themselves with a choice you made for yourself, one they deem foolish or wrong or even immoral. The idea is almost preposterous – and thrilling. All these years, you were the clay holding your family together, molding yourself until you fit into all the little cracks and rotten cavities. Now it might be their time to soften and adjust, regardless of whether it’s because of Joel or not. You’re tired of being so shapeless.

When Joel spots you, he lets the kids score one more goal, one he could have easily saved, high fives them, and makes his way over to you with a smile on his face.

"Hello, coach," you say, as your aunt makes her way over to the children. "You’d better take a shower before you put on that suit."

He scoffs at you, but there’s that irresistible twinkle in his eyes again.

"You know, my aunt recons my parents could get used to…this."

"Jesus," Joel says and frowns. "I think they’d sooner tell you to join a biker gang."

"Maybe I should," you say, and Joel chuckles. "I’ll save that idea for the next family event. Funeral, maybe. Would be a talking point, wouldn’t it?"

"That what I am? A talking point?"

His voice is teasing, but you immediately regret your words – because he’s not. He got you the dress and he lets you talk about your family, and he doesn’t look at you any different for it.

"No," you say softly, looking up at him, "you’re not."

He doesn’t answer, but you think there is something like relief or satisfaction on his face, though he hides it well.

***

Getting ready with Joel feels weirdly domestic, but comfortable, as if you always share a space like that. He showers, puts on his slacks and a white shirt to wear under his dress shirt, then runs his hand through his hair and leaves it be. You’re glad, you like him best like this anyway.

While you apply your makeup, Joel watches you from the bed, the door to the bathroom wide open to let out the steam. For a moment you let yourself imagine a life in which you always share a bedroom, in which Joel Miller watches you get ready in the mornings, but you ban the thought from your mind, because it’s stupid and reckless and you can’t afford to fall for him.

"Y’look real pretty," he says after you come out of the bathroom in your light blue dress, your hair soft and tamed for once. Your stomach flips, both at the compliment and at how handsome Joel looks in his simple white shirt and black pants. He’s not wearing a tie, but he added light blue cufflinks to his sleeves – a detail that undeniably binds you to him, if only for one evening. He watches your eyes flicker over his form, and crosses his arms in front of his chest, and you remember how self conscious he was about the suit.

"You look…hot", you say honestly, before you can change your mind, and watch Joel’s cheeks flush a bright red.

"Don’t say shit like that," he says, hiding behind his frown, but he uncrosses his arms, and shakes his head. "Hot…"

The first button of his shirt is undone, and you have to force yourself to tear your eyes away from  the skin that peeks out, can’t look at his hands either or you’ll see his silver watch on his wrist, and definitely won’t let yourself look at those dress pants, held up by a simple black leather belt.

"Let’s go," Joel mumbles, when you’re done trying and failing not to ogle him, and you grab your purse, slip into your shoes, and find Joel staring at you, when you turn around. He’s waiting by the door, but doesn’t open it when you walk over to him. Instead, he lifts his hand up, strokes the back of his hand once over your cheek, eyes trained on your face, and your skin burns.

"We picked a good dress, sweetheart," he says, you’re pleased that he’s pleased, but more than that, you like how he said we. Not a choice he made for you, but one you made together.

***

The ceremony is beautiful, and although you complained about your family to Joel a lot, you cry as soon as you see your cousin in her dress. Joel puts his arm around your shoulder, stroking your arm in a subconscious, comforting way. You lean into him, let yourself revel in the closeness without wondering what anyone will think – every eye in the room is glued to the bride and groom.

"You want a drink?" Joel asks you when people start to get up, talking in little groups. You hope your makeup isn’t all runny from your tears, but before you get a mirror from your purse, Joel cradles your face and wipes his thumb under your eye gently, just once.

"There," he mutters. The movement was quick and caught you off guard, your stomach fluttering uncontrollably. You’re usually better at keeping the butterflies in check.

"Yeah," you say, a second too late, "I gotta get drunk."

Joel chuckles and together you leave the venue, his hand on your waist, holding you tighter than he did during the day. There are tables set up outside in the sun, decorated with flowers and white tablecloths. People are catching up and laughing, basking in the joy of your cousin and her new husband. Joel leads you to the bar, and before you can look at the different drinks, he orders two Gin Tonics.

"There ya go," he says, handing you a cold glass, and you clink them together, before taking a sip. It’s refreshing, the sun burning your skin just slightly, and you enjoy the bitterness of the drink. It tastes like Joel ordered it, it tastes like him.

"There you are," a voice behind you calls, and Joel steps half a step back from you. "Weren’t those the most beautiful vows you’ve ever heard? I still remember when she was just a baby, and now she’s married."

You mother smiles at you and Joel, then at your father.

"Found the booze already, did you, Miller? Bad influence on my little girl," he just says, laughing and looking younger in the sun. Joel clears his throat, and smiles, but it’s forced.

"Well, anyway, we’d better find grandma," your mother tells you, and off they go. Joel exhales and looks at you. You know the comment about being a bad influence on you threw him off, but you smile at him.

"Get me drunk, then," you say softly, and despite it all, Joel smiles back.

***

In the heat, it doesn’t take long for you to become tipsy at the very least, you really shouldn’t drink gin to get rid of your thirst, but it tastes so good, and Joel watches you so intently. You’re sitting at one of the tables, listening to the music blaring from the speakers, your foot conveniently brushing Joel’s leg every time you move it to the beat of the song.

"We’re gonna dance," Joel says when you’re done with your first drink, and you snort.

"Right," you answer, "we’re gonna dance."

Joel doesn’t break the eye contact, just raises one eyebrow.

"Wasn’t the whole point of going to this thing together not having to dance?"

"It was before you enjoyed the music so much," Joel answers, and you stop moving your foot.

"I don’t dance," you say, frowning now, "and neither do you."

Joel takes a long sip from his own drink, emptying the glass. You watch his throat as he swallows, then sighs and looks at you thoughtfully for a few moments.

"I want you to dance," he says quietly, his gravely voice soft all of a sudden, "with me."

Something in your stomach comes alive – it’s one thing, sitting next to him when he points to a dish on his menu, but his eyes on yours as he practically orders you to dance make you feel all fluttery and hot.

"Okay."

"Good," Joel says softly, and you swallow, try hard not to let it show on your face how much your stomach jolts at his words.

The song is some romantic ballad you remember listening to as a teenager, and you can’t imagine Joel dancing at all, least of all to a song like this, but he gets up and holds out one hand. There are more people on the dance floor, swaying to the music, laughing, some kissing. The idea that Joel and you would join them is so absurd, you almost giggle, but Joel wants you to dance – so you’ll dance. You’re dimly aware he isn’t doing this for himself, but because he noticed your foot, but you pretend not to have made that connection.

His hands find your waist and you wrap yours around his neck a little awkwardly, and he sways you to the music. You’re surprised to find he moves with a certain grace you never would have thought possible, but you give a little sigh of relief when the song changes into something faster and upbeat. Joel notices, and chuckles.

"Havin’ fun?"

You suddenly are, and you didn’t expect that at all. There’s more people joining you now, as you sway your hips and grin up at Joel.

"Yeah," you say over the music and laughter, "think you should get me drunk more often, Miller."

Joel laughs, and gently guides you to your right to let a couple you have never seen before pass. You move easily under Joel’s hands, the insecurity about being seen dancing wiped from your mind by the fact that Joel told you to.

Joel’s forehead is slightly damp by the time the fourth song ends and your feet are starting to hurt in the shoes you’re wearing, so you wrap your arms around his neck again, and pull him towards you.

"I want another drink," you tell him, your mouth close to his ear, and he flinches slightly.

"No need to yell, sweetheart," he says, but turns towards the bar anyway. He takes your hand to pull you through the crowd, and your stomach does a sort of somersault. Joel Miller, holding your hand. Before you can think better of it, before you can worry about your parents seeing you, or Joel becoming angry or distant, you intertwine your fingers with his, and hold on tight. Joel turns his head to look back at you, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. He doesn’t say anything either, not while there’s so many people so close, but he squeezes, just once. Your knees become slightly weak, and your cheeks start to heat up, but the gin was strong enough for you to stop caring about your nervousness.

When you’re at the bar, you grin at the barkeeper, hand still in Joel’s, slightly dizzy from the drink and the heat and all the spinning and swaying.

"One sex on the beach, please," you say, then look directly at Joel with a mischievous smile.

"Jesus," he mutters, then turns to the barkeeper. "She’ll have a beer. Bud. One for me too, please."

"No, she’ll have sex on the beach."

You giggle at your obvious innuendo, and the barkeeper smiles. Joel shakes his head.

"Look, I don’t want her throwin’ up all over her dress, she’ll murder me in the mornin’ if I let that happen."

"Beer it is, then," the bar keeper says with a good natured wink at you. You frown at him.

"I’m an adult and I ordered a–"

Joel squeezes your hand again, and you look at him with a slight pout – his eyes are slightly amused, but there’s a stern expression on his face.

"Okay," you say, "okay okay okay, Miller. Whatever you want."

His eyes stay on yours a second too long, then he lets go of your hand and hands you one of the sweating, ice-cold bottles. You take it, put it to your lips and take a swig, all while looking directly into Joel’s eyes. The way you press your lips against the rim of the bottle is a little too calculated, a little too sensual, and Joel watches your movement with a tense expression on his face.

"Christ, kid, I’m gettin’ you water next," he mumbles, watches you swallow, then smile up sweetly at him.

"Whatever you want," you say again. Joel doesn’t answer.

***

The two of you drink your beers at the end of row of tables, and you’re glad for the moment of quiet – the music isn’t as loud here, and the beer is so cold, you get goosebumps. Neither of you is talking much, but it’s a comfortable sort of silence – as always when you’re with Joel, you’re at ease.

"– why they let her bring him, I really don’t."

Two of your great aunts are sitting at a table close by, completely oblivious to your presence.

"Yes, he’s old enough to be her Daddy."

"And so gruff looking!"

Joel looks away, but you’re sure he must have heard – there is nobody else at this wedding they could be talking about. His expression is unreadable, but his knuckles are white around his beer bottle, and you’re half afraid he’s going to shatter it.

"I don’t understand why she’s interested in him," you aunt continues, "but I was just waiting for her to do something like this, you know. She always was so sensitive, no wonder she has to compensate somehow."

You swallow, your cheeks heating up with embarrassment.

"Come on," Joel suddenly says, a deep frown on his face, and he gets up. You follow him, you don’t want to hear the rest of what your family has to say about you behind your back.

"Excuse me," Joel asks politely, when you pass the two elderly ladies. They scooch, so you can squeeze past them, neither of them saying anything. You don’t look at them, but take Joel’s hand in yours again.

"I’m sorry," you say, when you’re at a safe distance from them, no risk of being overheard, "I’m sorry for what they said about you, Joel–"

"No," he shakes his head. "They ain’t wrong about me. Are about you, though."

His face looks so kind, so sorry for you, you feel like crying. You won’t though, not when you’re on what is practically a date with Joel Miller. You won’t let them ruin this night.

"I wanna dance," you say instead, and finish the last of your beer, before putting it on a table close by. "I wanna dance with you, Joel Miller."

He doesn’t argue, lets you drag him onto the dance floor again, and this time you stand close to him, closer than you should, this time you bury your fingers at the back of his neck in his hair. Joel looks hesitant, his hands on your waist tentative.

"Sweetheart," he starts in an apologetic tone, and you know what’s coming – they were right, your parents are here, you’re drunk, this is reckless. You squeeze closer, until you’re all pressed up against him, your heart hammering right against Joel’s chest. You really are tipsy now, but you don’t care. You lean up, trying to reach Joel’s mouth with yours, but he holds you steady at your waist.

"No," he says softly, "you’re doin’ it to piss of your family."

He’s not entirely wrong, so you let up, but you stay close to him, and after a couple of minutes, his thumb starts drawing circles on your skin, the way he did all throughout the weekend to soothe you, even before you kissed him and turned this into…whatever it is now.

"Let’s do shots after this," you say with a smile, "lets vomit all over their ugly fucking clothes. They want me to fuck up this party so bad, I’ll fuck it up. Gotta compensate somehow."

"I think you’ve had enough, kid," Joel says, his voice just slightly concerned. "You’ll have a headache tomorrow."

"Oh, you’ll pace me," you answer, "given that you’re old enough to be my Daddy."

Joel’s thumb stops moving on your hip, and you smile up at him, which only makes his frown deepen. There’s something else there, too, something you recognize from when you kissed him, from when he saw you in your dress, from when you told him about your family for the first time. 

"I wanna kiss you," you admit, "again."

The word tastes delicious in your mouth, your reminder that you have before, that Joel didn’t stop you, that he kissed you back.

"You won’t," Joel answers sternly, and you don’t even think about arguing with him, not when he’s using that tone. The same tone he used to tell you which dress to get.

"Okay," you say softly.

***

Joel does pace you – he doesn’t let you do shots, instead he gets you water, tells you to drink it all, and once again you chug it while looking directly at him, then smile sweetly and watch him shake his head in a mix of exasperation and amusement. After a while you tell Joel you need the bathroom, and when he leads you there you wonder briefly if he thinks you’re too drunk to find it on your own, or if he hates the idea of being alone at this party as much as you do. You’ve sobered up throughout the night, all that water Joel practically poured down your throat seems to have worked.

There is a line in front of the bathroom, and you wait with your grandmother and Joel – an awkward constellation, the silence is thick enough to cut.

"Your dress is awfully low cut, honey," she says after a while, and your eyes meet Joel’s just briefly – told you so. "You’re such a pretty girl, but that just gives the wrong impression."

"And what impression would that be?" you ask, but you don’t want to fight. Their age allows your family to say whatever they want to say, even if it’s not candor, but unprovoked opinions you tell yourself don’t matter anymore.

"I picked that dress," Joel says after a moment, and your grandmother nods.

"Of course men would like it," she says wisely, "but as a woman you have to be above that sort of thing."

You sigh, and Joel puts a gentle hand on your shoulder.

"I like this dress, grandma. It’s not 1850, Joel won’t fall into fits of lust if he sees my ankle."

"He can see a bit more than that, honey."

You make a gesture between a shrug and throwing up your hands, as if to say, well, I tried.

"He’s gonna have to take it off, then, if it’s that awful," you mumble so quietly your grandmother can’t hear, but Joel does. He looks at you with an unreadable expression on his face, and your cheeks go slightly red – you didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did, didn’t mean for it to sound so straightforward.

"Stop harassing her, Mom, this is how kids dress these days," a voice behind you says, and suddenly your mother is right next to you, your father not far behind. Although her words are intended to help you, they sting – that’s all your choices are to them, a product of your youth and the times you live in. God forbid you, an adult, wear a dress because you think you look pretty, it must be because it’s what everyone your age would wear.

Joel’s hand leaves your shoulder, and for a second you’re afraid your parents heard what you said about Joel taking off your dress, but they proceed to talk about the wedding, laughing and joking. You clench your fists, digging the sharp edges of your nails into your palms as hard as you can. It feels like being 12 all over again, their comments that aren’t necessarily ill-intended or mean, so you can’t really be mad about them, the way they don’t even notice they upset you.

You feel a very soft touch on your arm, barely there, just a brush of a finger from just above your elbow, down to your fist. Then it’s gone again, and although you don’t dare look at Joel after he touched your bare skin in front of your parents, you will your muscles to relax, knowing it’s what Joel meant to tell you with his touch. Your fingers unclench, and you feel distantly relieved at the absence of pain in your palms.

You know how reckless it is to be so into Joel, you know nothing good can come of it, but you don’t remember the last time you spent this much time with your whole family and felt so seen by someone at the event. For a second you envision kissing him here, on the dance floor, in front of your parents, and you know for once it would be a choice you wouldn’t question or be made to feel ashamed of.

You tried to, just hours before, and Joel stopped you, because you did it to piss of your family. He was right, in that moment you wanted to give them something worth criticizing, if they must criticize all of the time. But this time it’s different – you want to kiss Joel because he doesn’t think you’re a narcissist, because he sees your anger disguised by politeness and doesn’t think it’s ugly.

You turn to him, steadfast in your decision.

"I’m really tired," you say quietly, "we could just go upstairs, I can use the bathroom there."

Joel studies your face for a second, then nods.

"Alright," he agrees, and you turn around to your parents with a newfound confidence.

"I’m gonna use our bathroom upstairs," you tell them, "we’re going to bed anyways."

"Of course, honey, you go to bed," your mother answers and gives you a quick hug, "but Joel, why don’t you stay? You’re not her chaperone."

It’s a joke, you know it is, but it almost makes your blood boil. After your mother asked you to spend some time with Joel as a favor, after you’ve had to deal with judgmental stares and comments all night, after both you and Joel were insulted by your own family behind your backs, they still have the nerve to talk over you, disregard what you said, pretend you’re a child in need of supervision. You open your mouth, surprised by how ready you are to give them a piece of your mind, but Joel’s fingers brush your waist, squeezing gently, and he smiles at your mother.

"I ain’t the kinda man to stay at a party if my date’s leavin’," he says, and although it’s not particularly rude, there is an edge to his voice, a certain tone that suggests he’s sticking to you out of a kind of loyalty they weren’t aware of, and that he is unhappy with what your mother said. You watch your parents, see your father’s eyes flicker down to Joel’s hand on your waist, and although his expression is unreadable, and he doesn’t say anything, you feel triumphant. There you go, you want to say, someone here is willing to take me seriously.

"Good night, Dad," you say, give him a hug, too, and suppress a smile, when Joel’s hand returns to your side as soon as you step over to him. He smiles down at you, and shrugs out of his suit jacket.

"’S probably cold out, put this on."

