iammorethananame-library

[iammorethananame-library]

Oh. My. God!! I did not expect to get anything more than the snippet today!! I'm gnawing on the furniture! This is incredible, I'm already hooked!! Paz is so fucking gentle with her WHILE ACTIVELY THREATENING PEOPLE! It's perfect! No notes!

Which Witch - Chapter 1

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Lord!Paz Vizsla x Fem!Reader (no use of y/n) *Reader is given the name Marigold by her guardian, nickname Mari, but the story is still v much in 2nd pov*

Warnings: This is an au set in colonial era Massachusetts, circa 1690's, in the time of the Salem Witch Trials. This is not based on any specific real-life story or people, just a real-life time period. No smut in the first chapter (gasp!), but there are period-typical warnings, including false accusations of witchcraft, threats of being burned alive, period-typical sexism (pretty vague tho), and altogether just an unpleasant time for the beginning section.

Word Count: 3k

A/N: This fic is heavily inspired by Which Witch by Florence and The Machine, as the idea came to me while I was listening to that song. I highly recommend listening to the song while reading. This au gripped me by the throat and demanded to be written, so after posting the concept piece last night and being reassured by my besties that I was not in fact going insane and the premise had promise, here I am delivering chapter 1 not even 12 hours later lol. please enjoy!!!

The blindfold obscured your vision, but did nothing to dampen the sounds of jeers from your fellow townspeople as they gleefully dragged you forward. You stumbled, tripping over your skirt as your bare feet ached from the cuts and bruises inflicted from your run through the forest and subsequent night in the town’s jail cell.

Your captors jerked to a halt, almost causing you to fall on your face. They weren’t gentle as they shoved you up onto a platform of some kind. Your back was pushed up roughly against what felt like a thick wooden pole. One of the men grabbed the tail of the rope that bound your wrists and yanked it up above your heat, tying it to something above your head, so you were restrained even further. Another wrapped what felt like dozens of cords of rope around your waist, anchoring you tightly to the pole behind you.

The rough, frayed rope rubbed your skin raw, though you tried to blink back the tears that threatened to fall. Once the men seemed certain you would not be able to escape, they stepped back, and loud thunks began to sound all around you, as though people were throwing something at your feet. Suddenly, there was a looming presence, and a dark, slimy voice at your ear sending shivers of terror down your spine.

“This all could’ve been avoided, witch. If you’d just done what I asked, it wouldn’t have come to this,” he sneered, and you tried to shy away, but your bonds wouldn’t let you. Nevertheless, you tried to keep up a brave facade.

“Never.”

You had no warning before his palm cracked loudly against your cheek, the sharp edges of his ring tearing a gash in your skin. You bit back a gasp, but traitorous tears began to dampen the blindfold. You’d recognized the voice as belonging to Captain Vikar Carid, the town’s sherrif.

His looming presence disappeared, and a new voice called loudly for more logs.

“PLEASE, NO!”

You flinched at the voice that rung out in the air, not at the volume, but at the sheer terror that colored that familiar tone.

“Missus Von Batton, it’s alright,” a sickly sweet voice tried to soothe, but she would not be calmed.

“SHE’S NO WITCH, YOU HERETICS!” the herbalist screamed, and the sound of your guardian’s voice so broken just shattered something inside you. “I RAISED THAT GIRL, IF SHE’S A WITCH, SO THEN AM I!”

The voices all grew quiet, and you felt something cold and terrible wrap its claws around your heart. As terrified as you were, you’d face your trial by fire with as much dignity as you could muster. But if they put Missus Hilde up here beside you…

“Missus Von Batton, do calm yourself, my dear.” A condescending voice rung out. “Once the witch is dead, the spell she’s cast over you will disappear, and you will be back to your old self. It’s really better for everyone.”

You recognized this speaker too. The “Honorable” Iviin Lok, the judge of your town’s court, and the one who had declared you guilty and sentenced your execution for dawn of the following day.

Missus Hilde screamed again, and you heard Mister Lok command her to be taken from the square and sequestered in her home, so as not to “distress” her further.

The sounds of logs thudding to the ground all around you continued for some untold amount of time, until finally, the horrid sound ceased.

Even though you were blindfolded, you let your eyes fall shut. You knew what was coming next, and you tried to steel yourself. It was the most difficult task you’d ever undertaken, but you were determined to go forth from this life with as much dignity as you could muster.

Chants started up all around you, voices crying out for your execution.

Witch! They jeered.

Burn her! They screeched.

End her cursed life! They howled.

You heard the telltale sound of flint striking steel, and the distinct sound of kerosene-soaked cloth going up in flames. You could picture the scene in your mind’s eye.

The Captain, standing there, torch in hand, his hateful eyes glaring upon your immobile form.

Your accusers, your bullies for all your six-and-twenty years of life, watching with barely disguised glee at your predicament.

The men you’d scorned, who wanted to fuck the “pretty flower” from the woods, sneering in disgust at your battered and bruised body.

Their wives, jealous rage finally cooled by the perverted sense of “justice” taking place, eagerly awaiting your death.

You knew the second the torch touched the mountain of logs and kindling at your feet, for a great roar swept through the crowd, feet stamping and hands clapping. You bit your lip to stop a whimper from escaping.

All you could do was wait for the flames to reach you, and hope that you passed out from the pain before you felt the fire consume your flesh inch by inch.

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE MAND’ALOR IS GOING ON HERE?”

Abruptly, the crowd fell silent, and all you could hear was the crackling of the wood catching fire.

It was silent for a moment, then two, and then the voice boomed once again, rattling your very bones.

“RELEASE MY WIFE FROM THAT PYRE, IMMEDIATELY.”

…

Wait a second.

Wife?

~~~

As he rode into town, Paz sighed heavily, ready to get back to his home and fall into bed and sleep for a week. Alas, he had duties as lord of his town, and a lord’s work was never done. He just hoped he’d get some brief reprieve before Din arrived in a month to do the yearly audit of the townships under his purview as Mand’alor.

He eyed the streets as he rode through town, suspicious at the stark lack of people. Normally, at this time of day, the roads through town would be bustling with various members of the community, going about doing daily chores, visiting shops, and other mundane things. But not a soul was in sight.

Distantly, he could hear some noise, and he had to strain to make out what it was. It sounded like… cheering? But not an excited kind of cheering, happy and joyful. No, there was a dark undertone to the noise and with a pit forming in his gut, he urged his mount forward, quickening his gait to a canter as he headed for the town square.

As he rounded the corner and the square came into view, he felt that pit in his gut open up into a swirling vortex that threatened to swallow his heart and lungs as well. There, in the very middle of the square, a platform had been erected. A pole protruded from the center, surrounded on all sides by logs of firewood that were quickly becoming engulfed in flame.

And the figure tied to the pole, bound with rope and blindfolded with a dirty swath of fabric, just so happened to be you.

He didn’t think, didn’t pause to consider the consequences, he immediately bellowed out a question.

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE MAND’ALOR IS GOING ON HERE?”

Almost in unison, the once jeering crowd turned to look at him, eyes going wide and quite a few people averting their gaze guiltily as soon as they saw him. But no one said anything, no one moved to stop this- this travesty, and he let out another enraged roar.

“RELEASE MY WIFE FROM THAT PYRE, IMMEDIATELY.���

Many of the heads that had turned away in shame snapped back to stare at him in shock, but Paz was focused exclusively on your figure, still tied to a pole, mere minutes away from a horrific death by fire.

He dismounted faster than he’d ever done before, striding into the crowd that parted before him without a single word. In his rage, he struck out his boot at the flaming wood, sending sparks flying as he cleared a way towards the center of the platform. Faintly, he heard people scream and scramble away in terror, but he was beyond the point of caring.

You were bound with so much rope, he knew there was no hope of untying all the knots before the flames engulfed you. He withdrew a vibroblade, slicing through the ropes around your midsection, careful not to add another cut or hole to your already tattered skirts.

Then, as gently as he could, he wrapped one hand around your bound wrists, and cut the rope tying you to the pole with the other. He didn’t waste another second, sheathing the blade and scooping you up and cradling you in his arms. He strode off the pyre, not caring about the flames beginning to lick at his clothes.

He stepped free of the flames, but didn’t stop until he was back beside his mount, who’d waited patiently for his master to return. Paz carefully set you down, cautious of your bare and bleeding feet, steadying you with an arm around your waist.

He quickly removed the remnants of rope from your wrists, hissing in furious anger as he saw the skin rubbed raw from the rough fibers and your desperate struggles to escape. He gently cupped your hands and brought them to rest against his chest as he reached behind your head to untie the blindfold.

Paz let the dirty fabric fall from his grasp as his eyes met yours, tears glistening on your lashes as you looked up at him in utter shock and confusion.

He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. His free hand cupped your cheek as he pressed a long, soft kiss to your forehead. He felt your hands twist in the fabric of his shirt, and he fought the urge to hold you tight and never let you go.

You needed medical attention, but like haran was he going to make you stay here for a second longer than you had to. Without warning, he lifted you in the air, easily setting you astride his horse’s back. Your wide eyes looked down at him, confusion warring with exhaustion in your gaze, but he didn’t pause to explain. He mounted the saddle behind you, wrapping an arm once again around your waist as he grabbed the reigns with his free hand. He tugged you back to rest against him as he finally turned to glare at the terrified gazes of the townspeople.

“I am taking my wife back home. There will be a meeting in the town hall tomorrow morning at dawn. Attendance is mandatory. If there is not a satisfactory explanation as to why my wife was tied to a pyre and about to burn, when it is well known that use of the pyre is outlawed as decreed by our Mand’alor, then I will be very cross.”

It was clear from his tone that if he was dissatisfied with the answers he received tomorrow, there would be heads rolling. He watched the crowd carefully, making note of which people looked more scared than others.

Reassured that his threat would be taken seriously, he snapped the reigns and urged his mount on, skirting around the edges of the crowd and heading directly for his manor.

The ride was silent, but your hands had fallen to rest on the arm he had banded around your waist, fingers fiddling with the fabric of his coat. You were stiff as a board, but as you rode away from the square and towards his property, you began to relax, sinking back and resting against his chest.

He knew it was forward, especially with what he’d already claimed in front of the entire town, but if he had been just delayed even just a little, he could’ve lost you, and that was something he could not accept.

So, he leaned forward, and pressed his lips to the top of your head. You stiffened once again, but he was quick to soothe you.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” he whispered into your hair, “I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

You shuddered against him, and he couldn’t stop himself from letting his fingers curl around your hip as he held you securely against his body.

Paz didn’t start to relax until his manor came into view, the familiar view of his family home bringing some small measure of peace to his frazzled nerves. The sprawling grounds and grand manor were a welcome and pleasing sight, a sanctuary where he could hide you away and protect you from the apparently insane townspeople who’d tried to murder you while he was away.

He rode straight to the front door of the manor, not bothering to stop at the stables. His mount knew the way, and the less you had to be outside the better. Paz had no idea how long you’d had your injuries, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He needed to get bacta on your wounds as soon as possible, and hope that you hadn’t already started to develop an infection.

Quickly dismounting, he held his hands out, waiting patiently as you looked down at him from your perch on his horse. You looked down at him, confusion and hope swirling in your pretty eyes. He didn’t move, keeping his own gaze as open as he could, trying to silently convey that you were safe with him, that he wouldn’t let anything hurt you.

He let out a silent breath of relief when you reached for him, trusting him with your wellbeing. Paz didn’t hesitate to cradle you in his arms, your head resting on his shoulder as he was carful to avoid jostling any of your numerous injuries.

With a nudge to the horse’s flank, sending the steed off to the stables, Paz carefully made his way into the manor through the front door, shutting the door behind him with his foot. Thankfully, none of his staff was around, having not expected him home for a few more hours yet. He swiftly brought you upstairs, to the one place he knew you wouldn’t be accidentally stumbled upon befoe he could brief his household.

Paz pushed the door to the master bedroom open, letting it swing shut behind the two of you. He carefully placed you on the quilted fabric that covered his bed before kneeling in front of you. He was reluctant to let you go, but he needed to grab supplies to clean and bandage your wounds.

“I’ll be back in just a moment,” he said softly, carefully grasping your fingers and pressing a quick kiss to the back of each hand before he stood and crossed to the adajcent bathroom.

~~~

You couldn’t stop shaking. It felt like a fever dream, or maybe a pain-fueled hallucination. There was no reasonable way that the Lord of the town had personally rescued you from the grasping hands of Death. It was far more likely that you were still tied to the pyre, flames charring your skin and melting your blood.

But the room around you didn’t waver or vanish. The soft quilt on the bed underneath you didn’t suddenly disappear. You could only hear the faint sounds of Lord Vizsla apparently rumaging through the cupboards in his bathroom. No traces of the rabid mob, or crackling of wood as it was devoured by flame.

Lord Vizsla emerged from the ensuite bathroom, a white box in his hands. It had a medical insignia on it, and when he placed it on the bed next to you and opened it, you saw it was filled to the brim with antiseptic, bandages, bacta, and other medical supplies.

“May I clean your wounds?”

You gaze snapped to his, almost flinching when you realized how close he’d gotten. For such a large man, he could certainly move quietly.

Not trusting your voice, you only nodded.

A look of relief crossed his features, and you were treated to the sight of Lord Vizsla kneeling before you once again. He started with your feet, shushing you softly whenever the antiseptic stung your open wounds, carefully applying bacta and bandages over the worst of the bleeding, and simply wrapping gauze around the more minor scrapes. He was clinical, methodical, but still your heart raced at having him so close.

He worked in silence, utterly devoted to the task at hand. You should probably avert your eyes, but you couldn’t stop watching him as he tended to you. There was something almost reverent in his movements, and you feared breaking the spell if you spoke up now.

Once he felt you’d been sufficiently bandaged and tended to, he closed the medical box and gathered the bloodied rags and empty bacta packets, dumping them in a small wastebasket next to the massive bed.

You looked down at your hands, fingers tangled in the dirty fabric of your skirts. White bandages were wrapped carefully around both of your wrists, the gauzy fabric almost blinding in it’s intensity. You’re not sure you’ve ever had your wounds tended to so sweetly, aside from Missus Hilde when you were little more than a babe and had fallen and scraped your knee.

Large hands cover both of yours, stilling the nervous movements, but not restricting you in any way. Still, you keep your gaze lowered in deference.

The room is silent, only the sound of quiet breathing breaking the surreal stillness. You don’t want to disrupt the peace, but the question on the tip of your tongue will no longer be denied.

“Why?”

Lord Vizsla lets out a soft hum of confusion. When you don’t elaborate, one of his hands leaves yours, nuding a bent finger underneath your chin and tilting your head up gently, so you can look him in the eyes. His gaze is unbearably soft.

“Why what, my lady?”

Abruptly, like the rushing currents of the river, words spill forth from your lips.

“Why did you stop them? Why save me from the pyre? Why call me-?” Your voice broke, and it took you a few tries to finish.

“Why call me your wife?”

Tagging the besties: @catsnkooks, @firstofficerwiggles, @tailorvizsla, @maybege, @lilhawkeye3, @mysticalgalaxysalad

[iammorethananame-library]

Oh my God oh my God oh my God JJ's back!!!!! Okay we're fine we're cool we're good we're super duper normal about this. We're going to pretend I didn't have to sit down when I saw that there was a TCOY update, holy shit

Okay so like, I trusted you not to redeem a cheater but also how could he be married and have a sugar baby and not be cheating on anyone??? And I was so worried it would be like a technicality or something cuz, dude that looked So bad for Joel, and motherfucker you came through!! That was such a satisfying explanation!! Cuz like, everyone's actions are fairly justified in how they reacted and what they assumed and none of it was out of character, and the sheer fucking talent it takes to pull something like that off is off the charts! I loved it so fucking much!!

Also was really happy to see sugar ready to walk out when Joel got defensive, love that for her, cuz yeah a PI was a bit of a stretch, but Joel you've got no room to argue here.

And then I loved how tentative they were around each other cuz yeah it's gonna take a bit to rebuild that trust and I'm so excited to see how the relationship grows and changes now that the air is clear!!

I'm just really excited to be seeing you on my dash again, I hope your time away was healthful and that life is being kind to you! 💙

Take Care of You [10]

Sugar Daddy!Joel Miller x Female!Reader

Overall Warnings: slow burn, angst/comfort, power imbalance, age gap, possessive tendencies, eventual smut, #daddyissues, independent reader learns to let go and relax, emotionally constipated Joel Miller learns to be vulnerable; (more specific warnings to be added to individual chapters if necessary)

Chapter Word Count: 5.7k

Mood board and borders by @saradika

Summary: You spent your entire adult life supporting yourself and barely getting by. It’s why a life of ease offered to you by a mysterious stranger sounded so foreign and unbelievable. Joel Miller, dressed in flannels that had seen better days, didn’t look like the kind who could promise you the world on a plate, but he seemed desperate to help out. All he asks is that you let him take care of you. That wouldn’t be so hard. Would it?

[A/N: 🤡. I came back to life to immediately die off again i'm so sorry. here take this next part and all my love. speaking of my love, i already closed beta readers on tiktok but for anyone on here, if you wanna see why i've been so MIA, shoot me a message with your email if you wanna beta read my original work (i do ask that you do a questionnaire afterwards but that's just to help me out). But, imagine a scifi/fantasy where the book 'Six of Crows' meets 'The Last of Us', and I have good sources that y'all like TLOU👀]

[A/N pt.2: I did not edit this to the degree I should have and there is no tag list at the bottom i am so so so so sorry].

10: THE EVIDENCE IS PRETTY DAMNING

The ceiling wasn’t right. 

That was your first, foggy thought when your eyes opened. Rather than the bumpy, plaster speckles collecting dust it was smooth and off white. You slowly sat up with a groan, head spinning and mouth dry, and you blinked three times before your situation dawned on you. This was not your bed, not your house. Fuck. You set your hands on the bed to lean back then winced. With a hiss, you pulled your hand up and saw the bandaged injury from last night.

You cradled the hand with your other and turned to hang your legs over the edge of the bed. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a note on the nightstand. You leaned over. There was a full water bottle and a bottle of tylenol resting on top of a piece of paper. On the paper, in scratchy, nearly illegible, writing was, ‘Come downstairs when you’re ready. Feel free to use the shower and change if you want. ⏤Joel’. You dragged your fingers to trace the words. 