You do, all too aware of your parents looking at you, all too aware that for some reason Joel doesn’t seem afraid of them noticing your closeness anymore. You thank him, and he says good night to your parents, ever friendly, but decidedly choosing you. His scent envelops you when you walk away together, the warmth of his body still stored in the fabric of his jacket now warming you.

***

You inhale deeply, push the air from your lungs into your mouth to puff up your cheeks, and sit down on the bed. Your feet hurt from spending all night in your fancy shoes, and your mind won’t stop running circles around the comments your family made. You wiggle your toes, watch them move under the fabric of your tights, then look up at Joel again.

"You look worried," he comments, reaching up to his throat to pop open the first two buttons of his shirt. You can’t help but stare at the skin that it reveals, slightly shiny with sweat.

"That was…a lot."

Joel hums, and slips out of his shoes, too.

"I think you did well."

A glowing feeling builds in your chest, and you can’t help but smile, looking at your fingernails.

"Didn’t throw any drinks into anyone’s faces, so I guess it’s a successful night."

Joel chuckles, the sound a deep rumble in his chest. He sits down on the foot of the bed, still watching you, looking excruciatingly handsome in his button down and slacks.

"That, too, but more so…you didn’t let them talk down to you. Didn’t just agree with your granny, you know? Stood your ground. ’M real prouda you."

There it is again, the pull in your stomach whenever Joel seems to really see you, and before you can think about it, you move over to Joel, until you’re sitting right in front of him, his broad body turned towards you, you kneeling on the white sheets. Joel’s eyes move over your face, down to your dress, your legs in those itchy tights you can’t wait to get out of.

"Did it help?" His voice is soft. "Me tellin’ you what to do?"

You nod, unsure of where this is going, nervous and so content at the same time. This is Joel, the same Joel who held you at the beach and ordered for you, who picked out your dress. He’ll know what to do, he’ll know what’s best.

"I don’t want you to stop," you admit, eyes wide and staring into Joel’s, "when we get back home. I wish we could just…"

You don’t know how to finish that sentence, aware that what you truly wish for isn’t in the cards for you and him, not while he’s your parents’ friend first. Joel sighs, but doesn’t answer. No me too, no we can’t, not even a nod or head shake. A man of few words, Joel Miller.

"You got my number," he says after a few beats, "can…ask for my help, y’know, when you’re pickin’ out headbands."

Without you being aware of it, your face splits into a smile, and you feel tears prick at your eyes. The kindness Joel offers even the sickest parts of you is unmatched, and you’re unsure what to do with it.

"Hey now," he says and puts a soothing hand on your shoulder, "don’t cry, sweetheart. Don’t cry."

You stop, because Joel told you to, your body by now accustomed to answering his command. With a shaky inhale, you calm yourself, and swallow.

"Sorry," you mutter, but Joel shakes his head.

"What’s got you hurtin’?"

The question is so blunt, so heartfelt.

"Nobody else…gets this," you explain, "it’s lonely."

Joel hums, and his fingers start moving on your shoulder, stroking your skin gently, soothingly.

"Don’t have to be anymore, kid. My door’s always open."

He’s close to you, and when you meet his eyes, there is static in the air between you. Something changed, between telling him about your family and him lending you his jacket, something shifted. It’s palpable, real electricity.

"Tell me what you need," Joel says quietly into the silence, because he can feel those unspoken things, because he knows there is something you need in the first place. It’s easy to tell him this time, without embarrassment or shame.

"I need you to tell me what to do," you whisper, scooching closer to him, his hand still lingering on your shoulder. You watch him swallow, aware that with any other man seeing how your words affect him would gross you out, but with Joel it just makes that pull in your stomach stronger. Joel doesn’t answer for a long while as he’s staring into your open, waiting eyes.

"Lie back," he orders quietly, voice gravelly and low. You feel a pang of want in your stomach so intense it’s almost painful, and your mouth goes dry. Joel watches you move, shuffle out of his suit jacket until you’re just in your dress and stockings, then lie back on the pillow, eyes still on him. You’re quiet, waiting for his next instruction, your mind blissfully empty.

"Good," Joel praises you, and your eyes flutter just briefly, giving away how much this is affecting you. Joel chuckles, and gets up from the bed, turning to face you fully, looking broad and handsome and very safe.

"You enjoy that, huh?"

There’s no condescension in his voice, just acknowledgement and warmth. You nod, and Joel smiles.

"Take off your tights."

You do, letting them drop onto the floor next to the bed, Joel still standing in front of you with his hands on his hips. He looks casual, relaxed, not at all like he’s watching his friend’s daughter undress herself because he asked her to. He moves over to you, and puts one broad palm on your bare leg, his fingers slipping under the hem just slightly.

"This will have consequences," he tells you seriously, "you aware of that?"

It’s the adult, responsible thing to have a conversation about what’s happening between you too, but you wish he would just get on with it.

"I am," you answer a little breathlessly, as Joel’s thumb is drawing circles on your skin and driving you crazy.

"You ready to face them?"

The question is laden with all you shared with him before: are you ready to do the thing your family would disapprove of the most, head high and without giving into their judgement? Two months ago, you wouldn’t have been. The idea of their disappointment would have swallowed you, the look on your father’s face as he noticed Joel’s hand on your waist paralyzed you. But it’s almost like a flip switched inside of you through Joel’s consistent understanding, and suddenly your grandmother’s outrage seems almost funny to you. You want this. And you’re ready to stand in for what you want, without shame.

"Yes," you breathe, "I really am, Joel."

You can see on his face he believes you, the way his crowfeet grow more pronounced with something like pride, and pleasure flushes your whole body, seeing how much your answer pleases Joel.

"Come a long way, sweetheart," he says, his hand moving upwards just slightly, pushing the hem of your dress up. You keep yourself from trembling under his touch, hanging onto the last bit of dignity and restraint you have left.

"’M real prouda you," he says again, the muscles in your stomach flexing at his words. "Now why don’t you tell me what you want me to do to ya?"

You’re no good at that. What you want is to take whatever Joel gives you, to follow his every command and let your mind go quiet in the process. But he’s commanding you to think about what you want yourself, so you dig your front teeth into your bottom lip and furrow your eyebrows just slightly.

"I…um…"

Joel waits, his hand patient and gentle on your leg.

"Remember I told you not to feel guilty?"

It’s not guilt, per se, but something distinctly feminine, something taught and learned over years. Just lie back and take it, the first time always hurts, women don’t finish as often as men do. You haven’t thought of sex as something meant to firstly fulfill your desire, as irrational as it sounds. It was a means to satisfying a partner, your own pleasure a nice side effect. Joel is telling you to leave that in the past, to really think about what you want and tell him without shame.

"I want you inside," you whisper, eyes wide and heart hammering against your ribcage with anticipation and the thrill of giving into your need. "And I…I like it when you talk to me."

At those words, Joel’s eyes seem to grow dark, you watch his pupils dilate in real time, and his fingers dig into the meat of your calf.

"Attagirl," he mumbles, and the heat in your stomach peaks. Joel stares at you for a moment. "Turn onto your belly, sweetheart."

You do so without hesitation, without wondering what he’s going to do, and let your cheek sink into the pillow that smells so much like Joel, your calf still enveloped by his massive palm. Joel hums, and then his touch is gone, only to reappear on your back, his hands teasing the satiny, light blue fabric he picked for you to wear. He runs his fingers from the small of your back up to the nape of your neck, and you can’t help but shudder when he grazes your bare skin.

"Let’s get this pretty dress off of ya, hm?"

He pops open the two tiny buttons at the very top, smoothes down the zipper to reveal your bare back. You’re about to be naked in front of a very much dressed Joel Miller, and the thought is exhilarating more than frightening.

"Looked so goddamn beautiful all night," Joel mutters, "wearin’ the clothes I picked. Jesus, you’ve no idea what that does to a man."

You can’t help the whine that escapes your mouth, when Joel’s hands dig into your muscles, kneading them softly and turning your body into liquid.

"So tense, baby, gotta relax f’me."

 "I’m trying," you answer softly, and Joel chuckles.

"Know you are, know you are. Doin’ so good."

You close your eyes and let Joel touch you how he pleases, your brain quieter than you can remember it being with a man before him. There’s no fear of what he’ll do if your attention slips, no worry about putting on the right act for him either. Just Joel, his warm hands on your back, and your sore and needy body.

Joel helps you turn around and out of the dress since it doesn’t unzip entirely, moves your arms and legs how he wants so it’s off within a few moments, and you’re lying there on your back in front of him, wearing nothing but your nicest pair of panties and a soft bra to match them.

"Fuckin’ hell," Joel mutters more to himself than to you, eyes raking over your body. You remember the instinct to feel ashamed at his scrutiny, vaguely register you should cover yourself up, but the pride and pleasure triumph. He sees you, and he likes what he sees, in more ways than one. So you shimmy your hips into a sexier position, trail your fingers up your stomach and watch Joel’s eyes follow them. You squirm with need when you notice a very visible tent in Joel’s slacks.

"Alright?" he asks, voice kind and patient, like it would be okay if you weren’t.

You nod, slightly overwhelmed and Joel’s brows furrow just slightly.

"Use your words," he says softly, making your stomach flip.

"I’m alright," you answer softly, your eyes on his. Joel drags his fingertips over your stomach, following your own hand and building the tension and anticipation. You try hard not to visibly clench your thighs together.

"You gonna do as I say?"

He knows the answer. You know he does.

"Yes," you breathe, the feeling of his fingertips trailing over your ribcage bordering on overwhelming. He hums.

"I want you to tell me if it’s too much," he says, voice thoughtful, "will you do that for me?"

"Yes," you say again, your own hand absentmindedly coming up to wrap around his tan forearm, eyes glued to his rolled up sleeve, that silver watch Sarah gave him catching the light with every movement. Joel’s eyes follow yours, and you wonder if he registers how big his palm looks on your skin. If he wanted to, he could touch your bra with his thumb and your panties with his pinkie. The thought makes you squirm.

"I want you to touch yourself," Joel says softly, fingers dipping only just under the waistband of your panties, and you will your hips to stay put, even though you’re one command away from humping his hand like a dog in heat. You flush at his words, the idea of it so lewd and obscene, so intimate. It’s one thing to let him fuck you, to offer him some sort of utility, but to have him watch you get off yourself – it’s everything sex isn’t, not with the people you were with before.

"I…I don’t…"

Your voice trails off, and Joel watches you for a few moments, your pink cheeks, heavy eyelids, the goosebumps on your skin.

"You don’t gotta do anythin’ you don’t want to," he says, voice soft, "but if you do want to, and it’s just your pretty little head tellin’ you not to, I want you to think twice about sayin’ no."

You listen to him, and think about the feeling in your gut. You’re nervous about letting him see something so private, but not because you don’t want him to see, but because he does. He wants to see your pleasure, and so far it’s something you pushed down for other people, not just during sex. It’s easy to give into him when you realize this, and you feel something crack open inside of you, something primal and unashamed.

"Okay," you answer, voice still a little timid, but with a newfound conviction. "Anything you want."

Joel smiles at your words, but you’re aware he’s telling you to do this for your sake more than his. He wants you to feel good about feeling good.

Before you can move your hand to obey, Joel moves closer, leans down and presses his hand right next to your face, his face close to yours. You can feel the heat of his breath on your lips and shudder.

"Good girl," he says softly and presses his lips to yours. You kiss back willingly, eagerly, but he breaks the kiss all too soon, and finally sits down on the bed next to you, facing your half naked body.

"Go ahead, pretty girl," he mutters, "show me what you do when I ain’t around."

You flush, but do as he says, dragging your fingers down to your panties and slipping them in.

"You leave those on when you touch yourself?" Joel asks with a nod towards your underwear, and you shrug and shake your head at the same time. He chuckles.

"Take ’em off, then."

You swallow, and slowly drag them down. A string of your wetness connects the fabric and your pulsing core, and you flush a deeper red, the sight obscene.

"Christ," Joel mumbles, "all that from some pettin’ and a kiss."

"It’s from what you...from hearing you talk," you admit timidly, sitting up slightly to slip off your panties completely. You look at Joel and his dark eyes are glued to your wetness, but when he notices how nervous you are, he strokes your cheek with his knuckle just once.

"Look so pretty," he tells you, "just how I imagined."

That makes your brain short circuit and your eyes flutter closed at the image of Joel imagining you naked, of him wanting you as badly as you want him.

"Keep those eyes on me, sweetheart," Joel orders, and you open them again, the tension somehow doubling as soon as your eyes meet.

"I’ve never done this in front of someone," you admit, your hand awkwardly hovering over your stomach.

"Tell you what, you touch yourself for just three minutes, and then I’ll take over."

It’s absurd. It should not be sexy to have him time you touching yourself as if you’re running a race, but something about it makes you squirm and clench around nothing. When Joel looks at his watch, you almost moan, and tentatively press your middle finger against your aching clit.

"There we go," Joel mumbles, watching your hand move, "doin’ good, sweetheart."

You want to close your eyes, but Joel told you to look at him, so you watch him watch you touch yourself, his gaze flickering to his watch every once in a while. You don’t slip any fingers inside, just tease your clit, but Joel doesn’t seem to mind, and after exactly three minutes, he leans down to reward you with a kiss.

"All done, baby."

You’re lightheaded with want, the embarrassment not quite gone, but distant. When Joel props himself up onto one elbow, his other hand finding your stomach again, you sigh. He’s looking right into your eyes, when he drags his hand lower and lower, until his fingers find the place you just touched yourself, so much bigger than yours. He presses down lightly, teasingly, watching you bite your bottom lip and arch into his touch.

"Hips stay on the bed," he says softly, just to watch you obey, pressing a kiss to your temple. He starts rubbing slow circles, unhurried and practiced, and already you feel the pleasure building and building inside of you. You whine softly, craning your neck for a kiss, and he obliges, his beard scratching your skin and mouth swallowing your sounds. You try hard not to twitch under his touch, which is both so intense and torturously slow.

When the muscles in your stomach start clenching with your impending release, you can’t help yourself and press into his hand, chasing the pleasure, but Joel presses your hips into the mattress with the heel of his palm, never stopping the movement of his fingers. You’re close, so close you feel your jaw slacken against Joel, sigh into his mouth – and suddenly his touch is gone. Instead, his hand starts rubbing your side soothingly, your promise of release fading again.

"Joel," you whine, "what the fuck."

"Language," Joel scolds with a chuckle and kisses the corner of your mouth. "Patience is a virtue."

You nip at his lower lip, not harsh enough to hurt him, just so he registers your discontent, and Joel laughs a quiet laugh right into your mouth. Despite his amusement, his fingers return to your core, gathering wetness and rubbing once again. A whimper escapes your mouth when he finally prods your entrance teasingly, without real pressure, just to make you want it.

"You gonna lie still?"

"Y-yes," you sigh, "yes, I promise."

Joel hums, and pushes in just slightly, just so that his fingernail is barely inside of you.

"Gonna bite me again?"

"No," you answer, "no, Joel."

He pushes his finger inside of you, curling it upwards instantly, and you mewl.

"That’s alright, sweetheart," he mumbles, "I can handle your bitin’. Know it’s frustratin’."

But he makes no attempt to stop his teasing, sliding his finger in and out of you slowly, and curling it just enough to make the pressure inside of you keep building without intending to let it snap. Absentmindedly you move with him, and Joel stills his fingers. You whine, but stop moving, and he presses down on that spot inside of you again.

"Attagirl," he mutters, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

You’re close again embarrassingly soon, and even though you try not to let it show to trick Joel into letting you finish, he notices the way you flutter around him, and stills his hand once again, letting your orgasm drift away.

"Fuck," you whine, frustrated and so turned on you think you might get there if he so much as blew on your swollen clit.

"Shhh," Joel soothes you, adding another finger, the stretch delicious. He gazes into your open eyes, watches you as he makes you feel so good you could cry.

"Easy," he says, when he feels your stomach tense up with effort – whether to come or not to come, you aren’t sure anymore. "Easy, baby. Relax for me."

You close your eyes and this time Joel doesn’t object, as your whole body goes limp and accepts Joel’s power over it.

"Good," Joel mutters, "that’s real good. You come when I tell you to."

And suddenly you don’t fight it anymore, don’t try to race him there, just lie there with Joel’s thick fingers pumping in and out of you almost lazily, pleasure coming and going as Joel chooses, making your brain go all fuzzy.

"Sweet girl," Joel mutters, "just had to give in, huh?"

You don’t bother to answer, just open your mouth for him when he kisses you.

"Think you’re ready for my cock?"

You almost, almost come. He slips his fingers out of you completely when he notices, and your hips chase his hand, but the feeling is gone again, although it was close enough to taste. Joel chuckles, and it’s just a tiny bit mean, but it makes you even wetter.

"Think you are, huh?"

"Yes," you say, and run your hand up his massive arm, "please."

"So polite," Joel mumbles with a smile, but he finally moves to unbutton his shirt and you watch him through heavy eyes. He smiles down at you, no trace of embarrassment as he’s revealing more and more of his skin dusted in age spots and brown hair. He’s strong, soft in all the right places, and you want to worship his belly with your mouth.

"You look…so sexy."

Joel laughs, and shakes his head, deflecting the compliment but looking a little smug, a little proud, as he lets his shirt drop onto the floor and moves to open his pants. You sit up, and reach for his hands, looking up at him questioningly.

"Go right ahead, sweetheart," Joel says, and you pop open the button and slide down the zipper, eyes glued to his bulge. He gets up to slip out of his slacks, the outline of his cock even more pronounced in his boxer shorts. He looks big. You swallow.

"Don’t you worry," Joel mumbles when he notices, and slides down his boxers, too. "We’ll make it fit."

His cock is hard and an angry red, long and thick and slightly curved, and he hasn’t shaved. With anyone else, you would have preferred it if he had, but the graying hair at the base of his cock makes you lightheaded with lust. He looks so manly, in the primal, safe sense of the word.

His fist wraps around himself as he’s climbing on top of you, pumping once, twice, a little groan of pleasure escaping his lips and you reach down to bat his hand away, to return some of the pleasure he has been giving you. He lets you, even though your hand covers much less of his length, and pushes into your hand as you drag it over him.

"Hips stay on the mattress," you tease softly, and Joel laughs, his eyes all crinkly and warm.

"One more comment like that ’n I’ll force you to the edge five more times, sweetheart," he threatens, but the amusement is evident in his voice. Still, it makes you clench and flutter to know he could, to know you’d let him. Joel takes your wrist in his hand gently, and pulls your hand away from his cock, then aligns it with your entrance.

"Breathe in," he says softly, looking right into your eyes, and you do, staring at him unblinkingly and holding the air in your lungs.

"And breathe out."

As the air rushes out of you and you relax, he starts pushing into you. The stretch is painful in the very beginning, but you sigh in relief when the head of his cock is inside and Joel gives you a moment to breathe.

"Look at you," he mutters, nudging your nose with his, "takin’ it like a champ."

You wiggle your hips and Joel keeps pushing into you, the stretch making your eyes fall closed again. It feels like your body is making room for him in a way you didn’t think possible, like your insides are parting for Joel Miller’s cock. He groans, and with a snap of his hips he’s inside of you entirely, his wiry hairs pressing into your mound. The head of his cock is nudging that spot inside of you, pressing against it insistently even though Joel isn’t moving. You mouth at his neck, tongue darting out to taste his sweat and suck on his skin in an almost soothing manner, as your body adjusts and relaxes.

Joel starts moving in and out of you after a few moments, changing angles with every thrust, until a whine escapes your throat. He keeps fucking into you like that, pressing against your spot with every thrust, eyes staring down into yours.

"That it?"

You mewl, when he gives a particularly sharp thrust and Joel chuckles.

"Yeah, that’s it," he coos.

His hands start moving over your skin as you claw at his back and biceps, teasing your sides and ghosting over your nipples still covered by the fabric of your bra. He forces his hands under your body and unclasps it with ease, then pulls it away from your body and drops it. His eyes flicker down and he puts a large palm over your tits, groping and squeezing, then pinching the nipple just short of painful. 

"Perfect fuckin’ tits," he mumbles, rolling the pebbled nub between his thumb and forefinger, making you arch your chest and moan freely. Again, the pleasure starts building, and you think Joel might be distracted by his own this time. More than anything you want to please him, though, so instead of chasing your release, you clench around him and focus on not letting go yet.

"Close," you groan, your body rocking with Joel’s deep thrusts, and he stills inside of you, letting you breathe into his mouth.

"Good girl," he mumbles and kisses your lower lip, "so good for me."

Just those few words would be worth not coming at all, you think, though Joel starts moving again when he’s sure it won’t make you come. His hand moves from your tit up to your throat, wrapping around it loosely. You feel so small under his massive palm, your windpipe and major arteries and spine all fitting into his hand like you’re a blade of grass. He squeezes softly, just enough to cut off the blood flow for a second or two, then relaxes his hand again. Your eyes roll upwards, and you bite your lip.

"Yeah?" he asks, waiting for your permission, and you nod.

"Yeah," you sigh, and your eyes widen when he squeezes again, all the while thrusting in and out of you. This time he squeezes for a couple of seconds more, and although it takes a little more effort, air still rushes into your lungs. When he releases your throat and the blood floods your brain, you moan, and feel Joel’s thrusts go slightly more erratic in response.

"Look at you," he mumbles, pressing his hips into yours, his whole weight on top of you. You whine and feel his hand close around your throat once more. This time his grip is unrelenting and stronger, and there is no oxygen rushing into your lungs, just stillness and quiet. You feel yourself go slightly dizzy, watch Joel’s warm eyes glued to your face, and feel your mind go entirely quiet.

"That’s it," Joel praises, "you breathe when I say you breathe."

You’ve never been closer than now, hearing those words, and when Joel releases you to let you suck in air desperately, you almost, almost come. But once again, he stops moving, lets you teeter on the edge and pull back, your brain fuzzy and overwhelmed with the sudden rush of blood and oxygen.

"What do we say?"

You groan into his mouth.

"Thank you."

"Good girl."

Joel’s thrusts start getting sharper, even deeper, and you know it can’t be long now. He keeps squeezing and releasing your throat, keeping you deprived of oxygen and letting it flood your brain again with the smallest movement of his hand.

"Need me to decide that, too?" he asks breathily, his voice rough and slightly broken, "need me to pick out that dress ’n tell you what to eat? Even when to breathe?"

You nod under his hand because he’s once again tightening his grip around you, rendering you incapable of speaking, and you clench around him. He feels it, thrusts harder.

"Yeah," he mutters, "don’t gotta worry about anythin’. I got you, babygirl. I’ll decide."

Your stomach cramps up with the effort of holding off your orgasm until Joel gives you permission, and when he finally lets you breathe again, he brushes the shell of your ear with his lips.

"Come for me, sweetheart."

It feels like your earth shatters, your vision going white, or maybe your brain just can’t register what it’s seeing, as you pulse around Joel, and shake under his broad body, your stomach exploding with pleasure. He fucks you through it, his thrusts so unwaveringly deep he presses into your clit every time. You shudder and whine, suck in air, come completely apart in Joel’s capable hands, and vaguely register him forcing his cock as deep as it will go, and then pumping you full of his hot spend, holding it there as he fills you up.

His thrusts slow after a while, then he slips out of you, and kisses you gently, softly, his fingers stroking your neck soothingly. You’re pliant and fucked out, entirely boneless.

"My sweet girl," Joel mumbles against your lips, "that what you needed?"

You nod, your eyes and limbs heavy as he brushes your cheeks and nose with his lips. He lies down next to you, muscles completely relaxed, and pulls you close against him. You can feel the mess you both made between you legs and distantly think you should clean yourself up, but you’re too tired, too satisfied, too blissfully happy. Your limbs are heavy, and your mind still when you kiss Joel’s chest, his hair tickling your face softly. He hums contentedly, a deep rumble in his chest.

"’M gonna fall asleep," you mumble against Joel, and he strokes your back in response, his arm draped over your side.

"That’s okay, sweetheart," he mutters, and you feel him kiss the top of your head. "Okay if I clean you up?"

You hum in agreement, yawn, and try to scooch even closer to his sweaty body, press yourself against him as if you will fuse with him if you just try hard enough. Joel’s arms around you tighten and you give into your blissful exhaustion.

A very special thanks to my friend @daryltwdixon who was my beta reader and helped me with my English (fuck this language) <3 she also came up with the idea of Joel making reader thank him for letting her breathe again after choking her, so now I’m making you all thank her. Love u, May, thanks for the help <3

[dindjarinsslut]

ugh i’m yearning

Imagine Joel teaching you how to go down on him

Pairing: Jackson!Joel x f!Reader

Joel’s Masterlist

WC: 3.3k

Tags/Warnings: smut, minors DNI, porn with no plot, unspecified but big age gap, oral (m!receiving), virginity, unprotected piv (just the tip), daddy kink, baby-talking, young and innocent reader, condescending joel, terms like baby girl, sweet little girl etc.

You two had started slow, like always. You were curled into his chest on the old couch of his house, legs draped over his lap, while the fire crackled. Joel’s arm was heavy around your shoulders, his hand warm against your thigh, thumb rubbing little circles into the cotton of your sleep shorts.

“Y’cold, baby?” he murmured, voice all gravel and syrup.

You shook your head against him. “No… m’alright.”

“You’re shiverin’.”

“M’not,” You whispered, even though you definitely were, but it wasn’t because the cold.

He chuckled low, the kind that rumbled from his chest into yours, and then he kissed you slow, like he had all the time in the world to taste you, making you moan softly against his mouth, fingers curling in the flannel of his shirt.

It always escalated the same way, his hand sliding under your shirt, rough fingers toying with your nipple until you gasped into his mouth, letting your hand press against the hard bulge in his jeans, and God, the way he groaned when you rubbed him, the way he’d mutter, “Atta girl… jus’ like that,” until he got so worked up you’d feel him twitch and pulse in his jeans, cumming from nothing but your hand over denim... you loved knowing it was you doing that to him.

But tonight… You were hungry for me more, eager to please him, to show him you were a big girl.

Joel pulled back from the kiss, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek, looking at you like you were some fragile little thing he couldn’t quite believe he got to hold.

“You alright, baby?”

You nodded but your throat was tight with the words you were trying to say.

“Tell me,” he said softly, eyes never leaving yours.

You swallowed. “I wanna… I wanna try somethin’. But I need you to teach me.”

He arched an eyebrow. “What kind of somethin’?”

You blushed, you were so shy you couldn’t meet his eyes right away. “I… wanna go down on you.”

Joel didn’t move for a second, he just stared at you, and then his lips curled into that lazy, crooked smirk you knew so well. You, his little baby, asking him to teach you how to blow him, it was a wet dream come true.

“Oh, baby girl…” He said it like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard, but then he leaned back slightly on the couch, spread his legs just a little, and his hand cradled your jaw, thumb brushing over your lips. “You wanna suck my cock, huh?”

The way he said it, teasing, condescending, like you were some precious little thing begging to be taught, made your thighs rub against the other.

You nodded, biting your lip. “Will you show me how, Joel?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed, voice already thick with arousal, “you ask real nice, don’tcha?”

He reached for his belt, undoing it slow like he wanted you to watch every single step of this, like he needed you to see what you’d been touching all this time.

“You sure ‘bout this, honey? You don’t gotta do nothin’ you’re not ready for.”

“I want to,” you whispered. “I want you to teach me.”

Joel exhaled like he was trying to calm himself, jaw clenching for a second before he cupped the back of your head to guide you down, gently, until you were kneeling between his spread thighs.

“Look at you down there… christ, you look like you were made for this.”

Your cheeks burned but you couldn’t look away from him, from the way he sat there, jeans undone, cock hard and straining in his briefs.

“Take him out, baby,” Joel murmured, his voice lower now, husky. “Nice and slow.”

You did, fingers shaking a little as you tugged his underwear down. And there he was, just like you'd expected, thick, flushed, twitching, leaking at the tip already, making your mouth go dry.

“C’mere, wrap your hand around me.” Joel said, his hand curling gently around yours, guiding your fingers to wrap around his shaft, it was huge compared to your tiny hands, which could barely wrap all the way around him. “There we go. That’s it. Hold him just like that.”

He tilted his hips, the weight of him heavy in your hand.

“Start slow,” Joel murmurs. “Yeah, like that. Just stroke it. All the way up, then back down.”

You move your hand like he told you, up and down, watching his face, his eyes flutter closed briefly, his hips twitch.

“Good. Now—“ His voice drops to a groan. “Use both hands. One at the base, one near the tip. Gentle twist when you go up, yeah thassit.”

You do as he says, and his head falls back against the couch.

“Jesus, baby…”

Your confidence builds with every sound he makes. You twist your wrist slightly, slide your palm over the slick head, he bucks just a little, jaw clenched.

“That part’s sensitive,” he pants. “Just a little pressure there, not too much. You’ll know when it’s too much ‘cause I’ll start beggin’.”

You grin. “I like that idea.”

“Lick the tip, baby,” he said, almost gently. “Just a lil’ taste. Like a popsicle.”

You obliged instantly, letting your tongue flick out shyly against the fat mushroom head, in responde Joel groaned so deep it made you clench your thighs together tighter.

“Fuck, that’s it… Good girl.”

You did it again, this time slower, flattening your tongue against the head, tasting the salty precum as you swirled it around. It all felt so filthy, you there on your knees, giving him soft, teasing kitten-licks on his huge cock. Joel was drinking it all in, savoring the sight, trying to burn the image into his memory. No doubt that the man would be jerking off to this whenever you weren’t around.

“Goddamn, you’re good at this already. Natural little cocksucker, huh?”

His words made you whimper, you felt dizzy, your cheeks were hot, maybe because of your shyness, maybe because of how aroused you were. He found it endearing, how innocent you looked and yet how eager and willing you were to please him. It was almost ridiculous, really: that soft, delicate face beneath him, while his thick, veiny cock stood proud right in front of you.

Joel guided you again, thumb brushing your cheek as he spoke.

“Open your mouth now. Wider. That’s it. Just the tip, baby, just take the head in. You’re not ready for the whole thing yet, just enough so I can feel that warm little mouth.”

You almost wanted to whine, to tell him, “I’m a big girl, Joel. I can take all of it.” But if Joel said you weren’t ready, then you trusted him, he always knew better. You wrapped your lips around him, sucking gently, and he hissed, head falling back against the couch. His cock stretched your lips just a little, the taste of him is salty and clean on your tongue.

“Fuck, yeah, thassit baby… nice and easy. Don’t rush. Savor it." He breathes.

He was so gentle but filthy at the same time, his hand petting your hair like you were the sweetest thing while he fed you his cock in tiny increments.

He’d never had anyone suck his cock so gently before, he fucking hated when women just dropped to their knees and deep-throated from the first damn second. The best part of this was getting to mold you to his pleasing, to teach you how he liked it, so you’d only ever do it his way.

“Use that hand, sweetheart,” he coaxed. “Stroke what you can’t fit. That’s it. Just like that.”

Once again, you obeyed him, your hand working in rhythm with your mouth, hollowing your cheeks just like he told you.

“Good fuckin’ girl.”

“Look at you, makin’ Daddy feel so good.”

“Such a sweet mouth on you… you were made for this, weren’t you?”

His hips started moving just a little, it was insane how much just seeing you, his cock stuffed deep in your mouth, was driving him wild. But the way it felt, the warmth and softness wrapped around him? That was a million times better.

“Tell me if it’s too much, baby. Don’t wanna hurt that pretty mouth.”

You shook your head, taking more of him in, loving the way he gasped, the way his thighs tensed under your hands, he was slowly but surely unraveling, you could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his hand gripped yours tighter where you stroked him.

“Try takin’ a little more,” he murmurs. “Only if it feels okay.”

You inch down, slow and careful, taking more of him, your lips stretch, your tongue pressed under the weight of him, and you hummed around him when he filled your mouth a little deeper.

“Nghhh yeah, move just like that,” he pants. “Use your hand with your mouth and keep it slick. Little twist when you stroke. Fuck, you’re a fast learner, baby..”

You’re dripping now, feeling the ache between your legs just from how wrecked he sounds, yet you go slow, listening to every sound he makes, the low curses, the clipped gasps, the murmured praise.

“Look at me,” he rasps.

You glance up with your mouth full of his cock, lips swollen, eyes wide, the look you give him makes Joel groans like it’s physically painful.

“Sweetheart, you look so fuckin’ pretty like that.”

You moan softly around him, and his hips twitch, he gasps and pulls back slightly.

“Shit—baby—hang on—”

You blink, lips shiny, confused, if it felt so good, why was he asking you to stop? Were you doing something wrong?

“I’m—close,” he says. “Real close. You probably don’t wanna—”

Silly Joel thought you wouldn't want his cum filling your mouth? You were gonna prove him wrong now, you were gonna get your mouth full of it. You lean forward again, and you take him back in, without stopping.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice rough and ragged. “You really gonna let me cum on that sweet lil’ face, darlin’?”

You moaned around him, and that was all it took.

“Fuck—oh fuck, baby girl,” he groaned, hips jerking. “Take it, take it, take all that cum for me—”

He spilled hot and thick into your mouth and onto your tongue, groaning like he hadn’t cum that hard in years. You swallowed instinctively, messy and clumsy, and some of it still dripped onto your chin. It felt thick and sticky down your throat, a little salty, unlike anything you’d ever tasted before, but it was Joel’s seed, and that made it feel… special.

He watches you swallow it, stunned, his whole body shudders through the last few spurts and you stroke him gently through it, hand slick, mouth soft.

Joel pulled you back gently, cupping your cheeks as he caught his breath. “Jesus Christ, baby…” he murmured, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth, tasting himself on your lips. “You’re somethin’ else.”

You looked up at him, breathless, dazed, and buzzing. “Did I do okay, daddy?”

Joel laughed softly, wiping his thumb across your lip where some of his cum had landed.

“You did fuckin’ perfect, baby. I’m so proud of you. That mouth, Jesus, you just about ended me.”

You curl into his chest, flushed, heart pounding, and he cradles you like you’re breakable.

“You okay, baby girl?”

I nodded, eyes wide. “Yeah… m’good.”

He smiled. “Yeah? That sweet mouth tired now?”

A giggle slipped out of your lips. “Not really…”

He chuckled low, but something about the way he looked at you changed then, his eyes were still hungry. “You want me to treat that pussy real nice too, baby? I bet she's achin’.”

“I…” you hesitated, chewing on your lip.

Joel tilted his head. “What is it?”

You looked down, then back up at him through your lashes. “I wanna try somethin’. But you gotta promise to be careful.”

Joel immediately froze. “Talk to me.”

You felt your heart pounding. “I just… I wanna try the tip,” you whispered. “Just that, but not all the way.”

His jaw clenched. “Baby…”

“Pleeeease?” You said, hand on his chest. “I trust you. I wanna know what it feels like, just the tip.”

Joel stared at you like he was trying to memorize you, like he was weighing the pleasure against his fear of hurting you. He was still hard again, painfully so, and he was dying to know what being inside you felt like, but he was still a gentleman afraid to hurt his sweet little girl.

“You’re still a virgin,” he said softly. “That’s not nothin’. I ain’t gonna take that from you unless you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” you said. “As long as you go slow, I want to feel you, please Joooeel.”

He muttered a curse under his breath, low and southern and filthy. Fuck, what the hell were you even doing to him? He was a grown-ass man, and here he was getting all worked up over just getting his tip wet, like he was some desperate teenager all over again in the back of a car at the drive-in, ready to lose it from a single stroke.