With a shaky breath, you grabbed the water bottle and took a couple pills in hopes to nurse the aches and pains you felt. You stared at the words again. Last night, Joel admitted to being married to Sarah’s mom and you had responded by passing the fuck out. You had tried to argue, demand more information, but your body fought against your curiosity. All the drinks you had prior and the fading adrenaline from the fight probably hadn’t helped. 

You rose from the bed with a groan and crossed to use the bathroom adjoined to Joel’s bedroom. When you flicked the lights on, you took the first movement to glance around the space. The walls were beige with white tile floors. On one side was a large jacuzzi style tub next to an expansive walk in shower. On the other was ample counter space and drawers with matching him and her sinks. In the back was the small room where the toilet sat and beyond that a walk in closet. The space was lived in. A dirty clothes basket off to the side half full, toiletries on the counter and on the shelves in the shower, you spotted a pair of glasses you had never seen Joel wear resting by the sink on the right side of the counter. That must be the one Joel used most. A toothbrush sat by it and you noticed water by the rim like he hadn’t wiped up when finished.

Also on the counter were a stack of clothes, you stepped toward it and saw it was a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants that must have belonged to him. On top of it was a brand new toothbrush. Your gaze lifted to look at yourself in the mirror and you flinched. You looked a mess⏤ your hair, your clothes, everything. You rubbed at your face with a sigh and slipped into a morning time routine despite the unfamiliar setting. 

Celina.

The name rang in your head over and over and over again. It didn’t matter that you had been only half with it last night. You remembered that clearly. As you cleaned up, your headache began to improve and by time you left the bathroom you at least felt human again. A new anger bubbled just under your skin. You couldn’t quite yet put your anger into words, but you knew it was there. After washing up, you traded the clothes you wore to the bar for the ones Joel left you. The shirt was worn out, like it was aged, and navy in color. It read ‘Miller’s Contracting’ with a number on it for contact. It reminded you of the kind of shirt a small company would make and not a multi-million dollar one. You tightened the waistband of Joel’s sweatpants. They were at least joggers so you didn’t have to worry about tripping over yourself.

You crossed the upstairs, open space to the stairs. Faintly, you heard the sound of someone moving around downstairs. A brief wave of nervousness had you hesitating at the top of the stairs, but it slipped away back to anger. It seemed that was where your heart was making camp this morning.

Slowly, you descended the stairs. The wooden floors under your feet didn’t creak or make noise as you padded into the living room first. A few couches were situated in front of a wall that held a large flat screen TV and a fireplace. The back wall was made of glass, a window and door all in one that revealed the back patio where a small pool and deck were, and the space beside it was the kitchen. Just as open as the rest of Joel’s house. The cabinets were made of dark wood with matching countertops and at the center was a large island with chairs. 

On the island counter looked like to-go boxes of food. You stared at them a moment longer, but a door hidden just out of view on the wall in the kitchen opened. Joel stepped into the kitchen nonchalantly until he spotted you and did a double take. He froze and stared. The two of you were actually similarly dressed. He had on a t-shirt that looked tight on his broad shoulders and a pair of sweatpants that hung low on his hips. Joel looked exhausted.

“Hey.” He said softly. “Mornin’, sug⏤” Joel stopped himself, it looked like he choked on his words, but he locked his jaw and changed direction. “Mornin’. How did you sleep?” You gave a small shrug and a tight lipped smile. “Right. How’s your…” Joel lifted his own hand. “Your hand?”

You lifted it up to stare down at it. The bandages had been pulled away when you washed up this morning. It didn’t look so bad. “It’s fine. Thanks for the⏤ the tylenol. And the toothbrush. And the,” You motioned to the clothes hanging off your frame, “You know.”

“Can I?” Joel nodded toward you.

“I said, it’s fine, Joel.”

“I…” He sighed and the look in his eyes was agonizing. “I know you’re pissed at me. Understandably so. But, please let me…”

You walked over to sit down at one of the tall chairs at the island counter and set your hand on the marble top. Joel mumbled a quiet ‘thank you’ and disappeared for a quick second. He was back with a small first aid kit again. You twisted your lips when you felt his warm hand cautiously take yours. It was quiet as he reapplied a bit of medicine to the hand before wrapping it up again. 

“You don’t…” Joel started then cleared his throat. You never would have used the word anxious to describe the Joel you had gotten to know thus far, but nervous energy seemed to radiate off him. The tension in his shoulders looked painful to keep hold of. “I had breakfast delivered. Some stuff I know you like.” Joel pulled his hand away from yours. “But you don’t have to stay if you don’t wanna.”

“No. I want to.” You replied. Joel looked briefly hopeful. “I want to talk about this. I want⏤ to know. I want answers.”

“Right. Of course.” Joel nodded quickly. “I owe you at least that.” You nodded in agreement. Joel straightened from where he stood and ran a hand over his chest and shoulder with a quiet cough. “Can I make you something to drink? Coffee, tea, juice?”

You gave a small nod, mumbling a response, and watched as Joel put it all together. He poured himself a cup of coffee after serving you. Rather than take the seat beside you, he stood on the other side of the island counter across from you.

“You mentioned the girl from Vegas last night briefly, but how did you know…”

“Yo-yo told me you had a sugar baby before me. That you married her.”

“I did have a sugar baby before you, yes.” Joel sighed.

“Why did you lie to me?” You demanded.

Joel shook his head, “I never lied to you. I just⏤ I never told you, and you never asked.”

“Really?” You scoffed. “That’s what you wanna hang your hat on here? Semantics?” Joel hung his head then shook it a bit. “I didn’t want to believe her, but yesterday Nima texted someone she knows. A private investigator⏤”

Joel’s eyes widened, “You hired a private investigator??”

“I didn’t hire anybody! Nima just texted them and they confirmed⏤”

“You went to a PI before just asking me?” Joel replied sharply. You leaned back in your seat⏤ in shock at his audacity. He must have noticed how you felt because he held up a hand. “I just mean, that’s a huge invasion of privacy and all you had to do was call me⏤”

You pushed out of your seat and turned to leave. Joel called out after you before following. He grabbed your hand to tug you to a stop and you glared at him over your shoulder. You snapped, “If you’re just going to stand there and be defensive then there’s no reason for me to be here, Joel.” You pulled your hand out of his grip and spun to face him. “I understand that getting in contact with a fucking PI was a crazy move, but yesterday I felt a little crazy.” You scoffed. “I felt like an idiot. I felt like a naive, desperate idiot who got played. So, yeah, I let Nima text her cousin’s cousin’s cousin to find an answer because the thought of standing in front of you and asking⏤”

The rest of your words got caught in your throat. You didn’t want to get emotional in front of Joel. More than anything you wanted to keep your cool and be collected. Just in case he did break your heart, you could walk away with at least some of your dignity intact. Joel took a step closer. Thankfully, he didn’t try to touch you, but he did lift his hands slightly in surrender.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m sorry.” He said. “I’m being defensive. Hell, I'm being an ass.” You locked your jaw and let your eyes focus on something over his shoulder. Unable to stare into those deep, dark eyes. “This is… This isn’t an easy subject for me to talk about and I⏤ I panicked. I want you to hear me out. I want you to know the truth.” He shifted in his stance so your gaze was forced to meet his. The longing there made you suck in a sharp breath. “Please. Give me another chance to explain this. I’ll do better.”

You rubbed the back of your neck with your non-injured hand and gave a small nod.

“Thank you. Thank you.” Joel repeated himself. He took a step back but kept his shoulders facing you as if he thought you were a flight risk. Joel motioned to his couch. “Do you wanna sit? I’ll grab our drinks.” You sighed and meandered over to sit down on one end of his leather couch. Joel didn’t move back into the kitchen until after you were seated. He came back with both of your drinks and handed you your own before sitting on the other side of the couch. One cushion of space between the two of you. 

You took a sip, trying to gather your thoughts, before nodding once. “I want to know about your wife first. Celina, you said? I want to know about her.”

“Yeah.” Joel swallowed thickly. “Do you remember anything I mentioned about Sarah’s mom before?”

“I didn’t know her name.” You replied. “You said the two of you had dated for, like, three months?” Joel nodded. “She got pregnant, and you worked it out. Things were fine, but two weeks after Sarah was born she left. You never said the two of you got married though.”

“Because we didn’t.” Joel replied softly. “I asked. Proposed to her when we found out she was pregnant with Sarah, and she said no.” Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but he wasn’t meeting your gaze anymore. Joel stared down at the coffee mug in his hands. “I loved her. She was my first real love, actually. I knew our situation wasn’t ideal, but… I wanted it to work. I saw a future with her.” Joel ran his thumb back and forth on the edge of his mug’s rim where it reached. He chuckled, “When Sarah was born… Those two weeks? It was⏤ It was good. But, uh, then she left.” Joel shrugged in a way that attempted nonchalance but did not meet the mark. “Her leaving hurt for a lot of reasons. For one, in no way was I prepared to take care of a newborn.”

You set your drink on the coffee table before leaning back. Joel stayed silent, his jaw clenching and unclenching, and you recognized the look of someone getting stuck in their own memories. You spoke up, “What happened then? When did you get married?”

“Celina is…” Joel began. He rubbed his jawline. “I spent a lot of time being furious with her⏤ hating her. Not just for leaving me behind, but for leaving Sarah. Sarah deserved better.” He shook his head. “But she… she came to me, needing help, and I⏤ I couldn’t say no. Not to her. And not because I still had any sort of feelings for her, but because no matter how angry I was at her she gave me Sarah.” A vulnerable softness filled his features and he finally lifted his head to meet your gaze fully. “Without Celina, I wouldn’t have Sarah.”

You could understand that. You knew that his daughters meant absolutely everything to Joel. More so, despite all the shit going on between the two of you right now, despite Joel arguing otherwise, you knew he was a good man. You had a very hard time picturing him saying no to anyone who came to him for help. 

“When did she come to you? And why? What problem is solved with marriage?”

“Three years ago. Just about.” Joel mumbled. “It’s… She was sick. Cancer. The only feasible treatment was going to bankrupt her because her insurance refused to cover the cost. Celina came back wanting to see Sarah. Get to know her before she died.” Your eyes widened in surprise at both the news and the confusion that came with trying to connect the dots. “I told her that was up to Sarah⏤ she was old enough to make that decision for herself and I was gonna support her with whatever she chose.”

You nodded slowly, “Okay…”

“Sarah decided she did want to meet her mom. And I…” Joel paused. He set his coffee mug down on the coffee table as well and laced his fingers together. He was fidgeting. Another nervous tick of his. Joel could never seem to keep his hands still when he was caught in his own mind. It was like his hands so desperately wanted to fix what stressed him out⏤ even if it wasn’t a physical problem they could fix. “I⏤ I couldn’t stop thinking… remembering…”

Joel squeezed his eyes shut, and the palpable pain had you shifting closer. It dawned on you. Words clicking in your mind. You set a hand on his forearm and gave it a small squeeze, “Your mom.” Joel had told you, ages ago, that he had lost his own mother to cancer. “You lost her. I remember you telling me.”

“Yes.” Joel unlaced his own fingers so he could settle one hand on top of yours⏤ still resting on his forearm. The tip of his thumb dragged back and forth against the knuckle of your index finger. Tracing the shape of it. “It wasn’t… It wasn’t the exact same, I know that, but… Sarah technically had already lost her once.”

“Joel…”

“I offered to pay. Pay for the treatment in full.” Joel’s thumb stilled to squeeze your hand once. “I’d cover all the costs, but⏤ but Celina refused. Said she didn’t want,” Joel scoffed with a humorless laugh, “Didn’t want to be a ‘charity case’. Said she didn’t come back for my money, or for me to fix the problem, she came back for Sarah.” Joel shook his head. “We argued in circles for God knows how long. We finally settled on this. If we got married, she’d have my insurance instead of her own. My insurance would cover most of the treatments and she’d pay what it didn’t.”

You understood that. It matched up with what you knew about Joel. “How is she? Now?”

“In remission. Since seven months ago, she’s been in remission.” A small smile flickered on his features. “She lives in Waco. Wanted to be closer to Sarah. One of the only reasons I could stomach all of us coming to LA while Sarah stayed in Texas for college. I knew she’d at least have her there in case of emergencies.”

Your face scrunched in question, “Then why… Why are you still married?”

“I don’t have a reason. Not a real one. Not beyond me just being lazy.” Joel said firmly. He held your hand tight, keeping it pinned to his arm, like it was a lifeline. “Up until now, it didn’t matter to me. It made no difference. That’s it. I swear to you, sugar.” The nickname fell out of his mouth like second nature. “And I’m working on changing that already. You can ask Tommy or⏤ or hell I’ll give you Celina’s number or our lawyer’s number. We started the official divorce paperwork the day you and I got back from Vegas. It was the first call I made after dropping you off at your place.”

You did believe him. As Joel held your gaze, all you could see in those soulful eyes was a deep desperation. An ache seeking the comfort that would come with reassurance. “I believe you.” You said softly and his eyes closed in relief. His entire body sagged as the tension seeped out of it. You really did believe him, and of all the ways this could’ve gone wrong technically you supposed this was the best case scenario. However, learning this made you realize what aspect of this bothered you more than most. You slid your hand out from under his. “Why… Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I was… I was going to. After.”

“Why though? Why after?” You shook your head. “Why didn’t you trust me with this?” Joel’s face fell again. “I know we haven’t known one another for long, but…” You bit back your words before you admitted to the naive truth that you felt some sort of connection to him. That being with him was as easy as breathing and you foolishly let yourself get carried away. “I don’t…”

Joel quickly scooted closer, a hand held up in surrender, “Had nothing to do with⏤ with me not… I do trust you. I do.” Joel shook his head. “Me not mentioning this had nothing to do with you. It was me.” His words reminded you of Vegas. This excuse was sounding familiar and the more you heard it the harder it was to believe. He hung his head and winced. “I need to tell you about⏤ about Erina.”

“That’s…” You began. “Is that your sugar baby?

“Yeah.” Joel nodded. “But it was more complicated than that.”

“So, I’m gathering.” You mumbled. The words of frustration left your lips before you could filter them. In this situation, you felt you had every right to be upset and bitter, but the look of pained guilt that filled Joel’s features made every cell in your body vibrate with regret. It felt like you had just kicked a puppy, and those sad, brown eyes were heart wrenching. “Sorry.”

Joel shook his head quickly. “No. Don’t. You don’t need to be sorry. I do.”

“You’re talking to me⏤ answering my questions.” You replied with a small shrug. “The least I can do is not be petty.” You twisted your lips. “So? Tell me about her.”

“She wasn’t my sugar baby to begin with.” Joel started softly. He turned his head to keep his gaze on the mug sitting on the coffee table, and you found the story easier to stomach without those powerful eyes focused on you. “My company got hired for a job. It was a big one, which is why it came across my desk. Some summer project. A finance guy wanted his vacation house completely renovated in Malibu. I decided to take a more hands on position for the entire thing. Stayed on site to work.” It wasn’t a shock to hear. You were plenty aware that Joel spent most of his work time on site if he could. Joel only donned a tie for the board room when Tess wrestled him into it. “The guy who hired us wasn’t there, but his wife was. At least, I thought it was his wife.”

“But it wasn’t.”

Joel gave out a sad chuckle, “No. She wasn’t. Erina was… lively and energetic. She was fun, and I… It had been a long time since I experienced that kind of light hearted fun. Plus, the client, when he did come around, was such an asshole to her and I⏤” Joel sighed. “She left him midway through the project, but we didn’t get involved with one another until after it was over. When it started, it was great. The honeymoon phase was…” His voice trailed off as a small, sad smile crossed his face. You found your stomach churn in jealousy at him talking about this other woman. It was damn near nonsensical, but the emotion rose up regardless. “The issues started a while in. I realized that we saw the relationship differently. I thought… I thought what we had was real, and she only saw me as her new sugar daddy.”

For a while, we just went on. I didn’t think the difference in how we viewed things would matter. Stupid, I know, but… I thought I was happy.” Joel mumbled the last bit. He lifted a hand to rub at his jawline. “As you’ve probably figured out, I’m not⏤ I’m not good at this. Relationships and…” He tensed. “Some people are just better off alone, but I’ve been too hard headed to accept that.”

“Joel.” You interrupted the flow of his story at his claim. You didn’t believe that and you especially refused to believe it about Joel. “That’s not⏤”

“Things were still working until I…” Joel shook his head. “I told her about Celina. Tried to explain the situation to her, but when she told me to get divorced and I couldn’t⏤ that’s when it all started to crumble. I didn’t actually end the relationship until after I found out she was seeing a few other guys.” You opened your mouth the speak, the beginnings of a sentence you didn’t know how to end slipping from your tongue, but Joel suddenly turned in his seat to face you and the look in his eyes silenced any attempt at speech. He hesitantly reached out and let his hand settle on top of yours. When you didn’t pull away, he squeezed his grip tighter. “You and Erina are not the same. It wasn’t until after we stopped seeing one another that I realized how terrible our relationship had been. So please, please, don’t think I’m comparing you to her because I’m not. I know how she reacted is not some⏤ some default and you wouldn’t necessarily react the same, but… but every time I considered telling you about Celina, all I could imagine was you leaving. And I, selfishly, stopped myself from admitting the truth to you because I didn’t want to ruin this the way I ruin everything else.”

You murmured his name. Early on, you recognized Joel had trust issues, but you had never realized it stretched this far. Joel didn’t trust even himself. It broke your heart that he thought so poorly of himself. No matter how upset you were at the man you knew deep down he was a good. His mistake had hurt you, but it hadn’t been born of malice. You saw that now. Fear and self doubt had brought the two of you to this crossroads. 

“Joel, that isn’t true.” You said softly. “You don’t ruin everything.”

“The evidence is pretty damning.” Joel chuckled sadly. You opened your mouth to argue, but he shook his head quickly and held out a hand to stop you. “That’s not the point of… I should’ve told you. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. I should’ve told you, been up front about it all, and I’m sorry.” Joel sighed. “I’m sorry, sugar.”

He had answered a number of your questions and with the truth came the relief of knowing.  Plus, the answer technically hadn’t been your worst case scenario. God knew your brain was plenty capable of thinking up some nightmare-ish situations. So in comparison, it would be worse. Still, there was an itch that hadn’t quite yet been scratched.

“Why… Why seek out a new sugar baby?” You asked. His experience with Erina had obviously been less than ideal so why try again? You shook your head, “Why me?”

“Those are two very different questions.”