“Fuck, baby girl… you say it like that, I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.”

Joel kissed you hard, then he stood and scooped you up in his arms like you were made out of feathers, carrying you to his bedroom, the one you've been before a couple of times, with the old quilt and the creaky floorboards. He laid you gently on the bed like you were made of glass.

“You tell me if you want to stop,” he said, voice tight. “I mean it. I’ll pull out in a second. Ain’t nothin’ we gotta rush.”

“I know,” You whispered, reaching up to touch his face. “I want this.”

Joel undressed you slow, kissing every inch of skin as he bared it, your nipples were already hard when he pulled your shirt up, making him groan as soon as he saw them.

“Look at these pretty tits,” he murmured, sucking one into his mouth. “Still can’t believe these are all mine.”

You arched under him, gasping, thighs clenching as he trailed kisses down to the hem of your shorts, and when he peeled them off, he found you soaked, so soaked through your panties, making the cotton stick to your folds.

“God damn,” Joel muttered, pressing his thumb against the wet spot. “This all for me, sweetheart?”

You whimpered. “Yes…”

He quickly tugged the panties off slow, baring your aching, needy pussy, then knelt between your legs, staring at you like he wanted to devour you.

“You’re drippin’, baby,” he said, thumbing through the slickness between your pussy lips. “She’s beggin’ for me.”

He made you whimper when he pressed two fingers to your entrance, not pushing in, just teasing you.

“You’re so tight,” he murmured, sucking in a breath. “You sure you want me to put this cock in you, baby girl? Even just the tip?”

You nodded desperately. “Please, Joel. I need it.”

He groaned. “Fuck. Okay. Get up on the pillows for me, yeah? Gotta be real careful with you.”

You did as he said, like every single time, obeying like a good girl, lying back and spreading your legs open for him. He stroke his thick cock, now fully hard again, the head swollen and leaking precum. Joel lined himself up to your entrance, brushing the tip through your folds, making you jolt in anticipation.

“Gotta open up for me, baby,” he murmured, voice condescending and sweet. “Let daddy in just a lil’. That’s what you wanted, huh? Just the tip?”

“Y-yeah,” you breathed. “Just the tip.”

Joel pressed the head of his cock against your entrance and pushed in slowly, stretching your cunt wide with just that first inch, your breath caught at the invation, it burned, but it also made you clench, hips twitching as your body tried to pull him in deeper, as it tried to accomodate him inside you.

Joel cursed everything and everyone, just the fucking tip inside you and it was already better than every goddamn woman he’d ever fucked. Tighter. Hotter. Wetter. Like his cock had finally found where it belonged, like it had spent his whole damn life searching and now it found his home, nothing had ever felt like this, no one had ever felt like you.

“Fuuuck,” Joel groaned. “You feel that? That’s just the tip, baby girl. Just this fat head stretchin’ that virgin pussy. You takin’ it like a good girl.”

You moaned, thighs shaking. “Joel…”

“You like that?” he asked, leaning over you, still holding himself back. “You like bein’ stretched open like this?”

You nodded frantically, tears pricking your eyes, it hurted, yes, but it felt delicious like nothing you've experienced before in your life.

“Yeah, you do,” he cooed. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight, baby. You’re so fuckin’ small… and I ain’t even in yet.”

He pulled out just a little, then pressed back in with just the tip again. “Look at that,” he murmured. “Pussy so greedy, she don’t want me to leave.”

You gasped, arching your back. “It feels… so full…”

“This ain’t full, baby,” Joel growled. “This is just a taste. You let me in any deeper and I’ll ruin you.”

You whimpered. “I want it.”

“You want what?”

“I want you to ruin me.”

Joel growled low in his throat, dropping his head to rest against yours, hips moving just enough to slide that swollen tip in and out of you, teasing your entrance, fucking you with just the head, over and over.

“God, you don’t even know what you’re sayin’, baby. You ain’t ready for the whole thing yet. I’ll split you open.”

“I don’t care,” You whispered, gripping his shoulders. “I want it all.”

Joel groaned like he was in pain, pulling out again to rub his cock through your slick folds, smearing his precum and your wetness together, nudging against your clit until you writhed. You had no right to look so fucking pure while moaning for him to split you open, begging for more cock.

“Not tonight, baby,” he said, kissing you hard. “But soon I’m gonna take this pussy for real. Gonna fuck you so full you’ll be ruined for anyone else. You hear me?”

“I need more,” You moaned. “Pleeease, Jooeeel.”

“You ain’t ready for more,” he growled, but there was no edge in his voice, just hunger. “You think you can take all this cock? I’m a grown fuckin’ man, baby, not some boy.”

Joel rubbed the tip against your entrance again and slid it in once more, slowly, deeply, groaning like it was killing him to hold back, like he was fighting his whole body not to shove deeper. And you were so wet, so full already, you couldn’t stop squirming under him, clenching around the small stretch he gave you, chasing more with every desperate roll of your hips.

“Easy, baby,” he grunted, voice rough. “You’re squeezin’ me like a goddamn vice. You keep doin’ that and I’m gonna blow already.”

His hands gripped your hips like he was holding you still for dear life, his forehead dropped to yours, breath warm and ragged against your skin, and he just stayed there, buried with just the tip inside, grounding his hips against you, just enough to make you cry out, over and over.

“You’re doin’ so good, baby girl,” he whispered in my ear. “Makin’ daddy proud.”

He rolled his hips and ground the tip in deeper, just a shallow push that was barely an inch, but it was enough to make your back arch and your thighs tremble.

“F—fuck,” you gasped, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

“That feel good, sweet girl?” Joel cooed, baby-talking you again. “That lil’ virgin pussy likin’ how daddy’s tip feels stretchin’ her out?”

I nodded frantically. “Feels so good, daddy. Don’t stop, please—please don’t stop—”

“Oh, baby, I ain’t stoppin’,” he said, grinding his hips in slow, tiny circles, keeping that swollen head inside you while the rest of his length throbbed against your soaked folds. “Gonna fuck you like this, gonna make you cum on it. Gonna teach your pussy who she belongs to.”

“Y-yeah,” you breathed. “So big… and you’re not even all the way in…”

“Damn right I’m not,” he said. “You’re too fuckin’ tight, baby. You’ll take me when I say so, not before.”

Part of him was fucking feral over the fact that it was the first cock you’d ever taken, and the only one, he’d make damn sure of that. Seeing you cry from just one fucking inch? One single inch stretching that tight little pussy open for the first time? Christ, Joel would get this moment tattooed onto his chest if he could, nothing had ever made him feel more like a man.

His hands left your hips and slid down, thick fingers slipping between your bodies, parting your folds and rubbing soft and tight circles against your clit as he stayed buried in you just that inch.

“Joel—oh my God—!”

“You gonna cum for me?” he murmured. “Gonna let daddy make this sweet little cunt cum for the first time with a cock in her?”

You nodded wildly, you were so close, your whole body tense and trembling, thighs shaking around his waist.

“Look at you,” Joel groaned. “You don’t even need me all the way inside, do you? You just need this big tip grindin’ right into that little hole…”

He gave a shallow thrust, just a nudge forward, barely anything, but it hit something that has never been touched before, and you cried out in pleasure.

“Oh my God—Joel!”

“That’s it,” he rasped, fingers working faster against your clit. “Let it happen, baby girl. Let that tight little pussy cum for me. So fuckin’ good—my good girl—”

You came with a sob, back arching off the bed, thighs clamping down around his hips as you clenched and fluttered around the tip of his cock. Your whole body went tight and then loose all at once, like you'd been holding your breath since the moment he touched you, or like you've been holding your breath your entire life before this moment.

Joel growled like an animal, hips twitching once, twice, and then he cursed, his voice breaking. “Fuck—baby girl—fuck, I’m gonna—”

He spilled inside you, hot and sudden, still buried with just the tip. He didn’t move, didn’t thrust, just stayed there, pressed against you as thick pulses of his release coated your walls, leaking out around the base of his cock, making you both gasp through it, panting, foreheads pressed together, bodies still intertwined.

You both stayed like that for a long moment, his tip twitching inside you, your cunt still fluttering around him, warm and full and messy between your legs.

Joel kissed you softly. “You okay, baby?” he whispered. “Talk to me.”

You nodded, dazed. “Yeah… yeah. That was… that was…”

He smiled. “Yeah. That’s what just the tip feels like.”

You laughed breathlessly, still flushed and trembling. “So what’s the rest of it like?”

Joel’s smirk turned dark. “Oh, sweetheart. You ain’t ready for that answer yet.”

A/N: Hope you enjoyed it!! I’m planning a little series of one-shots with Joel teaching the reader different things, so lmk if you’d be interested in that. As always, your support means the world to me🩷🫶🏻

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

[dindjarinsslut]

oh i need more. this is SOOOOO incredible

material girl

THIS CONTAINS MATERIALISTS SPOILERS!

harry castillo x reader

age gap, female reader, contains themes of body image, chapter has not been edited

─────

You were born in the penthouse suite of Lenox Hill Hospital, wrapped in lavender silk instead of muslin.

The first sound you heard was the laugh track of your mother’s favorite 1950s sitcom playing softly in the background as she recovered on morphine.

You grew up in a six-story limestone townhouse off Fifth Avenue, the kind with frescoed ceilings and staircases so wide they made women feel like swans. The house smelled like bergamot and old paper. Always.

Your last name meant something—meant everything—in film. Directors paused when they heard it. Festival organizers offered you rooms. Cinematographers tried not to blink. Your family didn’t just fund films, they curated the atmosphere in which they were watched. Museums asked for your grandfather’s reel collection like relics. Your father’s voice had been immortalized in Criterion commentary tracks. You were born into the lighting. You were born on set.

By the time you were five, you knew what a backlot was.

By ten, you’d learned how to tell when a director was faking their references.

You could cry on cue, not because you were trained—but because crying got you what you wanted. You were always told you looked like your mother, which you hated.

But you knew it was true.

Same feline cheekbones, same bloodless complexion, same way of arching an eyebrow so it felt like an accusation.

Your sister, younger by three years, had always been the darling of brunch tables. You were the one who drew headlines when you spilled wine on a Cannes jury member’s lap and didn’t apologize. You were called “feisty” by Vanity Fair and “difficult” by your aunt’s third husband.

You hadn’t worked a day in your life, not in the way people mean it. You’d attended Columbia briefly, then left because someone on the faculty looked at you wrong. You dated mostly artists—photographers who lived in lofts and sculptors who never returned your YSL coat. Occasionally a screenwriter, someone who claimed he was writing you into something. They never did.

But lately, it had begun to sour.

Parties were too loud. Everyone looked like someone you’d already met. Men your age were either married or trying to get you to invest in something blockchain-related. Your doorman had started to pity you. He looked at you like you were an orchid in the wrong light.

It didn’t help that the world had shifted.

The industry, the city, the people you once dismissed as temporary had begun to stick. There were new families at the Met Gala now, new surnames attached to legacy tables at Polo Bar. You knew the kind of men you wanted. You just hadn’t seen one in a very long time. Not really.

But elsewhere, in a different corner of the city, another life was ticking along with equal weight and silence.

Harry Castillo stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in his penthouse and read a memo he didn’t care about. The building was newer than yours, all glass and good taste. The kind of place where appliances whispered and marble was warm to the touch.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a slate-gray sweater that looked like it belonged in a film about grief. His hair was dark but threaded with silver, curling at the back of his neck. His eyes were the color of wet earth. There was something old-fashioned about the way he stood—shoulders slightly back, like he was ready to say something difficult but necessary.

Harry was born into money too, though it was newer and quieter than yours.

His mother founded the Castillo Group after taking an inheritance and multiplying it tenfold in under a decade. She built the firm with the kind of discipline normally reserved for surgeons. Harry's father and brother now worked under her. So did he. Not because he had to—but because it was what Castillos did.

Private equity didn’t thrill him, but it made sense.

And Harry liked things that made sense.

He liked structure. He liked the rhythms of quarterly reports and the smell of ink on legal pads. His world ran on spreadsheets and quiet dinners with men who owned things you’d never see.

He had recently ended things with Lucy Mason, a woman who had once been important to him. She was a professional matchmaker—poised, brilliant, and deeply concerned with emotional compatibility indexes.

He’d liked her. He’d tried to love her. But there had always been a small door inside his chest that wouldn’t open for her. Not all the way.

They ended things late at night.

It was civil, almost eerie in its neatness. She told him that if he ever wanted to try her service, he should.

“If you call the office,” she said. “They'll assign someone great for you.”

He nodded and never called. Not yet.

Back uptown, you were barefoot on the heated terrazzo floor of your kitchen, making a mess out of truffle honey and sourdough. Your sister was at the counter, scrolling through her phone like it was her real job. She looked too pleased. You didn’t trust her when she looked pleased.

“You’re not wearing those boots again, are you?” she asked, not looking up. “They’re very…divorcee.”

You ignored her. You’d been feeling unstable lately, a little trapped in the amber of your own life. You’d been googling people you once hated and found out they might have figured something out.

Before you.

You hated how that felt.

Your sister put down her phone. Too deliberately.

“So,” she said. “Promise not to get mad?”

You looked up. “No.”

She beamed. “Okay. Don’t freak out. But I might have filled out a little thing for you.”

You blinked. “What kind of thing.”

“It’s nothing. Just…a profile. For a matchmaking service. Very elite. Very low-profile. Super bespoke.”

You said nothing. You stared at her, hard enough that she briefly flinched.

“I knew you’d react like this,” she groaned. “But come on. You’ve dated everyone in Manhattan who’s not in rehab or under federal investigation. You need a reset. A new algorithm. Let the universe—or a very qualified stranger—take the wheel.”

You turned away, grabbed the spoon, stirred your espresso like it was someone’s fault.

“Please tell me you didn’t use my real name,” you said quietly.

She hesitated.

“I used your middle name,” she said brightly. “That counts, right?”

Outside, the city shuddered to life—cars moving like brushstrokes, old buildings watching from behind limestone brows.

You didn’t know it yet but Harry Castillo would open a drawer that night and find the business card Lucy once left behind. He’d hold it in his hand a little too long.

Today was for disbelief. For the kind of quiet before something tilts. For looking out at the city and wondering—against all logic—if maybe someone was already looking back.

You didn’t go out much that week.

Not in any performative way—no detoxes, no dramatic declarations to your group chat, just a slow unspooling of invitations you didn’t RSVP to.

A dinner at Lucien you skipped.

A gallery opening where someone’s assistant texted, They’re asking if you’re coming.

You weren’t.

You sat barefoot on the windowsill instead, eating cold papaya and watching the fog crawl up like it was trying to forget where it came from.

Your sister had gone quiet. Not in a guilty way—she’d never been wired for guilt—but in that annoying, practiced stillness she slipped into when she was waiting to be proven right. You could feel it in the one word texts. The silence that followed. The smug, hovering dot-dot-dot that never became a message.

You lasted about two weeks like that. Then your mother called.

Lunch, she said. Cipriani, obviously. She didn’t ask if it worked for you. She didn’t need to.

You arrived ten minutes late on principle. She was already seated, already picking mint from her cocktail, already tilting her cheek for a kiss she never quite gave.

Her hair was perfect.

It always was.

Still pulled into a chignon so tight it made her face look slightly unreal. Her scarf—Hermès, naturally—was twisted just so, like she'd stepped out of a 1970s Italian film and never aged past the good lighting.

“I ordered the risotto for the table,” she said. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“Have you been working out? Your stomach looks soft.”

“I said I’m fine.”

She waved you off, already bored. Her nails tapped her wine glass with deliberate disdain. You knew the rhythm by heart.

She asked how you’d been, and you told her the sanitized version—books you were pretending to read, your new pilates instructor with that Finnish accent, something about how you were considering showing up on dad's set in Los Angeles just to feel something.

She nodded politely through all of it, eyes scanning the room.

Then, as the waiter laid down the salmon, she struck.

“You know,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be chosen.”

You didn’t look up. You kept slicing bread. Slowly. Cleanly.

She kept going, of course.

“I worry you’ve built this little moat around yourself. And for what? So no one can disappoint you? That’s not strength, darling.”

“Are you seriously—”

“And don’t say you’re not lonely. Everyone’s lonely. It’s boring.”

You could feel your jaw set. That was the thing with her. She never said it cruelly. She said it like it was just another fact, like the weather or your blood type. Like cruelty wasn’t personal unless you let it be.

“I didn’t come here for a lecture.”

“No. You came because I asked you to.” She smiled over her wine. “And because no one else did.”

The silence that followed was sour and expensive. The kind that doesn’t get broken by apologies, only by checks and limousines and the distraction of someone else’s scandal.

You got into the back of your car with your stomach a tight little fist. You didn’t cry. Not there, not then. You weren’t that girl.

But that night, the email came.

From a stranger.

Subject line: Matchmaker Profile Review – Please Confirm Details.

At first, you thought it was spam. Then you saw your middle name typed like it belonged to someone else. The same photo your sister had forced you to take last year, standing on the terrace in a white dress that had made you feel like a ghost. It was you. You, in some unnervingly accurate bullet points. Preferences. Dealbreakers. Love languages.

You hovered over the trash icon. Didn’t click.

Not yet.

Harry sat in his bedroom in silence.

The penthouse—more glass than walls—was hushed, interrupted only by the occasional hum of temperature regulation or the sigh of traffic five stories down. He liked it that way. Controlled. Calibrated. No echoes of someone else’s taste.

He sat in the reading chair by the window, laptop balanced across his thighs, a page open with the pale gray header: Castillo, H — Matchmaker Profile Review Requested.