“How do you figure that?”

“I …” Joel began hesitantly. You could see his thoughts jumbling in his mind as he struggled to string one along. Conversations like this were hardly considered Joel’s comfort zone so you did appreciate that he was trying. That went a long way as well. “Erina came back into my life not so long ago.” You felt your stomach drop and your heart clench painfully. The emotional response was so physical that it nearly made you sick. Joel must have noticed because he quickly reached out and settled a hand on your shoulder. “No. Not like that. She means nothing to me. She came to me wanting to get back together, harassing me about it, but I’ve made it crystal clear to her and everyone around us that I have no interest in restarting something with her. Especially now.”

“Okay…”

“The idea was…” Joel winced sheepishly. “The idea was to hire a sugar baby as a way to show her that I was serious. We were done and I was moving on.” It was ridiculous enough that from anyone’s else mouth you wouldn’t have believed them, but they had been said in Joel’s sincerity. “I know how that sounds.”

“Not good. It sounds not good.”

“I know. Everyone told me it was a bad idea. Tess, Sarah, Ellie.” You found it interesting that his daughters knew about their father’s love life to that degree. It spoke to how close they were and his stance on honesty. Joel chuckled. “Actually, the only person who agreed with me on the plan was Tommy, but I suppose that should’ve been a sign to give it up.” Your lips twitched up mildly in amusement. “But, deep down I knew it would hurt Erina, and I… I wanted to be petty.”

You shrugged, “And I’m apart of this… how? To annoy Erina?”

“No.” Joel said firmly, almost roughly. “Absolutely not. Remember the day you bought me that coffee? I said I had been meeting with some other, um, women?” You nodded and let him continue. “By time I made it to the that coffee shop, I had already half decided to give up the idea. It was obviously going poorly. I was literally just looking for someone I wouldn’t mind spending time with and I couldn’t even do that. But you were… God, meeting you felt like a breath of fresh air.” He messily ran a hand through his hair while his other continued to fidget. “You stayed on my mind and when I spotted you again…”

“I…” You tried to find the right words. The ones he would want to hear. It felt odd to give forgiveness for a misunderstanding, but you knew that’s what he was seeking. Validation. “I forgive you.” 

The relief on Joel’s face was staggering and when he held a hand out to you, you knew exactly what he was asking for. You closed the space and let him pull you into a hug. His warm, large hands enveloped you as he craddled the back of your head to hold you as closely to him as you could. You wrapped your own arms around him and lazily dragged your thumb up and down where it rested. 

You did forgive him for this. That was the truth and you meant it with your whole heart, but this entire experience was eye opening. You had fallen for Joel so dangerously fast. It made you realize that if this had been a different scenario, one of the nightmare-ish ones you imagined, it would’ve destroyed you. With the speed you were moving in, you would’ve hit the ground at a million miles per hour and shattered. You forgave Joel, but you needed to figure out a way to better guard your heart.

“I’m sorry for reaching out to a PI.”

“No. Don’t be.” Joel pulled back and the hand at the back of your head dragged forward to cup the side of your face. He sighed, “You were right. I should’ve handled this better, but I… I do appreciate you saying so.” The two of you sat in a moment of silence and for the first time since you met him that silence felt awkward. Joel must have felt it as well based on the clearing of his throat and fidgeting. “So… Are we— Are we okay?”

You nodded, “I think so.” The tension left Joel’s shoulders and you quickly stood. “I should… I should go.”

“You’re off today though, aren’t you?” Joel stood as well.

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Stay. Please.” Joel motioned back to the kitchen. “Have breakfast. I called Tommy and he’s gonna bring over your stuff.” Your eyes widened in surprise and he shrugged. “Tommy is gonna bring over your friend who has your stuff I should say.”

You hesitated, nervous after this heart to heart, but Joel held out a hand to you. Equally a peace offering and lifeline. You just weren’t sure if it was a lifeline for you or him. You set your hand in his and he gave it a small squeeze. The smile on his face was soft and open. Two words you knew not many people were able to claim as a description with him. 

Joel led you back toward the kitchen and when you turned to try and go back for your mug he stopped you. He settled you on one of the bar stools, hands lingering on your hips briefly, before going back to the living room for both your mugs. 

“You know, when I pictured you spending the night here this wasn’t quite how I thought it’d go.” Joel chuckled and grabbed a plate. You leaned on the counter and waited since you knew that plate he was making was meant for you. It took a second for his words to dawn on you. Joel pictures you spending the night in his home with him? Your face and neck warmed at the thought. It wasn’t like you hadn’t had those kinds of ideas, but hearing it from him still made your heart flutter. Even with the disaster miscommunication still lingering in your rear view mirror. “Here. Lemme know if you want anything else.” Joel set the plate in front of you and handed you a fork. After making his own plate, he pulled the barstool beside you closer and sat down. He sat sideways to face you and his knee pressed against your stool. “We could, uh, we could have a day in.”

“Hm?” You took a bite of your food.

“We’re both in pajamas and neither of us have work.”

“You don’t have work?” You asked in surprise.

Joel shook his head. “I already called Tess and told her I wasn’t coming in today. Told her I was feeling sick.”

“Did she actually believe you?” You smirked.

“No.” Joel chuckled. “She didn’t. But she also didn’t call me out on my shit, so…”

He gave you a charming smile, obviously trying to lighten the mood, and you found you appreciated it. Things weren't perfect, but for the sake of what had been you were willing to try.

[iammorethananame-library]

cupcake - car salesman!jack daniels x f!reader

moodboard (and fic) by me and @haylzcyon

summary: Jack Daniels, lead used car salesman at his dealership, has a crush on you, the pretty receptionist. It's too bad he can't get out of his own way. Luckily for him, you have patience and a soft spot for shy cowboys. rating/warnings: E [semi-public male masturbation, some objectification, fantasized sexy times, descriptions of food and eating, kissing, it's all very sweet okay, reader wears glasses] wc: 6k (whoops) a/n: as mentioned above, this was co-written by @haylzcyon! and it was an awesome, fun process, and i love her sm<3 we set out to write a drabble, and then we lost our minds a little, and now we've created a universe. i said to myself no more AUs but i lied. we are very anxious and excited to present this sweet man borne from our various experiences with car salesmen. jack would've been better to us, and he's gonna be incredible to you, dear reader.

masterlist

~

“Hey there, sunshine.”

You look up from the papers on your desk into the deep, mesmerizing brown eyes of Jack Daniels, the top salesman of the quarter three quarters in a row. You know this because you spend most of your time filing those sales reports, marveling at sales bonuses that could pay your rent for a year.

Jack’s not even supposed to be here today. He doesn’t get back from vacation until tomorrow. You know this because you have the schedules of all the salespeople in the dealership taped to the surface of your desk. You definitely don’t pay more attention to Jack’s schedule. 

It’s not like you’d memorized it or anything. 

But he’s here now, standing with his hands behind his back, dressed more casually than you’ve ever seen him in a pair of blue jeans that sit snug on his slim hips, and a dark grey t-shirt with sleeves that hug his biceps. He’s missing his usual Stetson, and he looks so much softer with just a crown of soft, dark waves that he runs his fingers through as he waits for you to acknowledge him.  

He’s smiling at you. 

“Morning, Jack. Aren’t you off till Monday?” You ask with a yawn. It’s early still, and the dealership isn’t even technically open. 

“I am, but I got somethin’ for ya,” he says, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. You peer over the edge of your desk, eyebrows raised to better see what he’s holding.  

“You—you did?” 

From behind his back, he produces a small white box tied closed with twine. “I felt just awful about missin’ your party last week, so I got you a little something.”

“Party?” You ask before your brain catches up with you. Oh, right—your birthday party. That. 

They were supposed to throw you a party. Everyone else got a party. It wasn’t that big of a deal, just a cake and some punch in the big meeting room, and a card signed by everyone. That’s what you’d heard, at least. You’ve never gotten to go to one. The phone, unfortunately, never stops ringing. 

“Jack, you are so, so sweet. Thank you so much,” you say, trying to shake off that lingering ache of disappointment and eying the box he sets in front of you. “But you didn’t miss anything. There wasn’t a party or anything like that.”

Jack squints at you, nostrils flaring a little like that’s the last thing he expected you to say. “No party?”

“They couldn’t get anyone to cover the front desk,” you explain, heat blossoming in your cheeks, and you desperately trying to change the subject. “It’s fine, no big deal. Lemme see what you got me.”

You tug on the twine, and the box falls open delicately. Inside is the most beautiful red velvet cupcake you’ve ever seen. 

“Oh, Jack,” you breathe, looking back at him. “It’s amazing. Thank you, you really shouldn’t have.”

His cheeks are a delightful shade of rosy pink, a bashful grin spreading across his face. 

“You’re welcome, darlin’,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. He hesitates and takes a breath before he speaks again. The phone starts ringing, but you ignore it. You’re not open for another five minutes, and you don’t think you’d answer it even then; not with Jack Daniels being so adorable in front of you. “Listen, I was wonderin’ if you…are you busy tonight?”

“I have big plans with my couch, actually.” 

“What if I took you out tonight instead? Just to…just to make up for these idiots not doin’ something special for you like they ought to.”

You consider the offer, ignoring the butterflies flitting around your stomach. There’s no reason to think this is anything other than him just being nice, but you’ve never been alone with Jack. Up until about a month ago, you’d been convinced he wanted nothing to do with you. 

Regardless, having his full attention sounds incredibly appealing.

“That would be amazing, Jack,” you say. The smile he gives you lights up the whole gloomy day. 

**

The unfortunate crush you’d harbored for the man started your third day here. 

The woman you were replacing—a gorgeous, cheerful woman named Ginger—had left you alone for the first time to go to lunch. 

“You’ll be fine,” Ginger insisted, shouldering her purse, already halfway around the reception desk. “Remember, if it’s someone looking for a salesperson, send it to them in the list order, okay?” Ginger tapped a bright pink Post-it note with a list of names stuck to your monitor. “Top to bottom, and then start over.”

“And that’s because…”

“Because salespeople have egos, and if you send too many calls to one of them too many times, it starts a whole thing,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Okay, I’ll be back.”

You only had two accidental disconnects (which, yes, was an improvement), and your confidence had gone up by about ten percent when a man jogged toward you, looking down at an envelope in his hand. His face was obscured by the brim of a brown cowboy hat.

“Sweetheart,” he said, still not looking up. “Can you get me the keys to that 2012 Honda Acc—you’re not Ginger.”

He finally looked up at you, stopping short just before he got to your desk. 

“Nope,” you said, telling him your name. “I’m the new girl.”

“What happened to Ginger?”

“She’s…still here. She’s just moving to the back to take over as title clerk,” you explained. You tried not to think about how handsome he was, even with that ridiculous hat. 

“Oh,” was all he said. For several long moments, he was quiet, looking at you like he didn’t understand the concept of a new receptionist. 

“Did you…need something?” You asked, finally.

“Of course!” He said. “Sorry. Yeah, I needed some keys.”

Unfortunately for both of you, you had no idea where any keys were. 

“I, um, Ginger hasn’t told me about keys yet?”

You braced yourself for some kind of impatience—you already felt like you were wasting his time—but he just strode around to the other side of your desk, opening a drawer to your right while fastidiously avoiding direct eye contact. 

“The keys to the key cabinet are here,” he said, picking them up off a notepad. “And the key cabinet is there. They all have serial numbers that match them.” He read off a long series of numbers and you rifled through the keys until you came to the matching 2012 Honda Accord tags.

“Why do you ask me for them if you know where they are?” You asked, genuinely curious. He just stared at you again, though, and hot flames licked up the back of your neck, burning to the tips of your ears. 

“That’s just how it’s done,” he said at last. Oh, he definitely thought you were a moron.

“Okay, um, well, thank you,” you said. He flashed a tight-lipped smile and gave a quick nod. 

“No problem, sug—uh, no problem. Name’s Jack.” Then he turned around, disappearing around the corner. It pained you to note he had a distressingly cute little ass.

Ginger came back not long after, and you told her about Jack and the keys. 

“Is he shy or something?” You asked.

Ginger scoffed. “Jack? No. Not at all. He’s never met a stranger. Why?”

“He was just a little quiet with me.” 

“Uh-huh,” Ginger said like she knew something you might not. “Well, he’s probably just in a hurry. He’s usually plenty chatty.” 

And over the months, you came to see that he was very, very chatty. And friendly and funny, too. 

Just not with you. 

**

While Jack is preoccupied, backing into the spot next to where you parked this morning, you take the moment to watch as beams of the car lot's lights wash over his face. You’ve always found him handsome, but the sharp edges of his features catch and shine inside the dim cabin, illuminating the softer parts around the apples of his cheeks and the slope of his neck as he cranes it to check the side-view mirror. 

You actually think he’s beautiful. 

He's different tonight, too. Where his movements and words to you previously were ever awkward and spacey, he has been nothing but smooth and attentive since he picked you up at 5 o'clock. The way his jeans slid over the leather booth at the restaurant when he scooched close to hear you better was natural, and his sweet drawl so close to your ear in a crowded room was richer than any you'd ever heard. The way his eyes focused intently on the center of your face whenever you adjusted your glasses, and the way your name seemed to drip like honey off his lips sent goosebumps across your skin every time.

Jack is an exceptional salesperson; the kind of man who treats his customers like family and his coworkers as friends. But how he's treated you all night, on top of the heady energy radiating from him and filling the space between you right now- it's surely neither of those things. 

You've witnessed how polite and caring and thoughtful he can be, but there's still always been some invisible wedge driven uncomfortably between you. Something that kept him from loosening up; from giving you the casual assurance that he's interested in speaking to you as not just a coworker, but a friend.

All night you’ve struggled not to ask him what changed. 

Ducking your head and fiddling with the hem of your skirt, you try not to let your breath sound too shaken when his arm reaches behind your seat headrest. Jack’s torso twists and leans towards you as he peers out the back windshield, throwing a pleasant mixture of clove and butterscotch across the center console and more butterflies into your stomach.

Once the car’s in park, he gingerly turns the radio dial all the way down. Staring at his hand for a moment before letting it fall to the shifter, his jaw ticks before he turns to face you with an earnest smile. 

“Really glad you let me take you out tonight, darlin’.” 

Willfully ignoring the heat that spreads across your chest, you return the smile and reach for the purse at your feet. 

“Me too, Jack, I had a great time,” you say, beginning to dig for your keys, “Far and away better than the plans I had with my couch.”

He chuckles before grabbing his door handle to step out after you. “I sure hope so.” 

You’re still rummaging around the bottom of your purse as he mosies around the hood of his SUV, planting a hip against the grill. He's spectating your struggle with a look in his eye like it's the most amusing sight in the world. 

“Well," you say, disregarding the butterflies in your stomach under his gaze, "you obviously haven’t spent an evening in my living room eating Chinese takeout and watching Bake Off. It’s usually a blast.” 

“I believe that,” he concedes with a tilt of his head, a grin spreading across plush lips. “You like to bake?” 

“Sometimes,” you say, finally wrapping your fingers around your key fob and pulling the ring from the depths of your bag. “My kitchen is kind of small, so- oh, wait!” 

Turning on the spot, you start a brisk walk toward the clear glass walls of the dealership’s office. 

“What’re you after?” Jack asks, stepping in quickly behind you. 

“I left your cupcake on my desk. And frankly, Mr. Daniels, you’ve got me all wrong if you think I wasn’t planning on eating it in the bath tonight.” 

Your cheeks burn again but you shoot him a coy smile before placing your key in the lock and turning it. He closes the door behind you, stepping to the alarm panel on the wall to disarm it while you head to reception. 

Stretching over the counter on your tip-toes to retrieve the box, he’s only a few strides from joining you when you pivot and move toward the break room. 

“Gonna grab a couple forks.” 

You're reaching high, your fingertips just brushing the edge of the box of plastic cutlery atop the fridge when Jack sneaks in the doorway to the kitchenette. A sudden, booming rendition of “Happy Birthday” fills the room, nearly causing you to drop the box but saving it at the last second. 

A grin stretches across your face at the shockingly tone-deaf singing voice that bounces off the linoleum floor, as well as the sight of the oversized cupcake dwarfed in his hands. Even so brazenly off-key, the sound of Jack singing your name sends an excited ripple through your body. 

As he walks to the small table in the center of the room, Jack shoots you a wink before ending the song and placing the treat squarely in the center of the surface.

Thanking him, you stifle your giggles and revel in the brightest smile he’s ever given you in return. You both take a seat, the cheap plastic chairs creaking as you settle in front of the picture-perfect red velvet cupcake and take a better look at the confection. It’s topped with neatly piped frosting, both white and dark chocolate shavings, and looks absolutely delicious. Plucking the fork you offer him out of your hand, he watches as you bite your lip before sinking the utensil into the treat and bringing it to your lips. 

“Oh my gooood,” you moan, mouth half-full but unable to help yourself at the explosion of decadence on your tongue. Knitting your eyebrows and raising them as you swallow, you find his eyes and say, “Jack, this is amazing, you have to try.” 

He chuckles and raises his own brows. “I reckon I do. You’ve already given it quite the review.” 

Removing his hat and twiddling the fork in his fingers, he gestures for you to take another bite before digging in himself. The two of you sit in near silence while you eat–the trickling of the water cooler, the distant thrum of heavy traffic outside, and his grunts of approval over the cake lending a comfortable ambiance. 

As comfortable as you can be, considering the picture of Jack beside you. His plush lips purse enticingly with every bite he takes, and the red security light bouncing off the skin of his hands, his face, his neck, is more distracting than anything you've ever seen in this office. 

He looks up from the cupcake right into your eyes, like he’s waiting for the answer to a question. Because he is—you’ve just been too preoccupied with staring at that divot in his bottom lip to hear him. 

“Sorry,” you say, a nervous grin spreading across your face. “What did you say?”

**

Jack wasn’t sure what to do with you at first. After that initial stilted interaction, he did remember when Ginger mentioned a new hire coming to replace her at reception. But he’d been so taken off guard, you with your bright eyes and soft features sitting where he’d expected Ginger, he could barely remember his name before he gave it to you.

You were so pretty he couldn’t even make himself speak more than he absolutely had to, convinced that he’d say something foolish or offensive. For a reason he hadn’t ascertained quite yet, he really didn’t want you to think he was either of those things.

He had a plan—it was a good plan, really, it was. He’d get past his weird, unsettling crush on you, and be professional and cool. He just needed a few weeks to settle himself; talk to you in small doses, find some kind of flaw of yours, and focus on that. But he could never, ever make himself say more than three words at a time to you, and so he never found one damn flaw. 

Plan A fell apart quickly, and the only other plan was to avoid you entirely. That plan sucked, but Jack didn’t know what else he was supposed to do. Walk over and have some kind of normal conversation? Not when his tongue felt too big for his mouth every time you smiled at him. Not when every time you stood too close and he got a whiff of your perfume he felt all the muscles in his chest constrict–along with every stitch in the crotch of his trousers. 

So he chose distance. After a few months, he managed to delude himself into believing it had worked. He could look at you and give a pleasant smile without a twisting sensation in the pit of his stomach. 

And then came goddamn casual Friday.

When the dealership had a particularly good week, it always meant more work for the office. Recently, they’d had a lot of good weeks, and the ladies in the back were swamped with paperwork. And in the grand tradition of capitalism, rather than hire someone to help, the general manager suggested a “morale boost”. 

“They can wear jeans on Fridays!” He’d said. Jack’s eyes had rolled clear into the back of his skull at the proclamation. What the hell were blue jeans supposed to do for morale?

He got in early that first casual Friday by coincidence—he also had a ton of paperwork that needed to be completed before he sent it to the office. He was just gulping down his second cup of coffee when you walked in wearing a black v-neck t-shirt and the most form-fitting pair of dark blue bellbottom jeans he’d ever seen. 

They were certainly the tightest pants he’d ever seen you wear, anyway. It was like you’d been sewn into them, how they clung to every lush curve of your hips and ass. 

He almost choked on his damn coffee when you faced away from him to hang your purse on a hook next to your desk, the outline of your panties fully visible as you stretched your arms over your head and yawned. 

Jesus fucking Christ.

He was useless the rest of the morning. Any progress he’d made in the hour before you arrived was for naught as the paperwork just kept piling up. He couldn’t focus on anything other than you and those goddamn jeans - how they must bunch up a little around your hips under the desk, or what color those panties might be beneath them. Jack was sure if he lingered on the mental image long enough, the idea of peeling that tight denim off your thighs and abandoning it in a pile on his floor could make him bust completely untouched.

When you slipped into his doorway to quietly place his most recent sales numbers and a couple of messages on his desk, the sight of your fingers nonchalantly adjusting the strap of your bra, the quickest flash of purple–lavender–before you smiled politely and exited, nearly broke him.

When noon finally rolled around, he let out an exasperated sigh as he watched your form disappear out the front doors for your lunch break. Shifting his weight in his chair, he hastily tucked his half-hard cock into the waistband of his jeans and booked it out of his office. Mumbling an apology after almost barrelling over another salesman along with the elderly customer he was assisting in his rush, he didn’t even wait around to hear if it was accepted. 

He was a mess, but he needed to finish the day out. And in his frustrated and lust-addled state, he only saw one option for seeing this Friday through. 

After hopping into the front seat of his car and scanning the lot for signs of porters or customers, he threw it into gear and slowly crept towards the back fence. He backed into a solitary parking spot that was mostly obscured by low-hanging tree branches, unconcerned about any potential scratches they might leave on the roof of the SUV.

Jack’s heart was pounding like a bass drum in his chest before he even shut off the ignition, guilt creeping up the back of his neck. This was stupid. This was wrong. This was disgusting. 

The self-beratement continued as he let his hand fall to his crotch, his palm running smoothly over the bulge behind his zipper and causing a pathetic whimper to fall from his lips. 

It wasn’t like he’d ever done anything like this before, he tried to reason with himself. You just made him so crazy. Like a damn teenager.

He leaned the seat all the way back, still palming himself with his other hand and flicking open his belt. He reached into his jeans and groaned as he pulled his cock out, the guilt starting to dissipate as he rubbed his thumb over his slit. He hissed, pulling his hat low over his face and closing his eyes as he conjured up a vision of you in his head. To add to his shame, this wasn’t the first time he’d stroked himself to the thought of you. It wasn’t even the hundredth time. 

He squeezed the base of his cock and sighed. You’d let him tug those jeans off of you, sighing as he’d kiss down your thighs and calves and up again until he got back to your pussy, nosing the soaking wet fabric. Lavender, like your bra. He’d tease you there, and you’d giggle and slide your fingers into his hair and pull. 

He stroked a little faster, the wet, slick sound of his throbbing cock filling the car. It’s so loud, there’s a fleeting worry that someone might hear if they happen to walk by. 

Jack pumped frantically as he slipped back into his fantasy. You’d gaze down at him, biting your lip in some coy flirtation. 

“Aren’t you gonna kiss me, Jack?” You’d ask, and he’d trace his fingers up your thigh, slipping them under your panties. 

“Where, sugar?” He’d ask, and you’d lean your head back on the headboard in playful frustration. He wouldn’t be able to resist your pout. He never could in these little dreams of his. He was almost there, heat coiling in his belly.

He’d pull your underwear down in a quick, smooth motion, pushing your legs open and—

The sound of a car door slamming shut nearby broke his focus, Jack’s heart nearly jumping from his chest as he whipped the hat from his face and lifted his head just enough to peer through the windshield. His terror eased to find he was still well concealed, but a choked gasp stuck in his throat at what he could see from this vantage point.

There you were, standing next to your car with your fingers through your belt loops and doing some sort of half-jump, half-jig in an attempt to readjust the jeans on your hips. You were facing away from him, and he could just make out the way the material pulled tight at the small dip between your thighs, the shape of your perfect curves on display as you let go of the loops, gravity working to make your ass fall slightly with a bounce. 

An inhuman groan filled the inside of the car as he threw his head back onto the seat, eyes pinched shut and hips bucking sporadically into his hand as the image of the tiniest shake of your ass played over and over behind his eyelids. As hot, white ropes covered his fingers and belly, he continued fucking his hand with alacrity, losing himself completely in the extra slip in his stroke and the thought of what you might think if you found him like this–cock in hand, covered in his own cum and with the knowledge that it was you who put him in this wrecked state.  

When he finally let go of his cock, breathing deeply and reaching for the glovebox to find napkins and hastily clean his mess, deep shame filled his gut. 

This was downright wrong. He couldn’t keep doing this to himself. He couldn’t do this to you. 

On his drive home that night, Jack made a decision. Keeping you at arm’s length was obviously only exacerbating the problem, turning you from a whole person to an object he used to get himself off. Something had to give. 

So every day after that Jack would come in and tell himself he’d talk to you; he wouldn’t be weird, he wouldn’t stare at you and then play it off like he was trying to get someone else’s attention when you inevitably caught him. Every day he fucked up somehow.

He didn’t think it was that noticeable until Ginger, of all people, said something exactly two weeks ago.

“What’s your deal with the receptionist?” She asked as he hovered over her desk, waiting for a set of temporary tags. His mouth rounded, stomach clenching as he prepared his defense. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he said, folding his arms and tapping his foot against the concrete floor. She peered down at the offending noise.

“Stop that,” she said, glaring at him over her glasses, and he did. It did no good to bother the office ladies, and he knew Ginger was more than capable of making his life just difficult enough to drive him nuts. He didn’t think she would, but he wouldn’t test her. “You know exactly what I mean. You’re a total freak around her. You’ve never shut up the whole time I’ve known you, and she says you’ve never even had a conversation with her.”

“I’m—I don’t have that much reason to be talkin’ to the receptionist. I’m busy, you know,” he argued. Ginger stopped typing and looked up at him. 

“You bothered me plenty,” she reminded him, exasperated.

“That was different. We’re friends,” he said. “Been friends a long time.”

Ginger shook her head and gave her mouse a hard double-click, the whir of the ancient printer in the corner signaling the temporary tags were ready. “Well, she thinks you hate her. She asked me—very sheepishly, I might add—if I knew why. So get that under control, Jack. Reception is thankless and hard enough as it is.”

“She thinks I hate her?” He asked, standing up straight. 

That was certainly not his intention. 

“She said she’s the only person you never say good morning or goodnight to.”

“I—just—goddammit,” he said, snatching the tags from the printer. “I don’t hate her. Tell her I don’t hate her.”

But Ginger waved him away, and he skulked back to his office, taking the long way to avoid the reception desk. 

How could he possibly explain that if he talked to you too much, he’d tell you that he thought you were the prettiest girl he’d ever seen? And it wasn’t just that you were pretty—you were nice and charming and helpful, and you brought in cookies for everyone, and you were always reading a new book every time he saw you so he knew you were smart, too. And when your glasses slid down, your nose twitched like a bunny rabbit when you pushed them up.

And he’d never told you any of that because he was afraid you’d find out he had a crush on you. But so what if you did find out? He hadn’t even given you the chance to decide whether or not you liked him at all. He’d just decided all of it for you. 

Had he really never said good morning to you? 

Jack sat back in his chair and looked out at the show floor, straight to reception where you smiled brightly at a couple who’d just walked in. 

Had he really never said good morning to you?

He passed your desk that evening as you packed up and stopped, licking his lips and taking a deep breath. 

“You have a good night, sweetheart,” he said. You looked up at him like he’d sprouted a pair of bull horns, but after a moment a smile spread across your pretty face. 

“Y-you too, Jack. Thank you,” you said, like he’d just told you he’d paid off your student loans. Too grateful for something he should’ve been doing all along.

You were still smiling when you left a few minutes later, and all the way to your car, too. 

He could do this.

**

And here you are now in front of him, all beautiful and soft under the red glow of the security light. You have a smudge of frosting on the corner of your mouth, and when he tells you, you don’t answer. You just stare back at him with big eyes, and before he knows it, he’s reaching over the table and dragging his thumb across your lip to clean it off himself. It takes all of his self-control not to rub your lip a second time.

“Said you have a little somethin’ on your mouth,” he says, sucking the frosting off of his thumb. You’re still staring at him, and he can’t help but smirk. 

“What’s on your mind, darlin’?” He asks. You look away, biting that lip he just touched. 

“I’m just glad we’re hanging out. I thought…I just didn’t think you wanted to be friends with me. It’s nice.”

“...Friends?” He asks, scratching his chin. Not that he’d let you see the bill, but that dinner wasn’t exactly friend-date pricing. 

He hadn’t wanted it to be. 

Your eyes widen. “I mean, acquaintances. You know, more than co-workers. I wasn’t…just, like, casual friends,” you say, trailing off, looking back down at the cupcake. 

He scoots his chair right up next to you, close enough that he can smell your honeysuckle perfume, and hooks a finger under your chin, tipping your face up to meet his eyes. “Sweetheart, if you’re thinkin’ I wanna be friends, I’ve done this all wrong.” 

Warmth spreads through his chest at the dawning comprehension on your face, your lips parting as you exhale softly. He gazes at you for one long moment, giving you the time and space to back away if you like. He doesn’t think you want to, though. 

“I think you might be the prettiest girl I ever saw,” he says, his eyes roaming over your face. “And I’d like to kiss you, if that’s all right.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’d like that a lot, Jack.”

He lingers just before his lips meet yours, one last deep breath before that leap forward into something he’s desperate to lose himself in, but you’re more impatient than he is. Or more courageous. 

You close the gap between the two of you, and you’re everything.

Jack lets you lead, ignoring the way the soft whimper you let out goes straight to his cock. You taste like cream cheese icing and strawberry chapstick, and your lips are so much warmer than he’d imagined. He thought you’d be gentle; timid, even, but you press your mouth firmly against his, your hand sneaking up his chest to grasp at his shirt collar to pull him even closer. 

He parts his lips—an invitation, if you’re interested. You accept, your tongue sliding between the gap in tentative exploration.

He can’t touch you the way he wants to, sitting like this. He pulls you up from your chair, his hands cupped around your jaw in an effort to keep your lips sealed to his. It works—you let out the sweetest whine, your tongue massaging his as he backs you into the wall, his hands free to roam your torso. 

Jack settles them on your waist, squeezing and kneading you over your blouse in an attempt to be a gentleman, but the noises coming from you are making that hard.

Really hard.

Especially when you hook your fingers through his belt loops and turn the space between the erection straining his jeans and your hips into nothing. You gasp as he pushes against you, and can’t stop himself from rolling his hips, desperate for friction. His instinct is to bend you over the table and fuck you until you’re a whimpering, quivering mess on his cock, but he can’t do that. 

He has to take his time with you.

“Darlin’,” he whispers shakily against your lips. It takes all of his self-control not to pull your skirt up and check if you’re just as turned on as he is. “Let’s slow down a tick.”

You still at his words and look up at him, shoulders slumping as you bring your arms to your side. 

“Did…I do something wrong?” You ask, and his heart drops at the waver in your voice.

“No,” he says quickly, cupping your cheek and stroking it in what he hopes is a soothing caress. “No. You’re perfect, darlin’, but I don’t wanna mess any of this up or make you think I’m just tryin’ to get up your skirt.”

“All right,” you say, still sounding a little uncertain. You have a right to be, after all of his capricious behavior over the last year. 

He sighs as he nuzzles his nose against your cheek, nibbling his way to your earlobe. Against his better judgment, he wraps his fingers around your wrist and pulls it down until your hand meets his clothed, aching cock. 

You gasp, and he grins against your cheek.

“Feel that?” He asks. “Feel what you do to me?”

“Jack,” you murmur, squeezing him through his jeans. 

“Let me take my time with you, sweetheart. My little cupcake,” he teases. “Let me take you out again.”

“When?” You ask, sticking out your bottom lip. Goddamn, you’re cute when you pout. 

“Tomorrow? This weekend? When—”

“Tomorrow,” you say quickly. “Tomorrow is good.”

“Tomorrow it is,” he says, using the rest of his self-control to pull away from you. “Now come on. It’s late, and I want you to be here on time tomorrow so I can look at you all day.”

You giggle, and he can’t believe he’s wasted a whole year not hearing that. 

The rain that’s threatened the area all day has started to fall as he walks you back to your car, and he kisses you one last time against your passenger side door, holding his hat over your head in an attempt to keep you somewhat dry. When he pulls away, you’re looking up at him, mouth half open like you’re thinking of saying something. 

“What is it?” He asks.

“What changed?”

He thinks of asking what you’re talking about, but he knows. And you know that he knows. No need to play anymore games, he decides.

“I got over myself,” he says. “You deserve the chance to reject me without me decidin’ all this for you.”

A half-smile forms on your lips. “Why on Earth would I reject you?”

He swallows, throat dry as he considers it. He could list all the reasons he doesn’t deserve a woman like you, but something tells him you’ll rebuff every single one of them. 

“Lots of reasons. But I’m not above admitting I was scared,” he says. “Am scared.”

“Don’t be,” you say. “I don’t bite. Unless…well, not always.” You grin, lightening the mood without dismissing him. He grins, too.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. 

“Shit, I don’t wanna go home,” you say, but you yawn at the same time and stretch your arms over your head, your cardigan falling to the side and revealing a peek of that lavender bra, and he stifles a groan.

“Go home and go to sleep, cupcake. I’ll bring you breakfast in the morning,” he says. “And we can decide where I’m takin’ you tomorrow night.”

You give a soft, shy grin. “Cupcake, huh?” “Cupcake,” he says, nodding. “You’re as sweet as one, and you taste just as good.” 

“All right, cowboy, whatever you say,” you say. 

Several rounds of “I don’t want to leave” later, he watches you drive out of the lot and round the corner. He leans his head back and on the seat and sighs like he’s just gone on his first date ever, heart thrumming with adrenaline and hope. 

He has so many plans to make. 

[iammorethananame-library]

I know I posted a fic literally yesterday but once again the muse seized me randomly while I was bored at work. This was written on my phone, that's how you know something really possessed me.

wc: 1.1k

warnings: body worship, joel worshiping you🫵, not exactly smut but smuttish, poetic smut, descriptions of body hair, #bush in fic 2024, joel on his knees, one brief mention of being hungry, mentions of violence, etc etc etc, you know how it goes.

He loves your body. 

The shape of you beneath clothes, material pulled here and there, rucked up and messy. Curve of hip, slope of waist, tuck of your knee to the side when you’re angry, arms crossed over chest, taut shoulders thrown back. 

The shape of you in nothing. Pretty hills and valleys. The roll of scar and naked skin, the snaking spill of you, the jiggle of you when you move—over him, under him, everywhere. The bounce of your breasts when he thrusts into you. 

He loves the warmth of you, soft, fitted like a glove. Rough with him sometimes but always soft somewhere. 

The weight of your body draped over his, the curl of strong fingers through his hair, yanking sometimes, pressure on his throat with the other. 

He loves the heat of you, the press of you against him in the cold, icy, frozen, icicle fingers digging under his shirt, crawling up along his ribs, demanding, always, more and more. 

Joel doesn’t mind, doesn’t mind, never minds. 

The closeness of you well worth the trouble of the temperature you keep. Hands poking and prodding and always wanting more. 

It’s good to be wanted. Nice to feel needed. 

He needs to be needed. Needs it, needs it, needs it, like an ache that might never get satiated, might never get swallowed up by something bigger and brighter. 

But there’s you again, all plush curves and sweet lines and sharp edges. You tell him he’s good, and he loves you for it. 

He loves bloodying his fists for you, he loves the angles of your love. 

You curl over him, making noises that no human, earth bound person should be able to make. 

There’s the touch of your forehead to his, the pant of hot breath against his mouth. He loves the shape of your mouth, the curve of your lips when they drift over his cheek. 

He loves the weight of your breasts in his hands, the stiff peaks of your nipples beneath his thumbs, the strong press of your thighs around his hips, the curve of your calves against his back, the thick thatch of hair between your legs. 

He loves the pressure of your thighs around his head and the way it feels when your cunt squeezes his tongue, the taste of your body on his mouth and stuck in his beard. 

He loves the way you stand when you’re pissed off, and likes the way the harsh lines disappear when you’re not, when you look at him, when you look down at him and the way he peels your jeans from your body and buries his face between your legs. 

The naked soft, pillowy, willowy silhouette of you in the window, in the pale moonlight, sometimes with blood still staining your skin and sometimes without.  

There’s the way you drag your tongue up the underside of his cock, the teasing, warm ring of your mouth suckling around the tip before you swallow him down, buried to the hilt. 

Hands against the sides your face, the back of your neck, behind the shell of your ear. He likes the way the skin feels there, smooth and unblemished. 

He loves the way you look after a fight, bloody and sweaty, brow creased. Loves more the way you smell, like sweat and earth, musky.