Rose—his matchmaker—had told him to look it over. See if anything felt off. “Even the smallest thing,” she’d said, with her clipped precision. “We don’t want anything distorting the signal.”

He didn’t believe in signals. Not really.

Still, he scrolled.

He scanned the words—edited, carefully neutral. No photos. He’d opted out. There were photos of everyone now. He didn’t want that. He liked the idea of someone reading first. Imagining. Filling in the edges wrong.

Then he saw it.

Height: 6’0

He paused.

It was true. Now.

But it wasn’t always.

He shifted in the chair, legs stiff. That familiar ache, dull and ghostlike, stirred beneath his skin.

It had been eight years.

Still, some mornings he swore he could feel the break. The phantom throb of it. The remembering.

He’d been thirty-seven when he did it. His brother had gone first, dragging him into the consultation like it was some secret rite. The doctor spoke with an accent and wore a Rolex that glinted like a challenge.

They broke the bones. Femurs. Tibias. Stretched them millimeter by millimeter over months. Metal rods inside the legs. Physical therapy that made grown men cry.

Four hundred thousand dollars.

Each.

They were lucky.

Rich boys.

They healed in penthouses with private nurses and blackout curtains. Harry read biographies of ruined men while his legs screamed.

He never told anyone. Not even Lucy. Until she found his scars while he was sleeping.

The scars were faint. A pair of pale, wicked lines running along the outside of each leg, like punctuation marks on a story he didn’t talk about. He saw them in the mirror sometimes and thought, What did I gain, really?

Six inches, yes.

But also… something unspoken. Some strange edge. A new way men listened when he spoke. The way women didn’t ask questions, just tilted their heads in approval, as if the air had shifted.

It wasn’t vanity. Not exactly.

It was about scale. About not disappearing in rooms where power stood tall.

Still, seeing it there, written down, made something in his throat tighten.

He shut the laptop and leaned back. The city glowed below him. Red tail lights inching up West Broadway. People moving, choosing, being chosen.

He reached down and rubbed his shin gently, as if to remind himself...this is yours.

You paid for this height.

You earned it in bone.

Meanwhile in another penthouse just a few blocks away...you were lying on your back, staring up at the crown molding, thinking about the things your mother said.

The idea that being chosen was something worth wanting.

You hated that it echoed.

You hated more that it almost sounded true.

Downstairs, your doorman signed for a package. Something sent from an office you’d never heard of. A folder sealed in black. Your name printed in serif.

You wouldn’t see it until morning.

But it was already in the building.

Already waiting.

When you woke, the light in your bedroom was soft and dull, filtered through gauzy curtains your mother had once called tragically optimistic. The air had that filtered morning silence that felt vaguely judgmental, like even your apartment was waiting to see what kind of person you were going to be today.

You padded barefoot across the terrazzo floor, still in last night’s silk camisole, your stomach a soft ache from too much wine or not enough food. You didn’t remember which.

And there it was.

A black envelope.

Just outside your penthouse door. Laid neatly on the marble like it belonged there. No branding. No return address. Only your middle name printed in thin serif font.

You stood there for a moment, coffee-less, suspicious, bare-legged in a building where people wore jewelry to take out the trash.

You thought...spam. PR. A strange flex from a failed suitor.

But then you saw the initials etched lightly on the back seal...R.S.

Your stomach curled slightly.

Your sister. That smug, beautiful demon.

You carried the envelope inside like it was cursed.

At the kitchen island, you made espresso and stared at it like it might blink. Your phone had seven unread messages and none of them mattered. You’d spent too many mornings like this—floating in your own life like it was someone else’s bathwater.

Eventually, you slid your finger under the flap.

Inside a slim folder. Matte cardstock. Minimalist. Heavy enough to feel expensive.

A letter on the front.

Your sister mentioned you were hesitant. I understand hesitation—it can be a sign of intelligence. But I also know a match when I see one. The following is not a pitch, nor a promise. It’s just a possibility. — Rose

You blinked. That was it. No company logo, no contact info. Just a name and a voice like the inside of a glass of wine—dry, elegant, a little smug.

You flipped the page.

There were bullet points. Controlled, curated, clinical. Every line written like it had been vetted by lawyers and therapists.

Age: 47

Height: 6'0

Marital Status: Never married

Children: None

Occupation: Private Equity (Partner, Family Firm)

Residency: Tribeca

Education: Ivy League (Economics)

Religion: Agnostic

Languages: English, Spanish

Temperament: Observant. Principled. 

Emotional Availability: High—when trust is earned.

Love Language: Acts of service. 

Looking for: The real thing.

You stared at it.

Private equity. Tribeca. Forty-seven. You groaned.

He sounded like the kind of man who corrected waitstaff and had a framed blueprint of a yacht in his office. The kind of man your mother would politely destroy with a single glance and a casually cruel remark about his tie.

But you kept reading.

There were notes. Margins full of them. From the matchmaker, apparently—this unseen curator pulling invisible strings.

"He listens more than he speaks. But when he speaks, everyone listens."

"Very tactile with people he trusts. Rare, but notable."

"He likes reading before bed. Not out of habit. Out of need."

"Wants children. Not urgently. But honestly."

You felt yourself bristle. Then soften. Then bristle again.

Because you knew men like this didn’t exist. Not really. And if they did, they didn’t submit themselves to algorithms. They didn’t hand over their inner lives to professional matchmakers in New York City. They didn’t wait around for women with baggage and beautifully designed boundaries.

But then—

Then there was the smaller envelope.

Sealed. Black wax. No flourish, just the words...

Only open if interested.

Which, of course, was exactly the kind of thing that made you want to open it.

So you did.

Inside, a deeper profile. Not his answers. Her notes.

No photo. Of course not.

But somehow, without seeing him, the image began to form anyway.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. A man who dressed like he didn’t think about it—because someone else always had. Dark hair, graying in a way that made you think of salt, of restraint, of stories not told too soon. Eyes like wet bark. The kind of brown that held heat, not just color.

There was a line under Romantic Compatibility, written in Rose's careful script...

“He doesn’t flirt. He focuses. Makes you feel like the only room he’s ever stood in is the one you’re in now.”

Your stomach did a thing.

You hated that it did a thing.

You closed the file. Too fast. Like the words could see you, like they knew.

Who was this man?

You’d known hundreds of men. Dated enough to recognize types. Models. Trust fund poets. One devastating poet’s assistant. You could smell performative vulnerability from two rooms away. But this wasn’t that.

This was something else.

Across the city, Rose sipped her espresso in a glass office with zero personal items. She tapped a pen against her tablet and refreshed her inbox.

Harry still hadn’t responded.

She didn’t blame him. He was slower than most. A man who considered decisions like he was building a bridge over water he hadn’t named yet.

So she’d done it herself.

She'd read your sister’s submission, then read between the lines.

Googled you. Googled your grandfather.

Saw the name in festival archives, on lost reels from the sixties. Watched the grainy interview with your mother in a Paris cinema.

Saw the haunted brilliance in your face, the face of a legacy you hadn’t asked for.

She knew then.

She knew.

It wasn’t about wealth or aesthetic parity—it was energy. Containment. Quiet power looking for a counterpart.

So she sent it.

Let the rich girl read. Let the serious man stall.

Let the city do the rest.

Back in your kitchen, you refilled your espresso. Opened the file again. Not because you believed in it. But because something in your chest had begun to hum.

You hadn’t seen his face.

But you couldn’t stop picturing it.

And when you went to bed that night, you didn’t throw away the folder like you had planned to do.

You didn’t talk to your sister about it either.

You just let it sit there, glowing in your building.

A match you hadn’t chosen.

But maybe—

Just maybe—

One that saw you anyway.

The next tine you blinked it had been six days since the envelope.

Time moves fast when you are stressing over a man who doesn't even know you exist. 

You hadn’t opened the envelope again. You’d slid it back into the matte folder and tucked the whole thing into the shallow drawer of your vanity—the one usually reserved for lipsticks in limited-edition packaging and love letters you never responded to.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that it was just some expensive exercise in curated loneliness.

Like horoscopes for people with trust funds.

You’d stopped searching the internet.

There were too many men. Too many firms.

Every time you typed “New York private equity, 47, no kids,” the results made you want to burn your laptop. Sleek men in sleeker suits, blinking across LinkedIn headshots like a smug carousel. Half of them looked like the villain in a thriller, the other half like your ex’s father.

None of them looked like him—whoever he was.

And you told yourself you didn’t care.

You were busy, anyway.

Your grandmother had summoned the family.

She did this sometimes. Not for holidays, not for birthdays. Only for matters. The kind that required linen blazers and polite expressions, and the ceremonial silence that came when she mentioned death like it was something chic and inevitable.

Your grandfather had passed five years ago in Italy, holding a cigarette and laughing at a joke you never heard. He’d left behind vaults of film, four ex-lovers at his funeral, and a will that could’ve passed for a screenplay. Your grandmother had been quiet since. Not sad, exactly—just...theatrical in a colder register. As if grief was a role she’d aged out of but still wanted to audition for.

She’d asked the family to meet with a firm. Something about reorganizing trusts. Future-proofing. “Estate things,” your mother had said vaguely while buttering toast with her rings on.

All you heard was...meetings.

So now you had one. A meeting with a private equity firm that sounded like a wine label. It was supposed to be “the best,” of course. It always was.

The name meant nothing to you.

Castillo Group.

Sounded clean. Impersonal. Like a gallery that only sold work in black and white.

You were barely listening when your sister explained the structure of the meeting.

“…and we’re meeting with one of the partners,” she said, scrolling through her phone while icing her jaw. “They assigned us someone directly. It’s serious, apparently. Gran wants to talk about legacy clauses.”

You made a vague sound of acknowledgement and stole a sip of her green juice.

She slapped your hand without looking up.

“Don’t be weird,” she said.

You weren’t weird. You were bored.

The week passed in lacquered hours.

Days filled with pilates, wine, group chats muted indefinitely.

You ignored texts from men you didn’t remember giving your number to.

You wore sunglasses indoors. You bought a vintage Schiaparelli coat you didn’t need. You stared out windows longer than was socially acceptable.

And still—

The man lingered.

The match. Him.

Not directly. Just in flashes. The way someone brushed your wrist on the subway. The way the barista called your name too softly. The memory of Rose’s notes, scribbled like a diary for someone else’s soul.

You didn’t even know his name.

So you stopped thinking about it.

You went to pilates instead.

It was one of those spaces that didn’t call itself a gym—more like a “wellness lab.” All eucalyptus mist and minimalist lighting. The front desk staff were beautiful in that beige, uncanny way, like they’d been grown in a vat labeled Miu Miu campaign.

Your friends were already on the reformers when you arrived.

“Nice of you to join us,” said Inez, legs in straps, gold hoops catching the morning light. “Thought maybe you’d died of aesthetic fatigue.”

You dropped your mat bag dramatically. “I almost did. Someone tried to pitch me a podcast on legacy healing at Dries.”

Sophia snorted and gestured for you to take the spot beside her.

“Guess who’s instructing today,” she whispered, eyes gleaming.

You didn’t have to guess long.

The instructor—Matteo—looked like a poem someone wrote after watching too many Prada ads. Italian. Arms covered in tattoos that didn’t need stories.

You tried not to notice. You failed.

Midway through class, he came over to adjust your form. His hands grazed your hips, featherlight, intentional. He said something low in your ear—“You hold tension here, no?”—and you didn’t even pretend not to smirk.

After class, he caught up with you by the locker rooms. Said your movement was better than anyone in that class. You laughed, genuinely. He asked if you wanted to get a drink sometime.

You paused. Tilted your head. Let the moment breathe.

And then, “You wouldn’t survive my family,” you said, brushing past him with the smile you reserved for temporary men.

Your friends howled when you told them.

“I give it two weeks before you sleep with him,” said Sophia, adjusting her sunglasses.

“Two days,” Inez countered. “Max.”

You shook your head. “He’s a rebound I haven’t even earned yet.”

You didn’t tell them about the envelope. You hadn’t told anyone. Not really. It wasn’t shame—just…a strange refusal to share something you didn’t understand.

The man. The notes. The way they settled under your skin like they belonged there.

Later that evening, your mother texted.

Confirming tomorrow’s appointment. 11 AM. Don’t wear that thing with the fringe.

You didn’t respond.

Instead, you stood by your window, barefoot again, staring down at the city.

Somewhere out there was a man who might’ve been made for you.

And you were about to walk into his building.

Without even knowing it.

The next morning, the light came in soft again—but this time, you were ready for it.

You woke early. Not from an alarm, but from something subtler...the shifting silence of the city beyond your window, the almost imperceptible creak of your building adjusting to the day. There was a feeling in the air, taut and irritable, like silk snagged on a nail.

You didn’t hesitate.

Slipped out of bed, bare feet meeting cold terrazzo, body moving through the motions of your morning like choreography. Coffee first. Then the shower, where steam curled like memory and water hit your back in steady, punishing streams. Your playlist—jazz, something you played when you needed stability.

At your vanity, you moved with purpose.

Silk robe open at the shoulders. Skin dewy from serum. Hair twisted into a low chignon so severe your mother might approve. Your makeup was minimal. A little contour, a matte lip, the faintest shimmer on your cheekbones.

Then the dress.

Vintage Givenchy, the kind of black that absorbs your body. Sleeveless, high-necked, sculpted like you’d been poured into it. It flared just slightly at the hem. You added earrings your grandmother had once described as “impractical for daylight” which of course meant they were perfect.

You checked your reflection only once.

Perfect posture. Unbothered elegance.

Then, you descended.

At the lobby, your driver was already waiting.

Claude had been with your family since before you were born. He'd taught you how to parallel park in Montauk and once threatened paparazzi with a tire iron outside your prep school formal. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to.

You slid into the back seat, legs crossed at the knee, coat draped over one shoulder. He merged onto Fifth with surgical precision.

“Traffic?” you asked.

“Not terrible.”

You nodded. Looked out the window.

Then the camera flashes hit.

Paparazzi. Two of them—lurking just outside the florist’s on 74th, lying in wait like roaches with thousand-dollar lenses. You didn’t flinch. You turned slightly, letting them get your better side.

Later, someone would send you a tabloid screenshot with the headline...Heiress En Route to High-Stakes Family Meeting. Your hair would tried to be recreated on TikTok. Someone in the comments would say you looked like a bitch.

Everything is great.

You arrived fifteen minutes late.

Because of course you did.

Claude pulled up in front of the building, not caring about the no parking sign,

Castillo Group read on the glass. The entrance was flanked by planters so perfectly symmetrical it felt aggressive.

You didn’t wait for the concierge. You just walked in, heels clicking like punctuation, coat draped over your forearm, eyes scanning the marble-and-brushed-brass lobby like it might bore you.

The receptionist blinked.

Everyone blinked.

You were used to that.

You gave your name. She gave a floor number.

“Your family’s already up there.”

Of course they were.

The elevator was silent, mirrored. You caught your own reflection and didn’t look away. You didn’t fidget. You didn’t check your phone. When the doors opened, you walked out like you belonged there.

Upstairs, in a glass-walled conference room designed for bids and negotiations, Harry Castillo was already seated.

He didn’t see you at first. He was focused on your grandmother—who’d arrived ten minutes early and was now seated at the head of the table like a bored monarch.

Your mother was beside her, glancing at her nails like they might betray her. Your sister, chewing invisible gum, scrolling on her phone. Your father, thank God, smiled when Harry greeted him. Warmly, even.

Harry liked your father. Had met him briefly before—quietly magnetic, the kind of man who’d aged into his cynicism with charm.

The meeting was already in motion.

Legacy clauses. Trust restructuring. Long-term tax shelters.

Harry had learned long ago how to focus on the numbers without being distracted by the jewelry, the veiled insults, the family lore. Your grandmother referred to their fortune like it had been bestowed by Zeus himself.

Then the door opened.

And you entered.

Harry didn’t look up right away. He was mid-sentence, something about generational liquidity and stepped-up basis calculations. Then his eyes lifted.

And the sentence died in his mouth.

You walked in like the room had been built around your arrival. Back straight. Expression unreadable. Not arrogant—just certain.

Black dress. Earrings that shouldn’t have worked, but did. A face that held a thousand stories and dared you to ask for one. You didn’t apologize for being late. You didn’t even pretend to care.

You took the empty seat beside your father.

Harry watched you like a man trying not to be caught watching.

His colleagues—the senior associate, the analyst, even the usually-unflappable estate attorney—reacted like something seismic had shifted. A cough. A fidget. A clearing of the throat.

You didn’t notice.

Or you did—and chose not to respond.

Harry looked down at his notes.

You, he thought, were exactly what Rose had sent. Except he didn’t know that yet. Couldn’t know. Because the sleek black envelope was still unopened. Still sealed. Still sitting in his office under a stack of quarterly earnings reports.

And you?

You barely looked at him.

You were polite. Dismissive. Tired in a way that didn’t show on your face but echoed in the way you crossed your legs. You asked two questions—sharp, surgical. You answered one of your grandmother’s passive-aggressive remarks with a half-smile so lethal the paralegal accidentally knocked over his water glass.

Harry watched it all.

Took it in like a study.

You didn’t look like a woman who needed anything.

Which is why, when you leaned slightly toward your father and murmured something that made him laugh, Harry felt something strange stir behind his ribs.

You were nothing like Lucy.

You were...burnt edges and quiet glamour, the kind of presence that made people straighten their posture without knowing why. The kind of woman who didn’t smile to make others comfortable.

The meeting continued.

You didn’t speak much.

But when you did, it changed the tone.

You challenged who would earn the rights to certain films.

Asked about film archive clauses.

Corrected your mother without blinking.

And when Harry finally did address you—only once, to clarify a section on trust structure—you nodded.

“Understood,” you said.

No smile. No flirtation.

Just clarity.

And still—Harry felt it. That tilt. The quiet shift. The thing that lives in the breath between two people before they ever really speak.

When the meeting ended, your grandmother rose first.

She didn't thank anyone. She didn’t need to. Her rings did the talking.

Your mother followed. Your sister made a quip about the chairs being bad for her hips. Your father lingered, shaking hands, making small talk with the estate attorney about his late father-in-law's cinema.

You were the last to stand.

And Harry—Harry watched you go.

Not in a way anyone would notice. Just a glance. A flicker. But enough to feel something crack inside his well-constructed, well-curated sense of detachment.

He didn’t know your name.

You didn’t know his.

Not yet.

And the black envelope in his office remained untouched.

But the city was shifting.

And the string had already pulled tight.

That night, Harry couldn’t sleep.

He didn’t usually have this problem. His apartment—if it could still be called that—was engineered for silence. Floor-to-ceiling windows, blackout shades, temperature calibrated to lull any insomniac into submission. The kind of place where sound had to ask permission.

But still, he laid there, one arm behind his head, shirt off, the city beyond the glass blinking like a pulse.

You’d been in his head all day.

Since you walked into that conference room like it owed you something. Since you’d crossed your legs and tilted your chin and answered your grandmother like a diplomat with a dagger under her tongue.

He’d barely heard a word of the financial summary after that. The analyst had repeated himself twice.

He’d nodded. Pretended. Said all the right things. But your face had lingered—cool, sculptural, with eyes that didn’t wander. Like you didn’t need the room’s approval. Like the room had already lost its chance to impress you.

Which is exactly why he needed to get you out of his head.

He rose sometime past midnight. The floor was cold against his feet. He poured himself a glass of water and crossed to his office.

The space was minimalist, but not impersonal. Books lined the walls. A single photograph—his brother Peter’s wedding—sat framed in the corner of his desk.

He had been Peter’s best man. Smiling, tailored, solemn in that way that made women say he looked like someone who had stories and the discipline not to tell them.

Peter had married Charlotte—sharp, beautiful, meticulous. A match made by Adore Matchmaking, by Lucy herself. The agency Harry had never believed in.

But Rose...Rose had sent him something weeks ago. Something he hadn’t touched.

He got to his desk slowly. The envelope was still there. Black wax seal. No branding. Just two letters.

R.S.

No flourish. Just intent.

He cracked the seal. Slowly. Like it might burn.

Inside, a folder. Matte. Heavy. Clinical. His name written at the top in neat serif.

Castillo, H. — Match Profile Review

He almost laughed. Almost.

Then he flipped the page.

And saw your photo.

It hit him like a held breath.

You.

You, in a white dress, standing on a terrace that looked vaguely Roman, vaguely imagined. You weren’t smiling. Just watching something beyond the frame, your posture perfect, your mouth slightly parted like you were about to say something.

The city dimmed around him.

He set the photo down, too gently.

The rest came after—your name (middle only, smart), your background, the carefully-worded notes Rose had stitched together like myth.

He read the line about your grandfather and felt it click into place. The film family. The legacy. The reason everyone in the room had sat straighter when your father entered.

But it was you.

It had been you all along.

And you had no idea.

He sank into the leather chair, your photo still resting beside his wrist like something too sacred to touch again.

It felt impossible. Too neat. And yet—

He thought about that moment in the meeting. When your eyes flicked over him once, unreadable. When you barely spoke to him at all.

He’d assumed it was because you were used to men noticing you. That it was nothing.

But now he wondered...was it better that you didn’t know? Or worse?

He rubbed his hand absently along the outside of his thigh. Scar tissue.

The faint ridge where bone had once been broken, slowly stretched, made new.

If you ever saw it—if you ran your fingers down his legs in the dark, tracing those pale punctuation marks—would you recoil? Would you laugh? Would you ask why?

Would he tell you the truth?

That it wasn’t vanity. Not really. That it was something more primitive than that.

Survival.

He closed the folder. Not to hide it. Just to think.

Because suddenly the idea of seeing you again—of meeting you, really meeting you—felt unbearable and inevitable all at once.

He hadn’t believed in fate. Not until now.

He looked out at the city.

Somewhere, not far, you were probably asleep in a bed the size of a country, one arm flung over your eyes, dreaming of nothing because you refused to give the universe the satisfaction.

And he—

He leaned back in his chair, your name like an electric thread running behind his ribs.

He would see you again.

He knew it.

He just didn’t know when.

But he hoped—quietly, selfishly—that it would be soon.

tag list: @lizziesfirstwife @bluevelvetpedro @thatpinkshirt @i-wanna-be-your-muse @okiegal68 @buckyandlokirunmylife @sohaaa6 @saltyfartdreamland @catharinamarea @cassiuspascal

[dindjarinsslut]

i’m dead this is incredible

Sticky

Pairing: Old!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel can’t get it up. You lick frosting off his flaccid cock to help increase the bloodflow a little bit.

Warnings: 18+. Another fic for my AARP-affiliate fuckers. Soft cock ✔️ Buttercream frosting ✔️ Needy old Joel ✔️ Oral (m!receiving). Foodplay. Acute erectile dysfunction. Feral!Reader. Age gap. Daddy kink. Lots and lots of spit.

Note: To the anon who sent this request in today—I 🩷 U

Word count: 1.2k

He didn’t deserve you.

Really, in all the sixty-something years he’d been alive, Joel Miller felt as if he’d struck gold when he landed a partner as considerate, kind, patient, and sweet as you.

He thought if you got any sweeter right now, he’d have to head to the doctor to get his blood pressure checked out—that was how wild and saccharine things were looking.

With his elbows resting limply on the armrests of his favorite recliner, feet planted shoulder-width apart on the wooden floor, and his eyes trained in one, lone line, Joel felt like his stomach might fall out of his ass at any second. His hips jerked as he felt a loud, wet pop below.

You pulled off his cock, frosting all over your lips and chin

“That feel OK, daddy? Any better than before?”

Better than you could even imagine.

Joel blinked through the dreamy haze before his eyes and peered down at you. You were knelt between his legs, and your face was dripping with spit and icing.

You’d been licking and sucking cupcake frosting off his dick for the last twenty minutes, and the limp bastard hadn’t stirred a bit. He was still soft as he’d ever been.

Joel leaned forward so he could cup your glistening chin.

“You feel the best,” he assured you gently. “Always do. But I’m, uh…I’m not sure he’s gonna cooperate with us today. You sure you wanna keep on goin’ like this, baby?”

“‘Course I do. This is fun.” You grinned.

After three years, two babies, and more love and laughter shared than any man like him could ever hope to have, Joel felt a tug at his heart. He couldn’t believe his luck.

“What? Suckin’ this old, limp—” he started, about to disparage himself and that nasty bout of erectile dysfunction he’d been experiencing of late. Before he could finish, though, you took him back in your mouth.

You nudged his hand aside and dove right down to the base, with your lips flaring around the soft, tender skin. Silver hairs tickled your nose, and you just giggled at it.

The reverberations from that little laugh traveled up in a second from his tip to his stomach to something deep and primal and needy percolating inside him. It caught him off guard. In the next moment, you were sliding off, letting his member droop down, but only long enough for you to dip two fingers in the container of icing you’d brought up with you. The stuff was bright and pink.

It also happened to feel like a dream when it mixed with your spit and soaked your tongue. You stuck your index and middle fingers into your mouth, and with the frosting all over your tongue, you leaned down.

You licked Joel’s tip. Coated him in the stuff.

“Don’t talk bad about your dick. He’s my best friend, y’know,” you murmured, clearly smothering another grin.

Before Joel could reply, your lips were pursing together, and a big, shiny glob of saliva slid out. You drew your mouth even closer to his frosting-coated head, and you spit on it. You gripped him mid-shaft, and you worked the moisture that slid down in a series of quick pumps.

Joel’s jaw went slack, and he groaned.

“Best—best friend, huh? That really how you feel?”

At the same moment, your lips parted again to take his cock in between them. Your mouth slid down, pushing the spit and the pink frosting with it, and, in tandem with the strokes of your hand, you sucked him messily. Repeatedly, you bobbed your head up and down.

The whole time you did it, your eyes were trained on his.

If Joel weren’t sitting down, he would have collapsed.

A shuddering breath left his lungs, and, without thinking, he lowered a hand to your cheek. While your mouth kept sliding back and forth over his still-flaccid cock, he tried to follow it while he could. He cupped your jaw and felt trails of spit and sugar that had trickled as you sucked.

Something tightened in his gut.

Nothing stirred between his legs at first, but then, when your lips left him again and you flattened out your tongue to give his member a long, slow, teasing lick, he let out a groan. Spit was smeared in a line, and his balls twitched.

You were committed to this. As if sensing the faintest movement down below, you moved your lips to the rounded globes, and you sucked one into your mouth.

“Fuckin’ shit,” Joel hissed.

You sucked the other one in. You teased the tip of your tongue over them both, and, while Joel was trying his hardest not to go into cardiac arrest from those motions alone, you leaned down. Swiftly, you took another dollop and drew it out with three fingers—a little more this time.

Joel expected you to smooth it over his shaft with your lips and then suck him down again. Maybe stick out your tongue and drag the whole pinkish glob down to his balls

Instead, you lifted your hand to him.

It was under his chin in no time at all.

“Suck it off my fingers, daddy. Please.”

Joel wasn’t thinking. He couldn’t compute.

Somehow, still, with his brain barely online, he opened his mouth to you and let you push three icing-stained fingers inside it. Eyes round, he felt your touch pull out and prepared to swallow it whole. Then you stopped him.

“Don’t eat it,” you said, eyes twinkling.

Joel paused. He blinked dumbly back at you.

“Wh—” he started to say, mouth full of frosting.

Before he could get out a word, you parted your lips.

“Spit it in my mouth.” And then your tongue pushed out.

In that moment, Joel thought he might lose his mind.

It wasn’t like the request was even particularly obscene—you’d done plenty of dirtier things together before—but now, here, you were meeting his gaze with such a soft, innocent look, and something about the sheer idea of feeding you this frosting was like a punch to the gut.

He steeled himself briefly. Unblinking, and with his brain feeling like the consistency of scrambled eggs, Joel leaned forward, and he reached for your throat.

His fingers secured themselves gently around your neck like it was second nature to him, and you tilted your chin.

Joel met your gaze. It was soft, sweet, and loving as ever.

Thinking again how fortunate he was, he pursed his lips.

As soon as he spit into your mouth, the words slid out.

“I love you, baby. Don’t deserve you the least little bit.”

You caught the frosting easy. Your lips closed around it, and with your eyes still locked on his, you let part of the same thick glob dribble out—past your lips, down your chin a bit, enough to trickle down the throat that he was still holding—and then you fixed him with the softest, sweetest smile you could manage before lowering again.

Then you let the rest dribble down his cock, which, to Joel’s mind-numbing surprise, was suddenly partly erect

You weren’t looking at it.

Your gaze was still holding his, and in it, Joel found nothing but the same, unadulterated feeling that he had. Your whole face was practically radiating that look.

Chin smeared, lips smiling, and a now stiff, throbbing cock caked in frosting gripped in one of your hands, you blinked back up at him like it was the most normal thing.

For a beat, Joel didn’t think that he could love you any more than he did in that moment, and then you said:

“Of course you do, daddy. I don’t mind getting sticky.”

[dindjarinsslut]

[dindjarinsslut]

hi!!

welcome to all my new friends!! just so all of you know...my requests are OPEN!

feel free to spam my inbox with ideas, ramblings, or other things. i love hearing your guy's thoughts and ideas!

[dindjarinsslut]

soft on main

pairings pedro pascal x actress!reader

summary pedro accidentally called you babe during a casual instagram live and the internet instantly lost its mind over the softest, most unexpected relationship reveal ever.

tags established relationship, unspecified age gap, fluff, accidental relationship reveal, public reactions, light teasing, and affectionate banter.

masterlist

pedro goes live from a hotel room during the press tour for the new film you’re both starring in.

he’s sitting cross-legged on the couch in a hoodie, giving him that sleepy-late-afternoon glow.

he waves at the screen. “hola, mis amores. what’s up? i’ve got twenty minutes before they drag me to another interview.”

a question flashes across the screen: “are you alone rn?”

pedro squints at it, then lets out a soft laugh. “nope. i’m with her.”

from offscreen, your voice floats in, unmistakably yours.

“tell them who you’re with.”

he glances over, can’t stop the way the corners of his mouth lift like they always do when you’re around. “she’s right here. the woman i get to call co-star—and, y’know, a few other things.”

you reply, a touch smug. “a few other things indeed.”

pedro reaches for the snack bowl and winces.

“you better not be eating the popcorn meant for both of us.”

he raises a guilty hand. “that depends. is it a crime if it’s really good popcorn?”

thwack. a popcorn kernel hits him square in the chest.

“hey—!” he yelps, mock-offended.

“she’s throwing snacks at me,” he tells the camera with a grin. “this is the level of love and respect i receive.”

“wait that’s??” “no bc that voice is unmistakable” “they’re together rn??” “the way he said ‘i’m with her’ like it’s the most natural thing 😭” “they’ve always been best friends but this… this feels different.” “he looks like he just exhaled after three years of holding his breath.”

pedro laughs, softer now. there’s something easy in the way his shoulders drop.

“yep. she’s been keeping me sane through this whole press tour.”

he scrolls through the questions, murmuring to himself. then, aloud:

“‘what’s your comfort food?’ hmm. that’s easy mexican food. or… those little chocolate things she keeps buying—you know the ones, babe?”

the room stills.

he blinks.

you freeze.

“babe?? excuse me??” “he said babe. i repeat. he. said. babe.” “no way. no acting. that slipped out too naturally.” “their best-friend act just died in real time 😭❤️” “he’s so gone for her and he doesn’t even know he said it.” “this isn’t a soft launch this is a crash landing into love”

pedro blinks again. “shit.”

you let out a laugh, hiding behind your sleeve. “good job, pascal.”

he rakes a hand through his curls, pink in the face. “so… yeah. that happened.”

the comments are scrolling so fast he can’t read them anymore.

“i need oxygen” “they’re in the same room. he called her babe. i am unwell.” “they're so giddy help they’re in love fr” “all their interviews make sense now they looked so smitten and we didn’t see it”

you climb up beside him on the couch, curling into the space like it’s where you’ve always belonged which it is.

pedro leans into you on instinct. like muscle memory.

you don’t say anything for a second. you just smile at him, all warmth and fondness.

he turns toward the camera again, rubbing the back of his neck.

“we’ve been together a while. a long while. we just… liked the parts that were ours. off-camera. quiet.”

you nod, voice softer now. “we were never hiding. just… protecting it.”

pedro’s gaze drops to your joined hands offscreen. his thumb rubs lightly over your knuckles.

“she’s been my person for years. through everything. and i didn’t mean to let that slip but maybe it’s time.”

“they were never hiding they were protecting it i’m sobbing” “this is what real love looks like holy sh—” “i feel like i just witnessed a wedding” “he looks so peaceful with her. like he finally exhaled.”

“i wasn’t supposed to say it,” pedro repeats, cheeks flushed. “but i’m glad i did.”

he turns toward you again. “she’s… my favorite person. the calm in my chaos. the reason i actually sleep on planes now.”

you laugh through a glassy smile. “you only sleep because i pack the melatonin and force you to wear that travel pillow.”

he grins wider. “and she makes fun of me constantly. but yeah. she’s my heart.”

there’s a long pause. not empty. full. overflowing.

the kind of silence you don’t want to interrupt.

“i don’t know how i ever did this without her,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “and now i never want to.”

“they’re so in love this isn’t even acting anymore” “this is the softest, most beautiful reveal of all time” “protect them at all costs omg” “i’ve never seen someone look at another person like that before”

you blink back tears and smile, playful to the end. “you ready to be softer on main?”

pedro chuckles and threads your fingers through his, resting them in his lap. “only if you are, mi amor.”

he doesn’t even bother ending the live right away. he just stays there with you.

pedro’s phone buzzes nonstop the second he opens his eyes.

you’re still asleep beside him, one hand curled under your cheek, hair a mess from the night before. he watches you breathe for a moment, like none of the internet just watched him call you babe in front of 100k people.

then his lock screen lights up again.

pedro’s phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

he blinked blearily at the screen as it lit up beside him on the nightstand, vibrating so hard it nearly slid off.

oscar isaac: "you said babe on live???? 😭😭😭 call me rn."

bella ramsey: "you're trending, old man. i knew it."

and then: an avalanche.

he groans into the pillow.

“you broke the internet, didn’t you?”

“…possibly.”

pedro flips his phone to show you:

the memes.

one of pedro blushing with the caption:

“when you call your gf ‘babe’ on live and remember the world’s watching”

a screenshot of his face mid-slip, zoomed 300%:

“in this exact moment… he knew, he fucked up.”

you can’t stop laughing.

later that morning, the two of you are seated on a velvet couch for a press interview.

the host grins as he shuffles his cards and leans forward dramatically.

“so… pedro.”

pedro shifts beside you, one ankle crossed over his knee, hair artfully messy, the top of his shirt open just enough to be distracting.

“yes?” he answers playfully.

“we all saw the livestream.”

audience: screams

pedro puts a hand over his heart. “listen. in my defense—”

you cut in, smirking. “there is no defense. you called me babe in front of instagram live and then stared into the abyss like your soul left your body.”

the audience dies. pedro covers his face in mock agony.

“i blacked out!” he insists.

the host chuckles. “how long had you two been secretly together?”

pedro peeks at you. you raise an eyebrow, silently daring him.

he answers softly, “a while. years.”

the room quiets just slightly just enough for the honesty to land.

you nod. “we wanted to keep the magic for ourselves, you know? have something untouched.”

pedro glances at you with something unreadable in his eyes. not unreadable to you, though.

it’s love.

the kind people spend their whole lives trying to find.