It should not be possible to love your body more, the thing that housed you, beautiful, scarred, treasure that you are. Still he finds new things to love, new places to touch and taste, the knob of bone in your ankle, the pouched swell of your belly when you’ve actually gotten a good meal for once, that space behind your knee and how sensitive it is. 

The hair between your legs and under your arms and downy soft on your calves and arms. You find a razor once and shave. Not everywhere, just under your arms and your calves, and for a while, those parts of you are smooth, and he doesn’t actually like it that much, it doesn’t feel like you, not that his opinion about it really matters. 

Lord help him, but he’d dig into your any way you let, in any condition. Sink under skin and hair and sweat and all the sweet animal parts of you. God, you’re beautiful. And it feels like a sin. 

But the blade is dull anyway and when you accidentally cut yourself for the third time in so many days, you just toss it with a shrug. 

Joel is secretly relieved. He wraps your cut ankle and kisses your smooth legs and hopes the hair grows back quick. You hate it when it's still growing and prickly. He’s glad you never shaved your pussy, he would have missed too badly burying himself in those curls, mouth or cock. 

Skin like pomegranate seeds, like the sweet burst of something sour under his tongue. Admission to the obsession, the love, the tracery of veins in moonlight like milk, would be wrong. This worship is secret, press of lips to feet, bowing low to the power you hang like a knife over his head. Blade ready to drop and offered anyway, lamb to slaughter. That’s his place there with you. 

There’s the sick need to protect when you don’t need it, follow where you ask him not to go. 

Partners, always. 

Everything else, sometimes. 

Last thing about you, voice. 

Terrible, husky voice. He longs to hear you sing, pretends to believe you when you say you can’t. But he’s heard it when you think he isn't’ around, or isn’t listening. He knows the calluses on your fingertips because they match the ones on his. 

That’s too close, too knowing, seeing too much history blended onto your skin. 

You trace the scar on the bridge of his nose every time he lies with you, presses his mouth to yours and listens to the noises and songs you will give him, questions that go unasked and unanswered. 

Tracery of scars nearly everywhere, skin like seasalt, the ache of knees pressed to floorboards which groan louder with each passing year, forehead against your belly, the thread of your fingers in his hair yanking his head back, petting so softly.

One night, blasphemous, you’re looking at him and he’s looking back. Your hand is on his collarbone, stroking, and the night is so quiet. “You’re so beautiful,” you say to him. “Did you know that?”

[iammorethananame-library]

Preindustrial travel, and long explanations on why different distances are like that

I saw a post on my main blog about how hiking groups need to keep pace with their slowest member, but many hikers mistakenly think that the point of hiking is "get from Point A to Point B as fast as possible" instead of "spending time outdoors in nature with friends," and then they complain that a new/less-experienced/sick/disabled hiker is spoiling their time-frame by constantly needing breaks, or huffing and puffing to catch up.

I run into a related question of "how long does it take to travel from Point A to Point B on horseback?" a lot, as a fantasy writer who wants to be SEMI-realistic; in the Western world at least, our post-industrial minds have largely forgotten what it's like to travel, both on our own feet and in groups.

People ask the new writer, "well, who in your cast is traveling? Is getting to Point B an emergency or not? What time of year is it?", and the newbies often get confused as to why they need so much information for "travel times." Maybe new writers see lists of "preindustrial travel times" like a primitive version of Google Maps, where all you need to do is plug in Point A and Point B.

But see, Google Maps DOES account for traveling delays, like different routes, constructions, accidents, and weather; you as the person will also need to figure in whether you're driving a car versus taking a bus/train, and so you'll need to figure out parking time or waiting time for the bus/train to actually GET THERE.

The difference between us and preindustrial travelers is that 1) we can outsource the calculations now, 2) we often travel for FUN instead of necessity.

The general rule of thumb for preindustrial times is that a healthy and prime-aged adult on foot, or a rider/horse pair of fit and prime-aged adults, can usually make 20-30 miles per day, in fair weather and on good terrain.

Why is this so specific? Because not everyone in preindustrial times was fit, not everyone was healthy, not everyone was between the ages of 20-35ish, and not everyone had nice clear skies and good terrain to travel on.

If you are too far below 18 years old or too far past 40, at best you will need either a slower pace or more frequent breaks to cover the same distance, and at worst you'll cut the travel distance in half to 10 or so miles. Too much walking is VERY BAD on too-young/old knees, and teenagers or very short adults may just have short legs even if they're fine with 8-10 hours of actual walking. Young children may get sick of walking and pitch a fit because THEY'RE TIREDDDDDDDDDD, and then you might need to stay put while they cry it out, or an adult may sigh and haul them over their shoulder (and therefore be weighed down by about 50lbs of Angry Child).

Heavy forests, wetlands and rocky hills/mountains are also going to be a much shorter "distance" per day. For forests or wetlands, you have to account for a lot of villagers going "who's gonna cut down acres of trees for one road? NOT ME," or "who's gonna drain acres of swamp for one road? NOT ME." Mountainous regions have their traveling time eaten by going UP, or finding a safer path that goes AROUND, so by the time you're done slogging through drier patches of wetlands or squeezing through trees, a deceptively short 10-15 miles in rough terrain might take you a whole day to walk instead of the usual half-day.

If you are traveling in freezing winters or during a rainstorm (and this inherently means you HAVE NO CHOICE, because nobody in preindustrial times would travel in bad weather if they could help it), you run the high risk of losing your way and then dying of exposure or slipping and breaking your neck, just a few miles out of the town/village.

Traveling in TOO-HOT weather is just as bad, because pushing yourself too hard and getting dehydrated at noon in the tropics will literally kill you. It's called heat-STROKE, not "heat-PARTY."

And now for the upper range of "traveling on horseback!"

Fully mounted groups can usually make 30-40 miles per day between Point A and Point B, but I find there are two unspoken requirements: "Point B must have enough food for all those people and horses," and "the mounted party DOESN'T need to keep pace with foot soldiers, camp followers, or supply wagons."

This means your mounted party would be traveling to 1) a rendezvous point like an ally's camp or a noble's castle, or 2) a town/city with plenty of inns. Maybe they're not literally going 30-40 miles in one trip, but they're scouting the area for 15-20 miles and then returning to their main group. Perhaps they'd be going to an allied village, but even a relatively small group of 10-20 warhorses will need 10-20 pounds of grain EACH and 20-30 pounds of hay EACH. 100-400 pounds of grain and 200-600 pounds of hay for the horses alone means that you need to stash supplies at the village beforehand, or the village needs to be a very large/prosperous one to have a guaranteed large surplus of food.

A dead sprint of 50-60 miles per day is possible for a preindustrial mounted pair, IF YOU REALLY, REALLY HAVE TO. Moreover, that is for ONE day. Many articles agree that 40 miles per day is already a hard ride, so 50-60 miles is REALLY pushing the envelope on horse and rider limits.

NOTE: While modern-day endurance rides routinely go for 50-100 miles in one day, remember that a preindustrial rider will not have the medical/logistical support that a modern endurance rider and their horse does.

If you say "they went fifty miles in a day" in most preindustrial times, the horse and rider's bodies will get wrecked. Either the person, their horse, or both, risk dying of exhaustion or getting disabled from the strain.

Whether you and your horse are fit enough to handle it and "only" have several days of defenselessness from severe pain/fatigue (and thus rely on family/friends to help you out), or you die as a heroic sacrifice, or you aren't QUITE fit enough and become disabled, or you get flat-out saved by magic or another rider who volunteers to go the other half, going past 40 miles in a day is a "Gondor Calls For Aid" level of emergency.

As a writer, I feel this kind of feat should be placed VERY carefully in a story: Either at the beginning to kick the plot off, at the climax to turn the tide, or at the end.

Preindustrial people were people--some treated their horses as tools/vehicles, and didn't care if they were killed or disabled by pushing them to their limits, but others very much cared for their horses. They needed to keep them in working condition for about 15-20 years, and they would not dream of doing this without a VERY good reason.

—

UPDATE January 13: Several people have gotten curious and looked at maps, to find out how a lot of cities are indeed spread out at a nice distance of 20-30 miles apart! I love getting people interested in my hyperfixations, lol.

But remember that this is the space between CITIES AND TOWNS. There should never be a 20-mile stretch of empty wilderness between City A and Town B, unless your world explains why folks are able to build a city in the middle of nowhere, or if something has specifically gone wrong to wipe out its supporting villages!

Period pieces often portray a shining city rising from a sea of picturesque empty land, without a single grain field or cow pasture in sight, but that city would starve to death very quickly in preindustrial times.

Why? Because as Bret Devereaux mentions in his “Lonely Cities” article (https://acoup.blog/2019/07/12/collections-the-lonely-city-part-i-the-ideal-city/), preindustrial cities and towns must have nearby villages (and even smaller towns, if large and prosperous enough!) to grow their food for them.

The settlements around a city will usually be scattered a few miles apart from each other, usually clustered along the roads to the city gates. Those villages and towns at the halfway point between cities (say 10-15 miles) are going to be essential stops for older/sick folks, merchants with cargo, and large groups like noble’s retinues and army forces.

Preindustrial armies and large noble retinues usually can’t make it far past 10-12 miles per day, as denoted in my addition to this post. (https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/739342239113871360/now-for-a-key-aspect-that-many-people-often-ask)

[iammorethananame-library]

Masterlist!

Asterism: 

NSFW - Paz Vizla / Reader

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14

Asterism Inspiration! : 

Credit: @painkiller80​​   Image Link  

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Una - A Star Wars Fic

Part 1

Una - Snippets / Etc.

Nightlight

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Force Majeure - Merc AU: 

NSFW - Violent Themes - Paz Vizla / Jack Daniels / Ezra / Din Djarin / Reader

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

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Siren Among the Rocks: 

SFW - Din Jarin / OC 

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4

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Javi!:

This is … a LOT. There’s a twist at the end. It’s so very NSFW. Adult themes. 

Sub!Javi Cracked Out Smut-a-Palooza

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Francisco ‘Catfish’ Morales

Right Thing

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Obi Wan Shot Universe: 

NSFW - Force Sensitive Reader / Virgin Obi Wan 

Obi Wan Shot  -  Obi Wan Shot - Part Two

NSFW - Force Sensitive Reader / Bad Batch / Cody/ Kix / Rex

Bad Batch Plus Edition 1 - Tech       Bad Batch Plus Edition 2 - Crosshair        Bad Batch Plus Edition 3 - Wrecker    Bad Batch Plus Edition 3.5 - Wrecker

SFW - Force Sensitive Reader / Various Characters

The Plan

The Weapon

The Trigger

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NSFW - Headcanons - Crackfic - Stuff that doesn’t fit elsewhere

Wrecker/Reader Headcanons: Soft /  Sexy

1.1k of Smut: Wherein your author tries to imagine alien wing-wang.

1.1k of Smut: Epilogue

Modern Men: A Marcus Pike Ficlet

The Initmacy of Blood - A Darth Maul ficlet

What Dreams May Do - Boba Fett 

What Dreams May Do - Ending - Boba Fett

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SFW - A Darth Maul and Princess Reader Fic

Permission

Admiration

Apology

Understanding

Pride

Discovery

Revelation

Confession - A soft and fluffy look at the future.

Home - The Penultimate Chapter

Maul and a Princess, Sitting in a Tree

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Requests!:

Domestic and Soft Paz

Domestic and Soft Wrecker

[iammorethananame-library]

Paz Vizsla Masterlist

[Updated 01/30/2022] Please read all warnings!

Long Fics/Series (15k+ Words)

A Proper Mandalorian Courtship [Complete] Arc One Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | *Ch 6* | Ch 7 | Ch 8 | *Ch 9* | Ch 10 |

Arc Two Ch 11 | Ch 12 | Ch 13 | Ch 14 | Ch 15 (The End) R for canon-typical violence, somewhat graphic injuries, heavier topics regarding death/dying, and explicit language. Probably SFW as there is no sexual content here. Chapters that might be more triggering are in asterisks. A story about Paz Vizsla trying to navigate his faith; various Mandalorian courtship and marriage rituals; and dealing with the fallout of decisions made by others many years ago. (Paz Vizsla x f!Reader)

Bite Me Ch 1 | Ch 2 | [Not Updated Regularly]

NC-17 for explicit sexual content, canon-typical violence, and vampires drinking blood.

A Vampire!Mandalorian AU. Rilne, who is known for being stubborn and nosy, gets in over her head when she snoops where she doesn’t belong. Paz Vizsla x f!OC x Din Djarin (+ Paz x Din, Paz x f!OC, Din x f!OC situations).

Urgency Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | [COMPLETE]

NC-17 for explicit sexual content, canon-typical violence, and dub!con content. Also includes a realistic depiction of pregnancy, labor/delivery, and the first few weeks of life with an infant.

Sex pollen has an adverse affect on Paz Vizsla, and you’re the only person who can help him recuperate. Dub!Con warning. There is proper aftercare and discussion of what happened. (Paz Vizsla x f!Reader)

Headcanons:

HC Kebiin the Loth Kitten - PG, Paz Vizsla x gn!Reader HC - Paz and Din with a Short SO - NSFW, afab!Reader x Paz/Din Sleeping - NSFW, Paz Vizsla x gn!Reader Domestic Life + First Time With Paz  - NSFW, Paz Vizsla x afab!Reader Paz’s Fantasies  - NSFW, Paz Vizsla x afab!Reader Paz + Tall SO - NSFW, Paz Vizsla x afab!Reader Paz + Being Asked for Baby (POP) - NSFW, Paz Vizsla x afab!Reader Paz and Din with a Short SO  | Paz Vizsla x afab!Reader Sick Day - Paz Vizsla x gn!Reader Sex Pollen/Truth Pollen Blurb - Paz Vizsla x f!Reader Jealousy (Paz, DIn, Armorer) and First Fight (Paz Vizsla) - PG-13 These were combined into one big post because I received multiple requests for the same characters and I didn’t want to clog anyone’s notes with separate posts. All of these are PG13 and safe for work.

Fics:

FIXED IT | [PG-13] This is me fixing Fabro and Felony’s inexplicable and inexcusable actions at the end of The Mandalorian Season 3. Implied violence.

NSFW Alphabet Series | [NC-17] A collection of oneshots for the NSFW Alphabet series, written in ficlet format.

Aftercare | Paz Vizsla x f!Reader Body Part/X-Ray | Paz Vizsla x gn!Reader Dirty Secret/Risk | Paz Vizsla x f!Reader Oral | Paz Vizsla x gn!Reader Quickies and Kisses | Paz Vizsla x f!Reader

Lonesome No More | [NC-17] A six-month separation leads to a very pleasant reunion between Reader and Paz. (Paz Vizsla x f!Reader) Breaking the Rules | [NC-17] Being locked up indoors for long periods of time leads to Reader breaking the rules. The Armorer takes it easy on Reader, but Paz does not. (Paz Vizsla x f!Reader)

Yearning | [NC-17] Princessbatears’s winnings for my 100 Follower Giveaway. Paz and Reader share an intimate moment together. (Paz Vizsla x f!Reader)

Already? | [NC-17] An ask sent in by clint-aww-no-barton that spiraled out of control and became its own fic. Involves marriage and babies. (Paz Vizsla x afab!Reader)

Dirty Talk | [NC-17] Paz says very dirty things to Reader while in an alleyway. (Paz Vizsla x gn!Reader )

Torture | [NC-17] Paz gets tortured in very nice ways. (Paz Vizsla x gn!Reader )

Daddy’s Little Brat | [NC-17] A cesspit of utter unabashed filth and depravity in which Paz tames his brat of a lover, using whatever means necessary. Read the warnings! (Paz Vizsla x f!Reader)

Home is in Your Arms | [NC-17] Reader, an ex-Storm Trooper, tags along with Paz after she saves his life in combat. Two years later, their relationship moves forward a step. (Paz Vizsla x f!Reader)

Aruetii | [NC-17] Reader and Paz have a fight that leads to the dissolution of their relationship. Pure angst. (Paz Vizsla x f!Reader)

Business As Usual | [NC-17] Paz breaks the number one rule of being a FWB - he catches feels and realizes it too late. (Paz Vizsla x gn!Reader )

Stuffed  | [NC-17] Reader is a Mandalorian warrior who wants to have a baby. Paz and Din take turns with her until she gets knocked up. Rougher than the usual stuff I write. (Paz Vizsla x f!Reader, Din Djarin x f!Reader)

Bucket Buffet | [NC-17] 10k+ words of smut involving Din Djarin, Paz Vizsla, Boba Fett, the Armorer, Captain Rex, Death Watch Mandalorian, Bo-Katan Kryze, Axe Woves, Koska Reeves, Dezha Draldeega (my OC), Kreez Vac (magsgotswags’s OC), and Sadet (magsgotswags’s OC). All but Kreez and Sadet are gender neutral.

A Night of Sexy Sex with Paz Vizlsa | [NC-17] Part of the Bulbous Salutations April Fool’s Day fic exchange. Warning: cringe-worthy euphemisms and descriptions for sex. Enjoy.

Artwork:

When your kid’s a brat #JustBuirThings Paz & His Loved Ones Homecoming Stealing Paz’s Clothes Paz Vizsla and Din Djarin Being Children Paz Vizsla’s Got Tattoos Paz Vizsla, Clan Leader AU Paz Vizsla + Tailor Shooting Shit Paz Vizsla + Tailor Cuddling F!Paz Vizsla Paz Vizsla + Tailor + Baby in Carrier Ragnar Meeting his Future Buir/Paz Meeting His Furture Riduur

NSFW Artwork:

Riding Paz AO3 Link Shibari/Bondage AO3 Link

If you search my tags for asks, you can find a lot more Paz content there, too! Please enjoy!

[iammorethananame-library]

Happy approaching new year all! I just wanted to look at all the covers I’d made for Star Wars fics in 2022 all at once lol

links to each beneath the cut!

Crashing Down by @oakwyrm (art)

Marshal Commander Cody of the 7th Sky Corps is, despite his reputation, mortal. When a severe injury threatens his life and his continued ability to function should he recover, protocol states he should be sent back to Kamino. It does not explicitly state that he would likely be decommissioned, but his vode all know how to read between the lines.

General Kenobi’s response is equally predictable.

Careful What You Wish For by @shadowlight17 (art)

Cody was head over heels for his Jedi General, so when Order 66 was executed, he was in emotional turmoil. And then he died. Or so he thought. He said he would give anything to fix this...would it be worth it if fixing it meant leaving everything he knew behind? Thrown into the past, Cody is given that chance. To make things right.

Cody was head over heels for his Jedi General, so when Order 66 was executed, he was in emotional turmoil. And then he died. Or so he thought. He said he would give anything to fix this...would it be worth it if fixing it meant leaving everything he knew behind? Thrown into the past, Cody is given that chance. To make things right.

Cody was head over heels for his Jedi General, so when Order 66 was executed, he was in emotional turmoil. And then he died. Or so he thought. He said he would give anything to fix this...would it be worth it if fixing it meant leaving everything he knew behind? Thrown into the past, Cody is given that chance. To make things right.

Cody was head over heels for his Jedi General, so when Order 66 was executed, he was in emotional turmoil. And then he died. Or so he thought. He said he would give anything to fix this...would it be worth it if fixing it meant leaving everything he knew behind? Thrown into the past, Cody is given that chance. To make things right.

In This Our Liberty — currently unposted, series here.

from ancient grudge (to soap opera television) by @eclipsemidnight (art)

The Jedi and the Sith, in fair Coruscant where we lay our scene...ancestral enemies, whose battles these days are more likely to be to first spend rather than to first blood. This does not amuse the clone security forces who have to break them up, or Chancellor Windu who has to deal with them afterwards.

Meanwhile, Maul and Ventress's marriage is arranged by Sidious and Dooku. Obi-Wan and his friends Ahsoka and Quinlan crash their engagement party. We all know how this is going to end--a wedding, of course! It just takes a few hands, the threat of the Coruscant Guard, and a porg-print towel to get there!

This I Vow by @wanderingjedihistorian (art)

To secure a planet's help for the Republic, Obi-Wan and Cody must get married. Having been quietly together for some time, it is an easy decision for the pair to make. They didn't expect what followed. Nor did anyone else.

Once Upon a Dream by @glimmerglanger (art)

The man was still warm; not warm enough but he obviously hadn’t been dead long. Cody thinned his mouth, looking at the man. He had a fall of copper hair and a beard, scars here and there on his body. He looked like he’d been a fighter, all muscle, trim and--

“Sith’s spit,” he added, cutting over the chatter in his bucket, as his assessment reached the man’s hand, curled, even in death, around a familiar metallic cylinder. “General Tachi, I think he was a Jedi.”

OR, the one where Marshal Commander Cody finds a mystery figure three years into the Clone Wars, and it changes the course of history.

Or Why Comes Thou to Caterhaugh? by Afiregender (art)

In the midst of the Clone Wars, Obi-Wan very abruptly goes on leave to attend a "personal matter" on his homeworld Stewjon. Both Cody and the Jedi find this somewhat odd, and Cody goes on leave himself to investigate. He finds his General at a banquet meant to celebrate the new Fae King... which turns out to be Obi-Wan himself. Or: Tam Lin but Codywan.

Descent by @kutaisi (art) (we’re just getting started on this one!)

As they're fighting in the rain on Kamino, Jango Fett and Obi-Wan Kenobi are thrown forward in time to a version of the galaxy that neither of them could have imagined.

Finding themselves fifteen years in the future, their struggle to get back to their own time is complicated by devasting discoveries and a nightmare of a reality that they have no idea how to navigate through.

...and also by each other.

I also illustrated a bunch of other fic this year, that didn’t necessarily get covers.

Soul Found by @darthtarvera (art)

It had been five years since he’d dreamed of his soulmate. 

Five years since the council broke the bond between them. 

Now, a last test as the council sends Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon to Mandalore to protect the Duke of Mandalore and his two daughters. Obi-Wan is determined to prove once and for all he has what it takes to be a good jedi. 

But can even the jedi truly break a bond between a jedi and their soulmate? As Obi-Wan discovers more of the culture and people his mark ties him to he realizes that maybe his path isn't so rigid as he thought.

i don’t wanna feel stuck by @ghostlandtoo (art)

Three years after the war, Obi-Wan has stuck to diplomatic missions from the Order, tired of fighting. When he's burned by the Republic on the tail-end of one such mission, Obi-Wan finds himself stuck on Myam-1, a beach planet in the Outer Rim. Work doesn't stop, even on a vacation planet. Reunited with an old flame and a few old friends, Obi-Wan can't help but help the several people on Myam-1 in need of help, even if he lost his lightsaber a few planets back.

This, too, was a gift by @lttrsfrmlnrrgby (art)

The Rako Hardeen mission was a success, but it left Obi-Wan Kenobi sick at heart after the empathic stresses of the mission, and questioning whether the mission was worth it. The troopers of the 212th welcome him back, wanting nothing more than to assure him he did the right thing, and Obi-Wan works to make their trust in him worth it.

The Force, however, shows Obi-Wan a detailed vision of the future to come. He eliminates the threats posed by the Sith, but feels he cannot return to the Order or to his men, and sets out alone, letting the Force direct him to the grimmest parts of the galaxy and the people who were always overlooked and underserved. 

Marshal Commander Cody takes his general's warning and evacuates Kamino and all of the clones from Republic space. As the Jedi work to recover from the Sith plot and the Republic stalls out on how to move on, the clones settle a new world, try to heal, and look for their missing general. Along the way, apart and together, Cody and Obi-Wan make discoveries that will change their and the galaxy’s future, and learn how to move forward even when things are broken and like nothing they'd planned.

I think that’s it as far as Star Wars fic I’ve illustrated/made covers for goes? (There’s a little bit of punisher/daredevil fic I’ve still been working on illustrating this year but that would be off theme lol)

if you’re a Star Wars fic author I’ve worked with this year and I’ve somehow missed you, let me know and I’ll add a link in! I’ve had an absolute blast collaborating with everyone this year, and I’m looking forward to digging in next year too! ❤️

[iammorethananame-library]

Take Care of You [9]

Sugar Daddy!Joel Miller x Female!Reader

Overall Warnings: slow burn, angst/comfort, power imbalance, age gap, possessive tendencies, eventual smut, #daddyissues, independent reader learns to let go and relax, emotionally constipated Joel Miller learns to be vulnerable; (more specific warnings to be added to individual chapters if necessary)

Chapter Word Count: 9,950

Mood board and borders by @saradika

Summary: You spent your entire adult life supporting yourself and barely getting by. It’s why a life of ease offered to you by a mysterious stranger sounded so foreign and unbelievable. Joel Miller, dressed in flannels that had seen better days, didn’t look like the kind who could promise you the world on a plate, but he seemed desperate to help out. All he asks is that you let him take care of you. That wouldn’t be so hard. Would it?

[a/n: we back, baby. and we also barely edited so if you catch a typo don't hate me. also this was supposed to end in a different spot but then i got carried away in the middle so i had to split it 🥴]

Chapter Specific Warnings: angst, heartbreak, binge drinking to ease emotional turmoil, mild violence, mentions of blood and injury

09: LET ME TAKE CARE OF YOU

"i still haven't figured out how to sit across from you, and not be madly in love with everything you do." ⏤ william c. hannon

Three years ago, Nima tried to convince you to go skydiving with her. She begged and she pleaded, but you told her ‘no’ on account of thinking she was a crazy person for wanting to jump out of a perfectly good plane. Which was hilarious now considering you were sitting beside Joel wanting to pull open the door and dive out. The irony was not lost on you.

The only reason you hadn’t gone scrambling for the door was because Joel was forced to take a work call a few minutes into the flight. He hadn’t moved away. Joel stayed right next to you with his arm behind you as he spoke, and every few moments he’d glance at you with a silent apology and shake his head. You’d reply with a tight lipped smile and go back to mindlessly scrolling through instagram. 

Unfortunately the mindlessly scrolling was not so mindless. Since leaving Vegas, you had a high pitch ringing in the back of your mind like an endless, echoing siren. Married. A married man. Joel was⏤ Your teeth were clenched together so hard you wondered if Joel could hear them grinding against one another. Yesterday had been filled with so much anxiety, and you had managed to work through it by the end of the night. Mostly. But this was worse. This was so much worse. 

Married?

Your throat suddenly felt tight, eyes stinging with unshed tears, and you hastily undid your seatbelt and stood. Joel glanced your way and you pointed to the back of the plane and mouthed the word ‘bathroom’ to him. He nodded with a soft smile, and you spun on your heel and practically sprinted to the tiny plane bathroom. You struggled to get the folding door shut and the stewardess who sat not far away stared at you in confusion. You gave her an awkward wave and finally got it latched. 

“Fuck.” You shoved your face in your hands, leaning against the wall, and held back your tears. You were confused and frustrated, and you couldn’t even find relief in a good cry because Joel would spot it in a heartbeat no matter how much you tried to put yourself back together. The thought of confronting him about this right now was your worst nightmare. You hadn’t had the time to process any of the wild thoughts pinging around your head yet.

Your mind was at war with itself. On one hand, maybe you were being stupid and naive. For the last month and a half you’ve spent nearly every day with Joel and on the days you weren’t actively seeing him the two of you would talk either over a call or through text. You knew Yo-yo for 24 hours. Sure, she seemed nice and sincere, but what if Rosalind sent her to screw with you? For all you knew, Yo-yo had cruel intentions and was trying to drive a wedge between you and Joel. By taking her word you’d be playing right into that trap. What she said about the other sugar baby and about Joel being married? Maybe it was all fake and you’ve been stressing for no reason.

On the other hand, Joel didn’t kiss you. He didn’t kiss you because he wanted to ‘do right by you’. Joel asked for time. Was it because he needed to get a divorce? Worse. Was he married with absolutely no plans to get divorced and just buying time for something else? 

God, if you kept up this line of thought you were gonna vomit. Quickly, you turned to the sink to splash a little cold water on your face in hopes it would help you get your shit together for the next thirty minutes. Half an hour and you’d be on the ground. But then what? It would be a miracle if you kept it together for thirty minutes let alone any longer. 

You took in a long, slow breath and tried to clear your mind. When you felt steady enough, you stepped out of the bathroom. As tempting as it was to hide in there for the rest of the flight, it would probably be a red flag for Joel that something was wrong. You wandered back over to Joel and at your approach, and at the sight of you, he covered the bottom of his phone and whispered, “You alright?”

“Mhmm.” You nodded quickly and sat back down.

“I’m sorry. Jus’ another minute.” 

You waved your hands at him as nonchalantly as you could and he went back to his call. You leaned back in the seat, phone in hand, and Joel readjusted his arm on the back of the seat so he could settle his hand on your shoulder. As he always did, his thumb was tracing circles on your shoulder. An action you always loved, but now an intrusive thought slammed into you⏤ does he do this with his wife? The question was so startling, so sickening, that you couldn’t bite back the nausea that rolled through your body. You jumped up so fast you nearly stumbled over your feet, and you scrambled for the bathroom. 

Vaguely, you heard your name behind you, but you didn’t stop until you reached the toilet. You fell to your knees and threw up. The taste of acid in your mouth made you wince, but getting it all up did bring some relief. That relief was short lived though as you felt a large, warm hand settle on your back.

“Jesus, sugar.” He said in a soothing voice as he rubbed your back. “What’s goin’ on? Have you felt sick all mornin’?”

You spat into the toilet bowl, trying to get the taste of bile out of your mouth, before reaching out and flushing the toilet. You tried to stand, and Joel hooked his arm around you to help you up. He called out of the bathroom and a second later the stewardess brought in a cup of water and a ginger ale. Joel handed you the water and kept his hand rubbing up and down on your back.

“I’m⏤ I’m fine.” You shook your head and took a sip of water to swish and spit into the sink. “Really.”

“Obviously not.” Joel replied. “C’mon, let’s sit you down.”

“Joel…” You tried to argue, but he wasn’t hearing it. He kept an arm around you as he carefully led you back to the seat. He brought the bottle of ginger ale with you and the moment you finished the water he took the cup out of your hand to replace it with the soda. “I feel better now. It’s fine.”

“You’ve been off this mornin'. I was worried.” Joel lifted a hand to feel your forehead. It made sense that Joel picked up on your distress. He had always been so good at reading you. “You seemed fine when we first woke up. When exactly did you start feelin' sick?”

You took a sip of the ginger ale, “I…I don’t know. After breakfast maybe.” You lied. The sincerity in his eyes, the concern in his voice, it was both bringing you comfort and making you sick again all at once. You felt so stupid. Either you were freaking out over a lie a woman you barely knew told you or you were being tricked into feelings by a married man. Either way, you felt pathetic. “Your, um, your work call, Joel.”

Joel shook his head in response and didn’t even bother addressing the work call he stopped. He set a hand on the back of your neck and his thumb was lightly ghosting over your skin. You closed your eyes and took a slow breath in and out through your nose. “Tell me what I can do, sugar.”

“I⏤” You swallowed the lump in your throat. You forced your eyes open, finding Joel’s furrowed brow and worried gaze already on you, and it made you want to cry. You shook your head, “I, um, I think I just wanna lay down for a while. If that’s okay.”

“Course it’s okay.” He replied. 

The seat the two of you were sharing wasn’t long enough for you to lay down without laying your head on Joel’s lap. You planned on moving to the other couch seats to lay down, but Joel’s hand was still on the back of your neck and he lightly began to guide you down. Too tired to even try and move, you settled your head on his thigh and curled your body up onto the rest of the seat. 

In any other situation, this would be one of the most comfortable spots on Earth. Your head rested on his thick, firm thigh, and Joel’s hand traced where he could reach. Up and down your jawline and neck⏤ his thumb and forefinger would occasionally massage your earlobe. You tried to calm your racing thoughts. The truth was, you didn’t know the truth yet. It was a fact you kept repeating in your head in hopes it would numb the sharp pain of your worst fears, but those intrusive thoughts continued to pummel you.

“I’m so sorry, baby girl.” Joel murmured while his fingers dragged across your skin. “What a shitty way to end this weekend.” You hummed in agreement. This really was a shitty way to close out what started as one of the best weekends of your life.

Avoiding Joel made you realize how involved in your life he was. After landing in LA, Joel tried to drag you to a doctor and only conceded when you told him it was probably a 24 hour bug and you just wanted to sleep. He called you later that night to check in on you, and you managed to talk to him for a few minutes before lying about wanting to go to bed early. Come Monday morning, you went to work despite Joel texting you that you should stay home. Trying to focus at work was physically painful. Enough so that after the nightmare Monday had been, you left midway through the day today claiming to Henry that you didn’t feel well. It wasn’t even a full blown lie. You felt like shit.

Nima threw the folder of papers onto her desk and set her hands on her hips, “I’m gonna hit him with my car.”

“Please don’t.” You mumbled with your chin resting in your palm as you leaned on the other side of her desk. After leaving work, you came directly to Nima’s office. Going home and sitting on your couch, alone with your thoughts, would only make you ten times more miserable.

“No, actually, my car isn’t big enough. I’m gonna commandeer a bus and hit him with that.”

“I haven’t confirmed anything yet. For all I know, I’m being this pathetic over nothing.”

Nima snapped her hand up and pointed at you with a glare, “No. I will not have you shit talking yourself when the only person we should be shit talking is Joel Miller and his wife.”

You groaned and let your head fall to the desk. The words ‘Joel Miller and his wife’ made you viscerally ill. The time you spent not talking to Joel Monday night you spent stalking people on social media. You reached dead ends very quickly though since Joel didn’t have any social media whatsoever. The easiest solution was to just look Joel in the eyes and ask him for the truth, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You wanted to know the truth, but you were scared to actually seek it out. 

If you asked Joel for the truth, if you confronted him, then he’d give it to you.

What if the truth was something you didn’t want to hear?

“Alrighty, babe, real talk.” Nima said and you lifted your head, keeping your chin resting on the wood, and saw she had dropped down into her office chair. To meet your eye line, she held her chin on the desk across from you to mirror your position. “I can threaten and plot his demise all I want, but I know I’m not allowed to kill him until this is confirmed or denied.” She twisted her lips. “You deserve the truth.”

You pouted, “How am I supposed to ask him about this, Nima??”

Her eyebrows furrowed in concern, “If you did ask… How sure are you that he’d answer truthfully?”

You pushed up and leaned back in the chair. That was a good question, and with anyone else it would probably be a real concern. However, you weren’t worried about that. You truly, deep down, believed that if you confronted Joel about this he would give you the truth. 

“I really think he would.” You answered. “Is that naive of me?”

“You know him better than I do.”

This entire situation made you question that. Did you know him? You knew he grew up in Austin. He had a younger brother, Tommy, and it was just them and his mom for most of his childhood. You knew he attended one year in college when his mom passed away⏤ cancer. Joel dropped out of college to take care of his brother and picked up a job in construction. That’s where he got his start. His first boss saw he had a knack for more than just the manual labor and trusted him with more and more until Joel was running sites for the man. At 27, Joel’s girlfriend of three months got pregnant. They planned to make it work, but she left when Sarah was two weeks old. You knew he adopted Ellie three years later. That he earned his bachelor’s degree in business at home through online classes while raising two young girls and working a full time job. That he started Miller Construction shortly after earning that degree, and it blew up from there.

You knew despite being a tough guy, he didn’t like horror movies.

You knew his favorite whiskey was Lagavulin⏤ neat.

The one thing you didn’t know was if he was married or not.

“I am going to suggest something,” Nima began, “And I want you to listen before you call me crazy.” You shot her confused look and she continued on. “I have this cousin.” You groaned and Nima chastised you to listen. It seemed like she had a cousin available for every situation that arose, and half the people she called cousin weren’t even technically related to her by blood. Anytime you asked her about it all she’d say was ‘Korean moms’ love to talk’, as if that clarified anything for you. “Seriously. He’s dating a private eye. With one text, we can get some answers.”

You shook your head, “Nima, that’s insane.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, hiring a private investigator is insane.” 

“Look, it’ll get us reliable answers.” Nima argued. “The truth.”

You rolled the idea around in your head. It was literally the epitome of paranoid absurdity, but you were wondering if that’s the point you were at. Would it be better to find out this way? That way when you finally did confront Joel you wouldn’t be blind sided by the answer. Hell, if the answer turned out to be ‘no, he isn’t married’ then you can chalk up the last few days as time wasted and move on with your life. That being said, it did seem like an invasion of Joel’s privacy. 

“That feels…” You paused, “Illegal?”

“It’s not illegal to hire a PI.” Nima countered then tilted her head. “I think. I’m not a lawyer, but people do it on TV all the time, right?”