“and now that it’s out?” the host asks.

pedro smiles soft and sure. “now we don’t have to lie about the best part of our day.”

[dindjarinsslut]

Good

Pairing: detective!joel miller x f!reader (one-shot)

Summary: Joel gives into his desires and shows you just how good he could be for you, more than anyone else. Including your husband.

Warnings: no outbreak au, language, infidelity, extreme obsessive/possessive behavior (like, stalkerish), male masturbation, smut (18+ MDNI), angst, reader has long-ish hair (unspecified length), reader wears lingerie, pussy pronouns, unprotected piv sex, oral (f!receiving), Joel Miller worships the ground you walk on, ending implies some dark!joel

WC: 6.7K

A/N: very loosely inspired by season 1 of True Detective because I was bored on bed rest and cooked this up after a rewatch.

Joel Miller considered himself a good man.

He paid his taxes. He called his mother once a week. He took a baby aspirin for his heart every night. He rarely lost his temper — which was a huge feat, considering his profession. He played by the rules. He joined the precinct when they invited him out for drinks. He always laughed, joked, bought a few rounds.

Overall, he was a decent, ordinary man.

Except for one huge, gut-wrenching flaw.

You.

He was hopelessly and devastatingly in love with you.

He realized it for a while, now. Maybe six or eight months ago.

Before that, it was just a harmless crush. One that made his heart flutter whenever he was invited over for dinner. But somewhere along the way, he found himself thinking about you more and more. The way you smell, the way you laugh, the way you got shy every time he complimented your cooking.

After one particular dinner where he had a glass too much to drink, he crossed a line. At least, to him, he crossed a line.

He went home that night and barely stumbled through his front door before pulling out his cock. He had been hard for over an hour and it was making him sick, but the second he wrapped his fist around his aching length, the only thing he could think about was you.

And he couldn't stop.

It felt too fucking good.

Imagining you touching him instead, moaning into his mouth, leaking all over his lap, fucking — begging for him to fill you up and make you feel good.

He made a mess of himself, standing hunched over in his hallway, one hand holding up his weight against the wall, the other furiously stroking his cock until he came all over his own hand. He stared at the floor, gasping for air, watching as a few pearly white drops splashed on the hardwood.

And he swore he would never do it again.

Except, he couldn't stop. And it filled him with guilt every single time, but he couldn't help himself. You were too beautiful and sweet and funny — the perfect woman.

The only problem was, you're his partner's wife.

Anthony. Tony. Joel's closest friend for the last two years.

When he was first paired with your husband, Joel dodged your invitations to dinner, but you were insistent. You wanted to meet the man who was protecting your husband every day. You wanted to put a face to the name. And after a few months, Joel couldn't come up with any more excuses. So, he showed up on your doorstep, clutching some inexpensive bouquet of flowers in his right hand.

The flowers were an afterthought, something he bought in a panic along the way when he remembered his mother scolding him when he was younger about never showing up empty handed to someone's house.

When you saw them, you lit up. You gushed over how much you adored white daisies, took his coat, pushed a bottle of beer into his hand, and made him feel right at home.

Month after month, Joel sat at your dinner table, learning everything about you. He especially loved the way you spoke about Pennsylvania, home, where you and Tony had lived before he got a promotion and uprooted your lives to move to Austin. You spoke about the winters and how you missed those the most.

You mentioned you got married young and didn't ever pursue a degree, so you ended up working odd jobs here and there. You mentioned finding a job as an assistant manager at a local grocery store.

Once Joel's crush became too unmanageable for just a monthly dinner, he sought you out at work. Your store wasn't near his home, but he went out of his way to do his shopping just on the chance he would run into you.

It was the first clue Joel was sinking in too deep, but he couldn't see it.

Some time after that, when Tony would leave for mysterious lunch appointments, Joel would reach across the desk and turn a framed photograph of you in his direction. On those days, he liked to pretend you were his. That you were looking at him behind the camera, smiling and laughing like he was the only man in the world.

He was always careful about putting it back before Tony returned.

When out working a case, he would ask Tony how you liked work, how you were adjusting to life in Austin, if you made any friends. Eventually, Tony laughed and asked why he was asking so many questions. So foolishly, Joel said the only thing he could think of — he wanted to be set up on a date with someone you knew.

It was a stupid idea. Joel hated every second of the date. Nina was nice, but she didn't hold a candle to you. She was too loud, too flirty, and couldn't hold her liquor. And she was oblivious to the fact that Joel's mind was completely fixated on you the entire time.

But one good thing that came from it was the first phone call he had with you.

After he blew Nina off for another date, you called him at home one night, taking him completely by surprise. His damn knees just about gave out from under him when he heard your sweet voice on the other end playfully scolding him for not calling Nina back.

"She's gorgeous, Joel! And she's got a great job."

Joel shrugged, stretching his legs out across his bed, leaning his back up against the headboard.

"No spark, darlin'."

"She's always talking about her dates at book club," you mused, "I figured she was exactly what a guy is looking for."

Joel chuckled.

"Ain't what I'm lookin' for."

"Oh. Well, tell me what you like in a woman and maybe I can find a better match."

He paused when you asked him that, unsure how to answer because the first thing that jumped to the tip of his tongue was you — I'm looking for you.

"Uh, well..." he stammered, "I like girls who are easy to talk to. Girls who don't ask me for the gory details of my job. Girls who don't mind if I gotta work late or break dates last minute if we catch a hot lead."

He heard you scoff on the other end of the phone and he thought he heard sheets rustling. For one blissful moment, he imagined you in bed, in a silky gown with a lace edge, and thinking about him.

"That last one is tough, but it comes with time," you sighed. "Like tonight. Tony told me about that drug bust he had to supervise downtown."

"Drug bust?"

Joel sat up straighter in bed. Tony never mentioned anything to him about a drug bust.

"Yeah. And I get that it's part of the job, but I made his favorite dinner to surprise him..." You trailed off while Joel's mind raced. "But it's fine. It'll heat up tomorrow just fine. It's... fine."

"Darlin'," Joel murmured, "you said fine three times."

You groaned and he found himself smiling at the frustrated little noise.

"Okay, maybe it's not fine now, but it'll be fine."

After that, Joel started to pay attention more. The late nights, the missing hours midday... it was one thing to not be able to have you so long as you were happy and being taken care of, but it was another to discover Tony was cheating on you.

You. Of all people in the world. What could Tony possibly find in someone else that you didn't already have?

After Tony had come into work for the third time that month in the same clothes as the day before, Joel had had enough.

"Late night?"

Tony raked his fingers through his hair as he collapsed into his ancient rolling chair. The brown tie around his neck looked stretched, his tan shirt wrinkled. He looked like a mess.

"Yeah. Workin' that, uh, that Carter case."

Joel nodded, pretending to look impressed. He began to click things on his computer so it looked nonchalant when he asked, "Where'd you end up?"

"Not far. I think we gotta run at the ex again."

Joel hummed, blood boiling when Tony's phone pinged and he picked it up with a loopy smile. But when he asked if it was you texting, Tony shook his head.

"Nah. Just — y'know."

Joel had to force himself to stand and walk away before he punched Tony in the throat.

A few days later, Tony confessed. He was seeing another woman named Melissa, an informant on a closed case. He promised it wasn't serious, that he was being careful, just blowing off some steam, but Joel didn't want to hear it.

You deserved better than that. Tony took you from everything and everyone you loved and he had the audacity to cheat on you?

It wasn't right. But it wasn't his place to get involved, either.

So months went by where Joel sat at your kitchen table, gazing at you adoringly over white daisies while you talked about work or some movie you had just seen or how you were interested in learning how to play piano while Tony texted Melissa under the table.

Around that time, the phone calls became more frequent.

He would call to ask if you made it home okay after work because he heard a radio call for an accident. Joel knew you were fine — he knew your car and knew your schedule, but it was an excuse to hear your voice.

One time he called to tell you a movie you mentioned wanting to see was on cable. That time, he ended up staying on the phone with you for two hours, laughing and gasping together as you watched.

The calls became a regular thing, and so did Tony's absence.

Joel told himself he was calling to distract you, but he knew deep down he was being selfish. He needed those calls more than you did.

It wasn't until much later when he would realize you never bothered to ask why Joel wasn't working late along with Tony. He was too happy to have those evenings with you to question it. He looked forward to them. He could talk to you for hours.

It was why he began showing up a little early to your monthly dinners. The moment he got off work, he would rush home to fix his hair, change into a fresh suit, and stop to examine every petal on every white daisy until he found the perfect bouquet to present you with. And you got along so well, it was no problem if Joel made it to your house before Tony some nights. It was easy to pass the time with you. And if you let him, he'd roll up his sleeves and help you make dinner.

It was never a problem. Joel sucked it up, bit his tongue, admired you from a distance and allowed himself to have his fantasies in private.

Until one night, everything changed.

---

"So what was wrong with this one, Miller?" you asked, biting into a carrot stick with one hand while the other stirred a pot of pasta.

"Nothin' wrong with her," Joel corrected, "Lori's nice 'n all, but..."

He sighed and set his knife down next to your cutting board so he can turn to look at you.

"You ever notice she grinds her teeth when she gets nervous?"

You made a face before bursting out laughing. The sound set his heart on fire.

"Oh, Joel..." you giggled, wiping your hands on your apron as you turned down the burner on the stovetop. "I'm starting to think there isn't a woman on earth who would make you happy."

"Yeah, there is."

The words flew out of his mouth before he could stop them. Before he had a chance to swallow them down and muster up some joke in their place.

Perhaps if anyone else had said those words, someone who hadn't been calling a married woman twice a week to talk about everything and nothing for hours, someone who didn't sit in the parking lot of your grocery store to make sure you made it home okay when you closed down, someone who didn't steal a picture of you from your husband's wallet — a picture he now carried in his own — then the words wouldn't have held as much weight as they did.

But you felt it. You both did. Because your smile faltered when you read the serious expression on his face. Your eyes widened and your perfect lips parted to suck in more air to steady your shaking hands.

With his heart hammering in his chest, Joel took a step forward. And it looked for a second like you might do the same, but then your phone rang, cutting the moment down at the legs.

You blinked, cleared your throat, and hurried over to the counter where your phone was plugged in.

"Hey, h-honey."

Joel dropped his chin to his chest with a sigh. He pulled his phone out of his pocket for something to do.

"Oh, that's a shame. What, uh... what happened?"

He loosened his tie as you spoke, staring blankly down at his phone and idly opening his messages. He blinked when he noticed one from Tony about an hour ago.

"That so?"

Your tone went flat, Joel heard it. At the same time, he read the missed text from your husband:

Sorry for the late notice buddy, but we're gonna have to take a rain check on dinner. Little lady isn't feeling too hot tonight.

It took him a second to catch up to the lie, but unfortunately, you beat him to it.

"Yeah, that's not a problem. I understand."

Then you turned to face him when you added: "Tell Joel I said hello."

You hung up the phone, pinning him with a hard look. He slipped his phone back into his pocket.

"What's—" But you cut him off before he even began.

"Tony said he's spending the night with you, but I think he meant to say Melissa."

Joel's heart jumped into his throat at the same time the pot of water began to boil over. He swiveled around, cursing under his breath to turn off the stove.

"I'm— I'm sorry," was all he could mumble before facing you again. Your eyes watered but you shrugged indifferently and crossed your arms.

"Before her, there was Beth," you said bluntly. Joel leaned against your counter, the edge digging into his spine, watching as you pretended to think. "Oh! And before her there was Annie. There might have been another one, too, but I couldn't prove—"

"Why'd you stay with him, then?"

Your mouth clamped shut. You tilted your head to the side with a sad grin.

"C'mon, Joel," you said softly, taking a step forward. Towards him. "You know as well as anyone how cops make it so damn difficult to leave."

His fingers curled around the edge of the counter, nails digging angrily into the wood.

"Is he—"

Joel exhaled shakily and bit the inside of his cheek before trying again.

"Does he — hurt you?"

You shook your head and his shoulders sagged with relief. You took another step.

"Threaten you?"

You paused and rolled your eyes up to the ceiling in thought.

"Not directly, no," you finally said. "But there's been implications. Certain things said a certain way. You know how it is."

Joel shook his head, jaw pulled tight. "No. I don't."

You gazed up into his stormy eyes, feeling the anger radiating off his body. Watching the way his muscles twitched with restraint underneath his shirt. How white his knuckles appeared as he gripped the counter.

"I guess it's just easier. If all I gotta deal with is some side piece of his now and again, is that so bad?"

Joel's nostrils flared. His pulse kicked faster in his throat.

He wasn't a man who lost his temper. And yet, in that moment, if Tony were to appear, Joel had no doubt in his mind that he would wring that man's neck.

"You don't deserve that," he grit out. "You shouldn't have'ta put up with anythin'. You-you're so fuckin'—"

Joel caught himself that time. He bit his tongue, swallowed down the words, dropped his head between his shoulders and stared at the floor.

You took one more step. Close enough now so he could smell your perfume. The one he spent two hours in a department store months ago trying to find so he could buy a bottle and spray it on his pillow at home.

"Joel?"

He swallowed tightly, took a deep breath, and forced himself to meet your eye.

"Yeah?"

Slowly, you reached out. One of your hands covered his. His breath hitched at the contact, at the way your thumb grazed over his knuckles.

"Why don't you like any of the girls I set you up with?" you asked.

The question took him aback. He tore his eyes off your hand to look at you again. He searched your face, noting the way your chest rose and fell slightly faster and how wide your pupils looked.

You knew.

His gaze softened, and so did his grip on your countertop.

"Don't ask questions you already know the answers to."

You exhaled, sounding relieved. You managed a nervous smile before stretching up onto your tiptoes and slowly, tenderly, brushing your lips against his own.

He couldn't move. Every muscle in his body was rigid. He couldn't even close his eyes. He just stood there, hands planted on the counter behind him, watching you peck feather-light kisses against his lips. He dreamed about that moment for so long and yet, he couldn't react. Not right away.

Then your hands drifted up to press against his chest. Your fingers roamed a little shakily across his shirt, like you were trying to map out what he looked like. His eyes fluttered closed and his stomach tightened, unable to stop himself from swelling up behind his zipper. His clothed cock twitched against your stomach and he heard you gasp before dragging your lips lower, brushing over his prickily jaw until you found a spot you liked on his neck.

He swallowed thickly, his whole body shaking with restraint the bolder you became. Your lips puckered over his skin and you began to suck a little mark there while your hands slowly drifted lower, only pausing when your fingers reached his belt.

"Wh- what're y'doin'?"

His voice sounded nothing like his own. It was deep and filled with need. He was breathing so fast, he felt lightheaded, and he was so fucking hard that it hurt, yet he still couldn't touch you.

You froze and smiled into his skin before leaning back ever so slightly. You made sure he was looking you right in the eye when you replied:

"Don't ask questions you already know the answers to."

Everything snapped. It happened so fast that it made you yelp in surprise.

He scooped you up, wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, and crashed his mouth hungrily over yours. One hand remained firmly planted on your ass, holding you up. The other got lost in your hair, keeping your head still so he could plunge his tongue impatiently past your lips.

Your arms eventually circled around his neck and you whimpered into his mouth, making him think you might have wanted this just as badly as he did. His mind was a blur, every neuron firing off at once now that he knew what it was like to hold you, kiss you, taste you... yet he still somehow managed to successfully carry you down the hall past your kitchen, where he knew your bedroom to be.

When you cracked an eye open, you loosened your grip around him and fell onto your bed. Neither of you realized how starved for oxygen you were until you finally broke the kiss and you each dragged in deep lungfuls of air.

"Y'sure 'bout this?" he asked, ripping off his tie as if it offended him. You grinned and sat up to slide your jeans down your legs.

"Fuck yes. Are you?"

Your mouth watered as he began to unbutton his shirt. The pull between your legs was almost uncomfortable at that point, so you squirmed a bit, pressing your thighs together as Joel shed his dress shirt.

"Oh, darlin'," he cooed, untucking his undershirt from his slacks. His eyes raked up and down your body, still clad in your underwear and blouse. "You got no fuckin' idea how bad I want this."

You exhaled with a smirk before grabbing the hem of your shirt and tugging it over your head. Joel's hands paused on his belt, mouth going dry when he saw the matching set of black lingerie you had chosen to wear. You seemed pleased with his reaction but a little shy. You pressed your lips together, fingers grazing over the lacy edge of your underwear.

"You like it?"

Joel made a pained noise from the back of his throat, blinked, and began working twice as fast to remove the rest of his clothes.

"Love it," he croaked, dropping his belt to the floor and unbuttoning his pants. "You look... Jesus Christ, I— I never th—"

You grinned and pushed yourself up so you were kneeling on the mattress in front of him. Your fingers toyed with the edge of his white shirt, lifting it just a bit while he stepped out of his pants.

"Never thought what?"

"Never thought you'd be wearin' somethin' like this..."

He trailed off again, his eyes still greedily taking you in.

You lifted his shirt up and he raised his arms, letting you pull it over his head.

"Do you want to know a secret, Joel?"

He nodded, jaw slack, staring at you like he were in a trance. You bit your lip coyly and whispered, "I always wear something special whenever you come over. Always."

"Y— you do?"

"Mhm," you hummed, sliding your palms over the softness of his stomach. "And I try to wear loose tops so when I bend over, you might see."

His eyes fluttered closed with a groan. Your fingers travelled higher, over the broad planes of his chest.

"Didn't — didn't wanna look," he confessed softly, "didn't w-wanna disrespect you."

"You're such a good man, Joel," you purred, hands curling around his shoulders.

"I try," he whispered, tipping his head back so you could suckle on the flushed skin of his throat.