“Well, that logic is foolproof.” 

“I’m not gonna do it if you tell me you don’t want to do it.” Nima said firmly. She crossed her arms and gave a small little shrug. “But you have to do something. Either this or just call him right now and tell him the two of you need to talk.” There was a protective sincerity in her eyes that felt like a security blanket being settled on your shoulders. “I don’t want to see you get more attached to this guy just to be hurt. I don’t want him to lie to you.”

You knew Nima only had your best interests in mind. Technically, Joel had given you no reason not to trust him. Half the time you thought on this topic you convinced yourself you were overreacting and being a pathetic, paranoid mess. Yo-yo, as nice and fun as she had been, was a virtual stranger to you. Her word shouldn’t trump Joel’s. You knew all of that, and you wanted to trust him. However, it felt like some broken part of you was looking for something to be wrong. Joel Miller was too good to be true. Why would someone like him be interested in someone like you? There had to be something else going on. According to your ex, you hadn’t even been worthy of him and Joel Miller was ten times the man he was. 

“Okay, do it.” You blurted and hated yourself for doing so.

Nima held your gaze for a second, but you pushed to stand and crossed her office to her private bathroom. You took one of the paper towels, dampening it, and set it on the back of your neck in a poor attempt to ground yourself. For a while longer, you just stood there in front of the sink. Not staring at yourself, but staring forward at a singular spot as your thoughts raced. You needed a positive thought. Just one would do, and you were prepared to drag it out of your thick skull kicking and screaming if necessary. 

“Everything is going to be okay.” You mumbled to yourself softly. 

The whispered words did nothing for your anxiety. However, the memory of him did. You found comfort looking back at the soft moments spent with Joel and let yourself fall down that rabbit hole. The temporary peace was nice, but it didn't last. Finding strength you didn’t know you had today, you splashed your face one more time and then left the bathroom.

Your eyes immediately landed on Nima who stared back with wide eyes. Nima spoke first, “What?”

“What?” You repeated. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh, I thought you said something.” Nima flipped her phone over and settled her hand on top of it. You glanced from her face to her phone and back again. A look of misery flickered across her features. You tilted your head in question. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry.”

“Nima.” You crossed the room quickly. “Did they already text back??”

“No. Yes. Maybe?” Nima shook her head. “Not exactly.”

“Nima.”

She twisted her lips and drummed her nails against the plastic case of her phone. You shot her another look and she blew out a sigh. “He sent me a response, but it’s like half an answer. Half a report. We should wait until he can⏤”

“What did he say?”

“Apparently, he’s working on a case for someone else right now and had a database right in front of him so all he had to do was type in⏤”

“Nima, please.” You blurted. It felt like your heart was caught in your throat. You couldn’t breathe and you didn't feel coherent enough to string together a thought. Her hesitance was an answer in and of itself. You rubbed your throat, your other arm wrapping around your torso in a poor attempt to hold yourself together, and gasped. “Just say it.”

“He’s married, babe.” Nima mumbled. You knew the words had been coming, but they still overwhelmed you. The air left your lungs as if someone had gut punched you and you fell back into the seat in front of her desk. “He said he’d send me the certificate when he could, but he has to finish this job first. I’m so sorry. I am so, so sorry. I⏤”

Nima stopped herself from speaking as she came around her desk and wrapped an arm around your shoulders. You sat in her embrace for as long as your shattering mind could endure and then shook your head, “I need a drink. Drinks. Plural.”

“It’s three in the afternoon, babe.” Nima mumbled in concern. You shot her a dry look and she offered you a tight lipped smile. “Drinks it is! Let’s go. We can go back to my place and⏤”

“No.” You pushed to stand. “I wanna go out.”

“Oh… kay. Where?”

“Anywhere.” You turned and began to leave.

Nima was scrambling to gather her belongings into her strawberry shaped purse before rushing out after you. “Just one drink though. I hate being the voice of reason, but we should limit ourselves to one drink.”

One drink turned into two which turned into three which turned into twelve.

By 6 PM, you were borderline wasted. It was by no means the best decision you’ve ever made, but you couldn’t classify it as your worst considering that, for the first time since leaving Vegas, you didn’t feel sad or defeated. No, those blue emotions had turned into a burning shade of red. You had finally found your anger and all it took was copious amounts of alcohol. 

“I mean, married?” You scoffed as you stood at the bar with Nima at your side. “That’s⏤ That’s illegal.” Nima nodded in agreement as she blindly tried to find the straw in her drink with her tongue. You reached out and pushed it toward her lips. “And worse than illegal! It’s fucking rude.”

“So rude.” Nima slurped at the last of her drink and all you could hear was the rattling of ice in her glass. She pulled away to slam the cup down and pointed at you⏤ her pink hair had been let down from the braid to messily rest around her shoulders. “You should get a new sugar daddy!” You stuck your tongue out in disgust and shook your head. “No! This is such a good idea.” Nima began to look around the bar. “Let’s find you a super hot, super not married sugar daddy.”

“I don’t want a new sugar daddy. I want another drink.” You leaned on the bar and waited for the bartender to look your way. Nima and you had bounced to a few bars. The two of you, back when you were sober, decided to start drinking in an area that had multiple bars all within walking distance. The one you were in now wasn’t familiar to you⏤ it wasn’t a place you and Nima had been to before. It was a bit too upscale for your liking. Sober you would not have been a fan. Drunk you? Loving it.

Nima was tapping on your shoulder rapidly and when you looked her way she was pointing across the bar to God knows who. “He looks like he wouldn’t marry someone without your permission.”

“That’s,” You shook your head, “not my situation.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” You shook your head and looked back toward the bartender who was busy with a group of women further down the bar. The sound of vibrating vaguely filled the air and you leaned closer to Nima who immediately wrapped her arms around you in a hug. “You’re vibrating.”

“You’re vibrating.”

You found her purse and opened it so you could rifle through it. It dawned on you then that somewhere around bar two and drink five you had shoved your phone in her purse for safe keeping. When you finally managed to pull it out, Joel’s face was flashing on the screen and you yelped in surprise. You tossed the phone onto the bar and held your face between your hands.

“Oh, no. Oh, no, no.” You shook your head and the vibration stopped. Joel’s picture disappeared and was replaced with a notification of a missed call that joined the notification telling you that you had unread messages. Your eyes snapped to Nima who was trying to drink out of her empty cup again. “Joel.”

“Bastard man.” Nima edited.

“Dinner.” You grimaced. “At 7. I’m supposed to get dinner with Joel at 7. It’s 6:35.”

Nima shook her head and crunched the ice she had shoveled into her mouth, “Bastard man can go to dinner with his wife tonight.”

 You grimaced, “I hate all the words you just used.”

The bartender began to wander over and Nima turned to order more drinks. You picked up your phone and leaned against the bartop with your elbow. With a frown and furrowed brow, you opened your text messages. Every unread text was from Joel unsurprisingly. The first came in at 4:29 and it was a simple, ‘Hey sugar, I’m excited to see you tonight’. The next was almost exactly an hour later and it said, ‘Hope your day’s been alright. We still on for tonight?’. Finally, the most recent at 6:15, was just your name with a question mark.

You set the phone back down before the temptation to reply could overcome you. It only sat on the bartop for a second before it began to vibrate violently as another call came in. Joel’s face filled the screen and you felt a wave of sadness drag you under. The fact that you were mourning the lack of his presence to this degree was probably a sign you were doing this ‘sugar baby’ thing very wrong.

“Maybe I should answer it.” You voiced the thought aloud.

Nima caught it and gasped before slapping her hand on top of the still buzzing phone, “No, ma’am! You will not be doing that.” The bartender set two new drinks between the two of you. Nima pushed one in front of you and moved the straw to point directly at you. “Drink.”

You took a sip then spoke, “I don’t even know the whole story⏤” Nima pushed your face back to the straw so you took another long sip. “Maybe it’s a misunderstanding…” This time your lips found their way to the straw on their own accord and you took a sip that could be argued as dangerously long. “I need to talk to him. Confront him. Demand answers.”

“Yes. To all of that. Eventually.” Nima replied with a nod. She reached forward and bopped you on the nose with her finger. “But not tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know one thing in life,” Nima held up the one finger she used to bop your nose, “You do not have serious conversations while drunk.”

You shook your head with a pout, “I thought you said you don’t like being the voice of reason.”

“If it means helping you, I’ll always lean toward reason, babe.” 

The two of you went back to drinking. Your vibrating phone stopped and a few seconds passed before a notification for a voicemail popped up. You turned to Nima, “Can I listen to it? That’s not talking. That’s listening.”

Nima chewed on her straw slowly before bobbing her head in an affirmative nod, “I shall allow it.”

You picked up the phone to listen to the message he left you.

‘Hey, sugar.’ Joel’s voice rumbled over the line and you felt your chest physically ache at the sound. You closed your eyes in annoyance with yourself. If you hadn’t fallen so hard, so fast for this man you wouldn’t be in this scenario to begin with. ‘Gotta say I’m a little worried. Haven’t heard from ya all day. Gimme a call when ya get this.’

You groaned and set your head down on the bar. Guilt gnawed at you. It felt childish of you to be ghosting him like this, and that wasn’t your typical go to move. You had enough respect for the people in your life to address them when needed rather than hide behind voicemail. With the guilt was a swirling vortex of anger. You were angry at Joel for not being up front with you. You were angry at Yo-Yo for being the one to plant the initial doubt that started all this. You were angry at yourself most of all. Angry that you felt guilt at all, angry that you had foolishly placed so much trust in a man you barely knew, angry that despite everything there was still a part of you that craved his presence. You missed his touch and his voice. You missed those burning brown eyes and the way his very glance could melt you into a puddle.

“You okay, babe?” Nima’s voice asked softly. You shook your head without lifting it. “I’m sorry. I can break his knee caps if you want?”

“What?” You lifted your gaze.

“What?” She replied innocently. 

The phone began to vibrate again startling you. He had just called so you didn’t expect him to call again, but then again you were supposed to be in your apartment waiting for him to pick you up for dinner. You pictured him standing at your door dressed up and holding a bouquet of flowers. Nausea rolled over you in waves, and you grabbed your mixed drink thinking it could cure your troubles.

A few minutes passed before another voicemail was left. You snatched your phone up and shoved it back into Nima’s purse so it would be out of your line of sight⏤ not even bothering to listen to the second voicemail. Tomorrow, you decided. Tomorrow you would confront Joel and have this difficult conversation. You both finished the drinks in front of you as the lively bar continued to thrive around you.

“Why is he married?” You asked suddenly. Nima must have known it wasn’t a question you expected an actual answer to as she stayed silent. You rested your face in your hands and sighed. With your eyes closed against your hands like this you began to feel dizzy. A sure sign that you should stop drinking. Nima rubbed your back soothingly and you dropped your hands to shoot her an appreciative glance. “You’re the best best friend a girl could ask for.”

“I know, babe. And you know what else I know?” Nima squished your cheeks together with a wide grin, “You deserve the universe in a gold hand basket, and any man who can’t see that or who would play games with your big, loving heart doesn’t deserve you.”

You laughed and Nima chuckled herself before letting go of your face to pick up her empty glass. Her tongue struggled to find the straw but once it did she tried to take a big gulp only to get drops and air. Nima pulled away from her straw and furrowed her brow, “Who finished my drink?”

With another laugh, you raised your hand to order two more drinks. At this point you’ve already had so much to drink, what would one more hurt? You knew the hangover tomorrow was going to be a bad one, but a part of you was looking forward to it. There would be no mourning Joel tomorrow if your head hurt too much to even think his name. 

Nima successfully managed to distract you again as she drunkenly delved into a story you weren’t quite following, but you enjoyed the way she told it. A low whistle interrupted the moment of peace the two of you had found. You glanced past Nima to see two men in business suits wandering over. Nothing about them stood out to you. One was brunet and the other blond, but they both looked like they never grew out of the frat lifestyle on a college campus.

“We saw you two pretty ladies from over there and wanted to come and offer you our company.” The blond greeted smugly.

Nima turned in her seat to face him and waved her hand at him while taking a long sip of her drink until the ice rattled in the glass. Then she pulled the straw out of her mouth to finally speak with a shake of her head, “Sorry, we don’t speak english.”

“You just said that in English.” The blond chuckled.

“Sorry, sorry.” Nima waved her hand once more. “I don’t understand your accent.”

You snickered under your breath while chewing on your straw. The brunet stepped forward to stand side by side with the other and shook his head, “No need to be a bitch. We just wanted to talk.”

“Oh, you haven’t even begun to see bitchy yet.” Nima pointed her glass in their direction⏤ a bit of ice sloshing out with the exaggerated movement. “I can show you bitchy.” She reached back to swat at your arm. “Tell them, babe.”

“She can.” You nodded in agreement.

The blond set a hand on his friend’s shoulder and tugged him back, “Let’s just go, man.”

The brunet reluctantly let himself get dragged away, but he continued to stare at you and Nima the entire time. Nima spun in her seat and scoffed, “Where was I before I was interrupted by douchebag one and douchebag two?”

“I’m not gonna lie,” You shrugged, “I have no idea.”

“I’ll pick a place then.” Nima said and jumped into the middle of her story. “So, there I was covered head to toe in honey.”

Same as before, you really couldn’t keep track of her tale but it amused you all the same. The two of you chatted for another minute or two before a new face came across the two of you again. Nima had bounced in her seat, excited, and it knocked her strawberry shaped purse to the floor. Your phone clattered out. Before you could climb off the bar stool to grab it, a man passing knelt down and scooped it up. In one tanned hand he grabbed the purse and in the other your phone. The phone’s screen lit up and you swallowed at the sight of the multiple missed messages all from the same person. 

“Oh.” The man cleared his throat and straightened his stance. He was handsome with a kind face. Dark hair, a bit on the longer side, was messily pushed back and it matched the scruff on his upper lip and chin. The man wore a pink button up shirt, all the buttons undone, over a white t-shirt. “I suppose this is yours, miss?”

You begun to reach out, “Thanks⏤”

“Hold it!” Nima pointed at the man making his dark, brown eyes widen. “State your intentions, sir!”

“To…return your purse?” He lifted up the strawberry bag.

Nima narrowed her eyes at him and snatched it away, “Likely story.”

“Thank you.” You reached out and he handed the phone over to you. A glance down revealed four missed calls, two unheard voicemails, and five texts. You winced at the sight and set your phone face down on the bar. You were surprised to see the man still standing by your stools. “You…” You narrowed your eyes at him. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

He chuckled and shook his head, “Afraid not, ma’am.”

It was sitting on the tip of your tongue, but your foggy brain just couldn’t quite grasp it. Nima snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “I got it. He’s that guy.” You lifted an eyebrow at her words and she nodded frantically. “Yeah, he’s that actor! You play in that one show with, like, the zombies or whatever, right?”

“Not at all.” He laughed with a shake of his head. “I ain’t no actor.”

“Well then, I’m out of guesses.” Nima grumbled. She tilted her head, looking him up and down once more, “You seem nice enough. Got a pretty face. You rich? You wanna be a sugar daddy? She’s in the market.”

You rolled your eyes, “Nima.”

“You’re in the market for a sugar daddy?” The man asked in shock. You could hardly blame the man for his confusion and disbelief. This was hardly a normal bar conversation. “Really?”

“No. She’s just drunk.”

“Irrelevant.” Nima argued.

You chuckled then introduced yourself and Nima. The man paused for a beat before nodding and offering you his hand. “Nice to meet you both. My name is Tommy.” It took a second to click, but once the name finally wormed its way through your mind your eyes widened. Tommy chuckled and answered your unspoken question, “Yeah. I am.”

Nima glanced between you two with a frown, “Hold on, I’m not following. You are what? You’ll be her new sugar daddy?”

“No way in hell.” Tommy grinned. “If I even thought 'bout it, my brother’d skin me alive.”

The look on Nima’s face stayed confused until you swallowed the lump in your throat and finally spoke, “It’s… Nima, this is Joel’s brother.”

Her face remained frozen before morphing into one of shock. She gasped, almost comically, and pointed at him. “Oh, fuck.” Her eyebrows furrowed into a glare. “You son of a bitch, your brother is a son of a bitch!”

Tommy didn’t pay her outburst any mind, but his eyes darted back to you. “I asked my brother to come out drinkin' with me tonight, but he said ‘no’ cause he had a date with you.” Tommy stuck his hands into his pockets. “Funny I’m findin' you here without him.”

“That’s because your brother is too busy with his wife to be with my girl!”

Tommy’s eyebrows furrowed in surprise and he glanced back to you, “He already told you about her?”

It was quite possibly the worst string of words you could have heard all day. Only in competition with Nima’s ‘He’s married, babe’. You felt nauseous and dizzy⏤ the breath stolen from you again. Nima was arguing with Tommy, you could hear her voice, but you couldn’t concretely understand a single word that was said. When you finally managed to get a handle on reality, you looked back to see things had fallen apart and more time than you realized had passed in your mental breakdown. 

The blond and brunet from earlier, in the suits, had come back and were somehow arguing with Tommy and Nima now. You suddenly began to regret the last two drinks you had. Maybe if you had gone with a couple glasses of water instead you’d be able to puzzle out exactly what was going on right now.

“Get the hell outta here. They ain’t interested.” Tommy snapped.

“Just curious as to why we weren’t good enough for these bitches and you were.” The brunet slurred his words. Tommy stood a step in front of Nima who had slid off her bar stool to stand in front of you with her hands on her hips. “What’s so special about you, bub?”

“Ugh. How about the two of you run off to the bathroom and jack each other off, huh? Then leave us the fuck alone.” Nima sneered.

“Shut your damn mouth!” 

The blond tried to push past Tommy toward Nima, but Tommy shoved him back immediately. He grabbed the guy by the collar. “You gonna charge at a woman like that? Fuckin' coward.” Tommy’s voice came out in a gravelly growl that reminded you so much of Joel that it was staggering. “You got a problem, you take it up with me.”

The next moment happened fast. The blond tried to swing out at Tommy so Tommy blocked it with his elbow before tackling the man to the ground. The brunet grabbed Nima and wrapped his arms around her. She howled in anger and squirmed in his arms trying to find purchase to hit him. The brunet spun so his back was to you and you slid off the stool. Without pause, without thought, you picked up your empty glass and smashed it to the back of the man’s head. He released Nima, crumpling to the ground with a groan, and any shred of a fight stopped⏤as did the entire bar.