"But can you do me a favor tonight?" you asked, your voice sounding so soft and needy in his ear. He nodded, biting back a curse when your tongue peeked out to taste him.

You tore yourself away and slipped both hands through the loose curls on the back of his head. His eyelids opened, only halfway, still heavy with lust.

"Can you show me how bad you want me?"

"Yes," he rasped without hesitation. "Yes. Christ, honey, I think 'bout it all the time—"

He brought his hands to your hips, marveling at the softness of your bare skin.

"Think about what?" you urged, nails gently scraping against his scalp. He licked his lips, watching his rough hands glide across your sides, your ass, your back.

"Think 'bout... what I would do if y'were mine. 'N not just this," he clarified quickly, eyes snapping up to yours before looking back down at your body. "I think 'bout it all. Think 'bout takin' you to run errands, takin' trips together, celebratin' birthdays and holidays..."

His hand drfited up your arm and he gently pulled one of your hands free from his hair so you could lace your fingers together. He stared at the way your hands looked interlocked before pressing a kiss against each one of your fingers.

"Oh, Joel," you sighed, "I think about that, too. When I close my eyes at night, I pretend it's you sleeping next to me instead of—"

You stopped yourself from saying your husband's name out loud, but it wouldn't have mattered to Joel if you did. Tony stopped mattering to him twenty minutes ago. Now, his entire focus was firmly on you and you alone.

Nothing else mattered. Nothing.

"Don't worry," he murmured, then pressed a firm kiss to your lips while gently pushing you backwards. Your spine softened and you let him lower you carefully onto the mattress, his lips never leaving yours the entire time.

When you were laying flat, all sprawled out underneath him, hand still locked with his, he broke the kiss and looked down at you.

"You don't gotta pretend for long. I'll make it happen, baby. We'll be together, okay?"

Confusion flickered across your face for a moment, like you wanted to ask how, but you didn't. You trusted him. So you nodded obediently with a sweet smile.

"Make me yours, Joel."

Fuck, it felt like a dream to hear those words come from your mouth. He knew in that moment that he would do anything he had to — anything — to follow through with his promise.

He smiled, kissed the tip of your nose, then ventured lower. His lips grazed your chest, traced his tongue over the swell of your breasts spilling over the cups of your bra, and continued downward. Soft kisses were peppered down your stomach until he reached the band of your panties. His eyes flickered up to yours once, briefly, before releasing your hand. His fingers curled around the lace, tugging them down slowly until they slid down to your ankles. You wiggled your feet and let them fall to the floor with your other discarded clothes.

His palms slid over your thighs, gently prying them apart and pressing them into the mattress. He heard your breath stutter when your pussy was finally exposed to him.

"Oh, fuck," he moaned, fixated on the way you glistened, just for him. "You're so pretty. So, so pretty." His chest heaved as he stared between your legs, mania slowly curling around his brain with each passing second. "Can I— can I kiss her, baby? Can I taste her?"

"Yes," you breathed, squirming a little under his intense gaze. "Yes, please Joel, please—"

He didn't need to be told twice. He dropped his shoulders between your thighs, settling in, and suctioned his mouth around your pussy. You gasped at the contact and your back arched off the bed for a moment until you relaxed with a sigh. His kisses were messy. Loud. His tongue licked at you, diving between your folds and lapping up your arousal.

It was easy to sense his eagerness through his actions. Like he longed for you, longed for all of you. Like his only purpose on earth was to take care of you. Every lick and kiss and moan drove the point home — his, his, his.

He didn't tease you. Not that time. He wanted you too badly, and he had waited for so long. He was so patient and good, but he reached his limit.

Once he felt your muscles tense and your back arch off the bed, he didn't stop. He kept going, kept devouring, tongue merciless against your clit until you cried out his name, coming so hard that your vision blurred and you broke out into a light sweat.

"Good," he gasped, pressing a breathless kiss to the inside of your thigh. You trembled like a leaf under him. His eyes closed for a moment as he caught his breath. "Good girl. Did so good f'me. Feel good?"

"God, Joel," you moaned, voice cracking as you raked a hand through your own hair and took a deep breath. He grinned when you said, "You're fucking amazing at that. Holy shit..."

That's all he wanted. He wanted to make you happy, make you feel loved the way you deserved.

He was going to give you a break. You looked spent and loose, all spread out over your bed. He didn't want to rush, but the dark spot in his boxers was spreading, and his stomach ached from how hard he was.

As if you read his mind, your eyes fluttered open with a lazy smile. You reached behind you, unclasped your bra, and tossed it with a giggle over your head. Joel laughed, then brought a hand up to cup your bare breast. You bit your bottom lip and arched into his touch, moaning softly when his thumb toyed with your nipple.

"Fuck me, Joel," you whispered, sighing when the warmth of his mouth enveloped your breast. The tip of his tongue flicked teasingly over your nipple before paying the same attention to the other one.

"Yeah? You want it?" he asked, grinning like a fool when your fingers plucked hastily at the band of his boxers.

"Please," you begged. The sound made his knees weak.

"Okay," he breathed, pushing his boxers down his legs. "Okay, darlin'. I'll give you anythin' you want."

As he was dragging the head of his cock through your slit, in the back of his mind he knew he should ask if he should use protection. It would have been the right thing to do.

But he was sick of always doing the right thing.

And he was desperate to feel you. Really feel all of you.

So he pressed inside, parting your walls with a groan. He was still in disbelief that it was actually happening, and you felt so much better than he ever imagined. You were so warm and wet, your cunt fluttered perfectly around him, welcoming every inch of him inside while you babbled a slew of curses and gasps until his hips grew flush with yours.

He felt delirious, like he was losing all semblance of control. All of his wildest dreams suddenly came true and it was overwhelming. You wrapped your arms and legs around him, pulling him close so you could pepper kisses along his jaw while he struggled to collect himself.

He was utterly drowning in you. In your scent, in your warmth — he could still taste you on his tongue.

And you were perfect.

"Are you okay?" you asked.

You looked so sweet lying underneath him like that, stuffed full of his cock with your eyes wide and lips parted, looking at him like he was the answer to all your prayers.

"Yeah," he breathed, the corner of his mouth turning up into a little smile. He brushed a piece of hair off your cheek. "Just — can't believe how lucky I am."

You grinned and combed your fingers through his curls. His eyelids fluttered for a moment, the drag of your nails against his scalp sending a shiver down his spine.

"Thought you might be having second thoughts."

His eyes flew open and his smile fell.

"No," he said seriously. "Never. I would —"

Joel pulled back his hips until just the tip of his cock remained inside you. When he pushed back in, slowly, he watched with pride as your mouth fell open.

"— never have second thoughts. Y'hear me?"

You nodded with a whimper, the stretch of him splitting you open taking your breath away.

Second thoughts. How absurd.

"Now that I know what you feel like," he murmured, soft lips grazing lazily over yours as he began to move, pumping in and out of you just a little faster and finding a rhythm. "I ain't ever gonna let you go, baby. Never gonna get rid of me. Fuck — too fuckin' sweet for your own good, y'know that?"

You clawed at his back, nails leaving red trails in their wake. His cock felt so heavy and full inside of you, every thrust took you apart just to make you whole again a moment later. The way you fit together so perfectly had you thinking crazy thoughts, like maybe, just maybe, Joel would find a way to make this work.

"Feel how good that is? Huh?" he groaned, skin slapping steadily now that he found a pace he liked.

"Yes," you gasped, tilting your head back into the mattress. You hooked your ankles over the backs of his thighs for leverage so you could bring your hips up to match his rhythm. "Oh, god, Joel — just like that. Right there."

His lips suctioned to a spot on your neck, pulling at the skin to leave a bruise. He didn't care if Tony saw and neither did you.

"Can't get enough of you," he panted into your skin. Then he unhooked one of your legs from his waist so he could press it into the mattress, spreading your hips wider. You cried out at the angle — he was impossibly deep, and the way he rolled his hips to make sure he reached the spot that caused your eyes to roll to the back of your head had your stomach muscles pulling tight.

"J-Joel, I'm— I'm gonna—"

"Wait," he gasped, pulling out of you with a groan. You whined pathetically at the loss and tears welled up in your eyes. For a second, he thought his heart might break. He never, ever wanted to be the reason for your tears.

"'M sorry," he murmured, leaning back to sit on his knees. His cock twitched angrily when he saw your stretched out pussy clenching around nothing, beckoning him back in. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and pushed a hand through his messy hair.

"Turn around for me?" he asked with a tremble to his voice. Your eyes widened and you nodded, eagerly jumping to your hands and knees. He moaned at the sight of your ass in the air and at the arousal dripping down your inner thigh. He crawled forward and caressed your hip, admiring you for just a moment longer before notching himself at your entrance and easing back inside.

You inhaled sharply and curved your spine, taking him beautifully and giving him exactly what he wanted — what he needed.

"Shit," he growled, "look so good like this." His hips started to snap against your ass, picking up right where he left off. Your whines got more high pitched the faster he moved and it was making him insane. He tilted his chin towards the ceiling and closed his eyes. You felt so fucking good all wrapped around him, so tight and needy. There was nothing in the world that would make him stop loving you.

He hadn't realized how hard he was fucking you until you fell forward onto your elbows, shaking him out of his haze. He peeled his eyes open just to be met with his own reflection: across the bed was a dresser with a mirror, something he hadn't noticed at first.

And what he saw changed something within him.

He looked crazed. His eyes were heavy and dark, hair disheveled, chest and neck flushed. He could see the muscles in his arms twitching every time he slammed into you.

You.

Fuck... you looked — wrecked. Your eyes were squeezed shut, brows pinched and mouth agape as he pounded into you from behind. Your body jolted with each thrust, your hands curled into fists, and it was absolutely beautiful.

Before he had a chance to think, Joel reached down and gently took you by the chin. Your eyes flew open in surprise, instantly finding his in the mirror. He grinned, never slowing down.

"Don't we look good, baby?"

You moaned and nodded, mouth still hanging open to drag in more air. And it was fucking perfect until Joel's gaze dropped to the framed photo of your wedding day sitting on top of your dresser.

He frowned slightly for a moment, then shook it off.

Joel was a good man. Mild mannered. Polite. He always tried to do the right thing. But in that moment, something changed.

"You're mine," he growled, the possessiveness in his own voice giving him the chills. You nodded obediently and he released your jaw. "After this," he panted, "he doesn't get to touch you. Kiss you. Fuck you. Understand?"

"Yes," you gasped, then your head fell to hang between your shoulders. You were holding on by a thread and it filled him with a sick sense of pride. It had the heat rising to his cheeks and his hips stuttering with the need to let go, but you needed to come first.

You would always come first with him, in every way.

His hand slid between your legs, two fingers locating your clit with precision. He began to rub firm, quick circles, making you gasp and buck wildly underneath him.

"Don't stop," you begged, rolling your hips back to match his pace. Between your shaky thighs and ragged breaths, he could tell you were close — right on the edge. You threw your head back and moaned while pleading with him to keep going, keep going.

"I gotcha," he said through clenched teeth. His wrist kept snapping between your legs, playing with your clit while simultaneously slamming into you from behind, splitting you open and carving a spot within you forever.

"Joel..." you whimpered, upper body going lax. "O-Oh fuck— Joel—"

"Let go," he urged, fighting back his own desperation to come. He blinked away the sweat that dripped down from his forehead. "C'mon, baby, I'll catch you."

Finally, with a soft cry, you came. Your pussy clenched around him over and over, each tight squeeze making him see stars. He murmured quiet praises in your ear the whole time. He told you how good you felt, how beautiful you were, how he had been dreaming about that moment for almost a year — he repeated sweet words over and over until he couldn't hold back any longer.

With one final thrust, he grabbed hold of your hips and came with a rough groan ripping from his chest. He knew he should have asked or pulled out, but the rabid urge to mark you, to have a part of him leaking out of you for the next day or so was too strong to ignore.

Fortunately, you didn't seem to mind. In fact, you welcomed it with a lazy smile as he pumped you full of his seed until he collapsed on the bed, pulling you with him. He held you close, your back pressed to his chest, while you quietly caught your breath together. When your skin cooled and you shivered a bit in his arms, he tugged a blanket over you both, all while still plugging you with his cock.

"Joel?"

He hummed and with his eyes closed, pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder.

"Thank you," you whispered softly.

"F'what?" he mumbled.

"For... making me feel wanted again."

"Oh, darlin'," he cooed with another kiss, "I more than just want you."

Your silence in return had him cracking open one eye. He lovingly traced a circle into your arm with his thumb when he asked, "You alright?"

"Yeah," you breathed, then shifted a bit against him, pressing yourself deeper into his hold. But it wasn't enough.

"Did you—"

Joel swallowed nervously and took a deep breath before trying again.

"Did you do this just to get back at him?"

"No," you said quickly. You twisted around in his arms and he hissed when his softening cock slipped out of you. Then you cupped his cheek with a sweet smile. "No. I meant what I said."

He grinned with relief as you stifled a yawn.

"Good."

You closed your eyes and pushed your face into his chest, seeking out his warmth.

"How are we gonna make this work, Joel?"

You sounded so sleepy but so hopeful at the same time. He sighed and patted down your hair, then tenderly kissed your forehead.

"I told you," he said, "I'll do whatever I gotta do."

He sensed your curiosity but once again, you didn't ask him to elaborate. It was for the best that way. You shouldn't know what lengths he was willing to go to in order to have you all to himself. It might scare you. Hell, oftentimes it scared him. But as you drifted off to sleep, Joel told himself people do crazy things for love, and this would be no exception.

After all, he was a good man. Nobody would ever suspect a thing.

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[dindjarinsslut]

um. yeah…

What about gun play with enemy!joel?

like, you’re one of the remaining people they’ve kept alive and get handed over to joel—so he can finish u off. However, he has other plans when he recognizes ur pretty face ;)

yk me n my fucked up mind.

────۶ৎ got nothin’ to complain about now, huh?

you’re supposed to die. joel’s supposed to kill you. instead, he finds a much filthier use for your bratty little mouth and cunt.

warnings: smut, dubcon, noncon, enemies to hatefuck, gunplay , unprotected piv, degradation, name-calling , choking, spitting, hair pulling, fingering, cockdrunk/brat taming, creampie.

ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: marleen i know what you like 😏 i hope you enjoy bby and thank you for requesting 💋

more

ᖭ༏ᖫ

you should’ve died already.

they dragged you into camp half-conscious, bruised and bleeding and still snarling like a feral thing. some muttered you weren’t worth the bullet. others wanted the entertainment. but only one man steps forward to claim you.

joel miller.

he’s the last face you ever wanted to see. not because you’re scared—though you probably should be—but because you hate him. hate the way he moves like he owns the world. hate the way his voice curls around your name like a noose. hate the way your thighs clench when he stares.

“thought you were tougher’n this,” he says, crouching down to your level. you’re on your knees, wrists tied, mouth bloody. “look at you now. pathetic.”

you spit. try to lunge. the men laugh.

joel doesn’t.

he drags you by the collar, yanks you into the shadows behind one of the half-collapsed buildings. no one follows. no one cares.

“so,” he drawls, slamming you against the wall, “they said i could kill you. but lookin’ at you now?” he presses his thigh between your legs. you gasp. “m’thinkin’ there’s better uses.”

your eyes flash. “fuck you.”

his smile is all teeth. “oh, darlin’. that’s the plan.”

he doesn’t kiss you. he claims you—mouth rough, hand at your throat, thigh grinding up against your ruined core. you try to fight. you really do. but he’s stronger. meaner. his hands rip your clothes like they’re paper, shove you face-down against the wall.

“don’t worry,” he mutters, voice thick with venom and heat, “gonna make this real memorable.”

the cold muzzle of his rifle nudges between your legs and your whole body jolts.

“joel—”

“shut up,” he snaps. “shut the fuck up.”

you squirm. he growls. one arm pins you down while the other angles the gun between your folds, slick already coating the black steel. he laughs.

“jesus. you’re fuckin’ soaked.” he drags it through you, slow. deliberate. “what, you like this? gettin’ used like a hole? didn’t peg you for the type, but here you are—ruttin’ on my fuckin’ rifle.”

“fuck you,” you hiss again, weaker now.

“no,” he breathes, “fuck you.”

and then he shoves it in.

the metal is cold, thick, wrong. your body fights it, muscles clenching around the muzzle, but he doesn’t let up. pushes deeper, deeper, until your legs are shaking and your moans echo in the dark.

“look at that,” he sneers, rutting the stock against your clit. “takin’ it like a fuckin’ cockdrunk whore. all that fire gone now, huh?”

he pulls the gun out halfway, slams it back in. over and over. your face is hot, your thighs slick, your mind gone.

“fucked you dumb on my gun.”

you cum. hard. choking on the cry, full-body shuddering, shame pooling in your gut. he feels it. hears it.

“fuckin’ knew it,” he growls, tossing the rifle aside, freeing his cock. “knew you wanted it. wanted me. say it.”

“n-no—”

he slams into you.

no warning. no mercy. just thick, angry cock splitting you open in one brutal thrust. you scream. claw at the wall. he grabs your hips and fucks.

“say it,” he grits, pace punishing. “say you wanted it. say you’re mine.”

you’re drooling. incoherent. he loves it.

“c’mon, you bratty fuckin’ slut. not so mouthy now?”

you sob. whisper something like his name. he slams in harder.

“that’s right,” he hisses, hand in your hair, dragging your head back so he can bite down on your throat. “my fuckin’ toy now. no one else gets this cunt. no one else gets you.”

you’re too far gone to argue.

you cum again. so does he—deep, messy, groaning against your neck like it hurts.

when it’s over, he doesn’t move. doesn’t pull out. just leans in and murmurs:

“got nothin’ to complain about now, huh?”

ᖭ༏ᖫ

thank you for reading. reblogs & feedback appreciated.