Tommy was kneeling on the ground pinning the blond while Nima stood off to the side.

“Oh my God.” Nima squealed, amused.

“Oh my God.” Tommy blurted, impressed.

“Oh my God.” You gasped, shocked at your own action.

You were panting, damn near hyperventilating, as the brunet began to rise on shaky limbs. Other patrons nearby converged on the scene to help out and before you knew it you were being ushered off to the side where a few couches and seats sat in a lounge area. 

“You’re such a badass.” Nima gushed from beside you. "How’s your hand??”

“Hurts.” You mumbled and stared down at the white cloth wrapped around your hand. Bright red was beginning to seep through. The consequences of smashing glass against the back of someone’s skull. Police had shown up and you knew Tommy was across the room talking to them. But still, your eyes stayed glued on your hand. The cuts weren’t terrible but they stung something awful.

“Babe?” You finally looked up and met Nima’s concerned eyes. She nodded, “You alright?”

You shot her a small smile, “Yeah. Are you okay? I can’t believe he grabbed you.”

“I’m fine.” Nima peeked at your hand then stood. “I’m gonna see if this bar has a real first aid kit we can use. Be right back.”

She jumped up and jogged over to the bar. You sunk in your seat with a sigh and leaned your head against the back of the couch. There had been something very sobering about smashing the glass against that guy’s head. The adrenaline and pain cleared any lingering fog from your previous drinks right out of your head. It left room for you to think about Joel. Meeting his brother certainly didn’t help. Tommy clapped one of the officer’s on the shoulder with a smile and they went separate ways. You lifted your head when you heard his footsteps draw near.

“Well, I spoke to the police.” Tommy stuck his hands into his pockets. “You’re not gonna get in trouble for the, you know, the glass. Won’t have to go downtown with ‘em.” You breathed a sigh of relief. Tommy held your gaze for a few more seconds before scrunching his nose and bobbing his head toward you. “And Joel is, uh, on his way.”

You covered your face with your good hand and groaned, “Can I please just be arrested instead?”

“Sorry, no can do.” Tommy sat down beside you. “You know, I didn’t say it earlier, but it’s nice to finally meet you. Joel never shuts up about you.”

“Please. Don’t.” You blurted. “I can’t… I can’t talk about him right now.”

Tommy nodded, “Right. I, uh, when I called him we didn’t talk much.” He laced his fingers together and rested his arms on his knees. “I mentioned you were hurt and things kind of spiraled from there. That’s probably for the best though. I don’t wanna get in between a lover’s quarrel⏤”

“I’m not his lover.” You snapped, and you hated the way your voice cracked. You shook your head, “Not if he’s married. Not…” The adrenaline was beginning to wear off and you were exhausted to your very bones. “This is so fucked up. I never should've agreed to…

Tommy didn’t immediately reply. He sighed, “I don’t know you, and I don’t got the exact details of what’s going on right now, but… I’m glad you agreed.” He turned and met your gaze with a tight smile. “Joel’s been… He’s been better. Joel was in a rut for a long time. So long that I kind of forgot he was in one. For a while, that was just Joel.” Tommy’s smile grew as he chuckled. “But ever since the two of you met, it’s like this weight has been lifted from his shoulders. We’ve all noticed it, and we’re all thankful.”

  “He’s married.” You whispered. “And he didn’t tell me.”

Tommy rubbed the back of his neck, “I know, but it’s⏤ it’s not that simple.” He nervously chewed on his lower lip. “Can you just give him a chance to explain?” You flexed your hand and sucked in a sharp breath as pain lanced up your arm. “Consider it a favor for me.”

“A favor for you?” You snorted.

“Yeah. I kept you out of prison, remember?” Tommy joked.

You cracked a smile and Tommy’s smile widened in victory. Nima skipped back over and dropped into the seat on your other side. She pulled your hand into her lap and carefully unpeeled the cloth away. As Nima rewrapped your hand while Tommy criticized her technique and the two bickered over you. You couldn’t help but flex your hand when she finished.

“Come on, pinkie.” Tommy stood. “I’ll take you home.”

“Uh, I am not leaving my girl here alone.”

“Joel will be here soon.”

“Then I’m definitely not leaving her alone!”

You reached out to squeeze her wrist and gave her a reassuring nod, “I’ll be okay. Gotta talk to him eventually, right?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t have to be right now.” Nima argued. You pulled her into a hug to reassure her once again. Maybe this was a bad idea, but you had just smashed a glass against a guy’s head so the degree of your bad ideas couldn't possibly get worse. Nima sighed and stood up too. “Okay. You’re sure you’re fine?”

Tommy clapped his hands. “Joel’s a few minutes away. But we can stay until he gets here if you want.”

“No.” You shook your head. The thought of being alone for a minute was kind of nice. “You guys go.” Your eyes locked onto Nima. “If you’re okay with him driving you.” You glanced at Tommy. “No offense.”

He held his hands up in surrender and shrugged nonchalantly. Nima nodded, “We survived a bar brawl together. We’re bonded.” She grinned and pulled her strawberry purse around her shoulders. “Plus, worse comes to worse, I can stab him.”

“You can what now?” Tommy questioned.

“You’ve already offered me a ride. It’s too late to back out now.”

“Fine, pinkie.” Tommy waved her to follow. 

You watched them go and sunk in your seat. The sounds of the bar was decent background noise, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the noise in your head. You picked at the edges of the gauze wrapped around your hand. Your eyes felt heavy and if you weren’t careful you were going to pass out on this bar couch surrounded by strangers. It was the sound of a crash that startled you back into the moment, and when you looked up from your hand you realized the door had been thrown open hard enough to hit the wall. Joel stood in the doorway panicked and wild eyed. He wore a suit without the tie and his shirt was unbuttoned at the top.

You stayed silent, sinking further into your seat, and watched as Joel’s wide eyes scanned the room. His gaze finally landed on you, doing a double take, and when he realized where you were you saw his shoulders slump in relief. Joel jogged across the room until he was able to kneel down in front of you. Joel’s warm hands found your face, cupping it softly, as he sighed, “Sugar, what the hell is goin' on? Are you okay?” Joel’s eyes studied your face then glanced down at your hand. “Jesus, your hand. Tommy called me. Sugar, I⏤”

“I’m okay.” You whispered, throat growing tight, “I just wanna go home, Joel.”

Joel tensed and he nodded, “Yeah. Alright. Let’s get you home.”

The ride in the truck beside Joel may have been the most awkward and tense ride of your entire life. It was silent. The only sound coming from the road outside. Joel’s hands were white knuckled around the steering wheel. You assumed his tension had something to do with you ghosting him this evening. His truck pulled up outside your apartment complex and your alcohol soaked brain realized not only did you not have your keys but you also no longer had your phone. Both were sitting in Nima’s purse right now.

You opened the door fully prepared to sleep outside your apartment on the welcome mat like a lost dog, but Joel grasped you by the arm cautiously to hold you in place. “You got your key?” You twisted your lips knowing he wasn’t going to fall for a lie. “Where is your key?”

“With Nima.” You mumbled. “She has my phone too.”

Joel sighed and let go of you to instead grab the truck door and shut it. He buckled you back into the seat and began to drive once more. You wanted to ask where he was taking you, but none of the words would come out. You drowned in your indecision while picking at the bandage on your hand. Joel suddenly reached over and lightly pushed your hand away from the injury.

“Stop pickin' at it, sugar.”

“Where are we going?” You blurted.

Joel shifted in his seat, “My place.”

“I don’t wanna go to your place.” You mumbled.

“Don’t care.” Joel replied gruffly and you lifted your head to glare at his side profile. 

The tone of his voice stirred something inside you, and you felt the dormant anger start to reawaken. It had gotten buried under everything that happened, but now it was back full fledged. You sat up, “Take me back. I want to go home.”

“You don’t have your key.”

“I don’t care.” You snapped. “Take me home, Joel!”

“You’re comin' to my place where I know you can safely sleep it off, 'nd then tomorrow we’ll figure out how to get ya back into your apartment. Understood?”

You scoffed, “Don’t talk down to me. I’m not a child, Joel.”

“Oh, you’re not?” Joel scoffed. His tone was angry and frustrated. “Cause you’re sure as hell actin' like one.” He shot a glare in your direction before focusing back on the road. “Are you outta your goddamn mind?! Do you know how worried I was?” You crossed your arms and stared out the passenger window. “I don’ hear from you all day long. You disappear on me with no explanation 'nd then I get a call from my baby brother that you’ve been in a bar fight? And that you’re hurt?!” You stayed silent and Joel scoffed. “And now I get the silent treatment? Very mature.”

“You don’t want to argue with me on what’s mature, Joel.” You said, head whipping back to glare at him.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean??”

“You’re a hypocrite!”

“Excuse me?”

You scoffed, “It’s not very mature for a married man to pay a sugar baby for attention.” Joel hit the brakes and the seat belt caught you as the truck screeched to a stop. You glanced out the window to see his truck had reached a neighborhood and the streets were mostly void of other vehicles. When you turned back to Joel, you found him staring at you in a mix of shock and horror. You shook your head, “What was I, Joel? Some kind of midlife crisis?”

Pain could be seen through the horror, and he reached out to grab your wrist again. “No. No, that’s not…” Joel’s voice was hoarse and broken. He whispered your name. “Please. That’s not what this is.”

You tugged your arm away from his grip. “I don’t wanna talk about this right now, Joel. Either start driving again or I’m gonna get out.”

Joel kept his hands to himself as he slowly went back to driving. As if the awkward silence hadn’t been painful before it was downright agonizing now. You were pressing your thumb into the wounds of your palm just to try and keep from crying. Joel pulled into the driveway a few minutes later, and you couldn’t even get your brain to collect a single feature of the house in front of you. Joel jumped out of the truck and you stayed frozen. The passenger door opened but Joel didn’t move to pull you out. He held the top of the door frame and a foot rested on the running board so he could lean in just marginally.

“Sugar…”

“Don’t, Joel.” You said firmly. “Don’t.”

“Please just let me⏤”

“Are you married?”

Joel’s face crumpled in agony and he hung his head, “It’s… It’s not that simple. Just let me⏤”

“It’s a yes or no question.” You shrugged and tried to ignore the tears welling up in your eyes.

Joel looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack. His eyes were squeezed shut, but he still refused to answer. You whispered his name. Finally, he lifted his gaze back to you and opened his mouth. His jaw hung open silently for a second before he could speak. “...Yes.”

You felt the tears lingering at the waterline drip down your cheeks and hastily began to wipe them away with your hands. Joel gasped and began to reach out but when you flinched he held back. He shook his head, “You’re bleedin'.”

The bandage around your hand was soaked with blood, probably from digging your thumb into the wounds, and when you felt your cheek with your fingertips they came back tinted red. You must have smeared it across your face. 

“Sugar, let me… let me take you inside.” Joel murmured. “Please. I know you’re… upset, 'nd you have every reason to hate me right now, but… just let me get you inside.” His hand reached out for you once more, but he stopped himself. “You can leave in the mornin', but for tonight just⏤ just let me take care of you. Please.”

You gave a small nod. It felt weak of you, but you reassured yourself that you had little to no other option. Your hand hurt, your head ached, you were exhausted to your very being, and deep down you were torn between wanting to yell and scream or curl into a ball and cry. Joel took a few steps back to allow you to climb down yourself, but when you wavered his arms shot out to try and steady you. Joel herded you toward the front door without actually touching you. 

Your eyebrows furrowed when you studied his front porch. The entire front of his house didn’t look like the typical rich LA style you were accustomed to seeing. In fact, his porch and front door reminded you of a quaint farmhouse. Joel unlocked his front door and held it open for you to walk in. Right inside the house, the foyer had an open style with a set of stairs pressed against the wall just up ahead. It opened straight into a large living room that evolved into a dining room with a matching open kitchen to the side. The entire back wall by the kitchen and dining area was made of glass but the back porch lights were off so you couldn’t see the view. 

Joel tossed his keys into a bowl sitting on an accent table against the wall right by the door. You glanced over to a little bench built into the wall on the other side beneath a set of bay windows. The rest of his furniture from what you could see was modern and plain. You were drunk off alcohol and misery, but your brain was still able to take the time to note that Joel’s furniture didn’t match what you imagined him to have.

“C’mon.” Joel motioned you up the stairs. He followed after you and when you reached the top of the stairs he pointed to the left. You stepped into the master bedroom and Joel slid in past you moving straight toward the master bath. While he rooted around for something, you glanced around his room. There was a king sized bed sitting in the middle of the room covered in dark green sheets. A window sat on either side of the bed. The wall to the right was where the bathroom door and the closet door sat, but on the left was a single loveseat pushed against the wall. All the furniture was dark brown including the large dresser against the wall by the door and the smaller bedside drawers on either side of the bed under the windows. You drifted toward one of the bedside drawers where a photo was propped up. It was of Joel and two young girls. Joel had shown you enough pictures of Sarah and Ellie for you to recognize them, but in this photo all three of them were significantly younger. 

The sound of a throat clearing made you look up to see Joel standing there with a first aid kit in hand. “Sit down for me?” You sat on the side of the bed and Joel sat beside you. He opened the kit then carefully unwrapped your hand. When he saw the three lines haphazardly cut into your palm he let out a soft hiss. “You hurtin' much?”

“It stings some.” You mumbled. He hummed in response and used an alcohol swab to clean up the cuts. Joel did so with soft touches and his eyes flickered to your features every second or so to check in on your status. You locked your jaw to bite back any sounds of pain that tried to slip out. 

“They look bad, but I don’ think they’ll need stitches.” Joel thought out loud. 

“Good.” You said. Joel grabbed some fresh gauze and began to wrap it around your hand. You studied his features as he focused so intently on the task at hand. His warm gaze was burned into your skin as his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. You had the urge to trace your fingers through the scruff along his jawline. When he finished, he lifted his gaze and his eyes locked with yours. The two of you stared at one another in tense silence. Pain and longing filled his brown eyes, and you wondered if it could somehow just be a reflection of your own. It made no sense for you to both be so miserable right now. “Where is she?”

Joel tensed, “What?”

“Where is your wife?” You asked more firmly. 

“Are you sure you wanna get into this tonight?”

“I just want answers, Joel.” You sighed. “I need something. My mind has been a mess since we left Vegas.” Joel’s face crumpled as he closed his eyes with a sigh. “Yo-yo told me I wasn’t your first sugar baby and then she said you were married to your first sugar baby.” The words were falling out like pouring water now. “And then Nima has a cousin who has a cousin who has a friend or something that was able to find your marriage certificate⏤”

Joel murmured your name in reverence and opened his eyes. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you from the start. That way there’d be no miscommunication or confusion. I meant to. But… I kept puttin' it off 'nd it got to the point where too much time had passed…” Joel hesitantly reached out for you and when you didn’t shy away he settled his hand on your arm. “I did have a sugar baby before you. It’s a… long story, but I am not married to her.” 

Your eyebrows furrowed, “You didn’t marry her?”

“No. Absolutely not. She was… Like I said, it’s a long story.” Joel squeezed your arm. “One that I promise to tell you. In the mornin', when you’re not half drunk 'nd half hungover all at once.”

“Then who the hell are you married to, Joel?”

“I… I am technically still married to Celina.” Joel finally spat the words out. You shook your head in confusion. The name was foreign to you, but Joel heaved another sigh and added, “Sarah’s mom.”

taglist (closed):

@weddingfairy @bfences @jasminedragon @biwitchy @huffle-punk @shelbyteller @anoverwhelmingdin @aheadfullofsteverogers @stagerightlauren @basicoccult @boofy1998 @farintonorth @thepascalofus @amatis-gray @casa-boiardi @northernbluess @jettia @sapphicsoie @spidey-3 @hrtsforpascal @gingersince97 @sentients17 @bigboiseason123 @lunxramour @ktheunready @heyheyheygaypay @keepingupwiththeskywalkers @adoringanakin @come-hell-or-eldren-fire @cherriebat @whitewolfstar01 @alyssa121611 @asreadbyaj @painfullyandprettypoetic @cantobightcafe @str84pedro

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✨J.M. Masterlist✨

[iammorethananame-library]

*rocking* *biting my pillow* *flapping hands* ✨I'm being so normal about this chapter✨

I swear I read this in like thirty minutes as soon as I woke up on Sunday and it's taken me till now to wrangle my thoughts into something resembling a comment. Like, take as long as you need on the next chapter cuz this was utter perfection!! The plane ride home and both hiding and not hiding it? Nailed it! Nima ready to go ballistic but also being supportive and the voice of reason? More than I could ask for. Tommy's intro and the bar fight?? I didn't see that coming and I'm so fucking proud of the reader for smashing the dickhead!! The car ride with Joel and the tension just keeps rising!! And then the reveal!! And his reaction!! And it's all just so fucking good and I need to reread it already!!

A small thing that I just loved were the texts and voicemails as Joel gets more and more concerned and then the first he hears about her is from Tommy saying they were in a bar fight!!!!! This would be such a good chapter to see from Joel's pov (not a request! Just musing here!) Cuz like, what did he think was going on? Did he think she was sicker than she let on? Did he think something had happened to her? Did he think she was finally done entertaining this weird old man who was paying her? Or maybe it was something Tess said?? The possibilities?!?!?!! I just really enjoy seeing Joel worried 🙃

Anyway... I'mma reread this now and hold it very gently in my hands while it sustains me for the next few weeks 💜💜

Take Care of You [9]

Sugar Daddy!Joel Miller x Female!Reader

Overall Warnings: slow burn, angst/comfort, power imbalance, age gap, possessive tendencies, eventual smut, #daddyissues, independent reader learns to let go and relax, emotionally constipated Joel Miller learns to be vulnerable; (more specific warnings to be added to individual chapters if necessary)

Chapter Word Count: 9,950

Mood board and borders by @saradika

Summary: You spent your entire adult life supporting yourself and barely getting by. It’s why a life of ease offered to you by a mysterious stranger sounded so foreign and unbelievable. Joel Miller, dressed in flannels that had seen better days, didn’t look like the kind who could promise you the world on a plate, but he seemed desperate to help out. All he asks is that you let him take care of you. That wouldn’t be so hard. Would it?

[a/n: we back, baby. and we also barely edited so if you catch a typo don't hate me. also this was supposed to end in a different spot but then i got carried away in the middle so i had to split it 🥴]

Chapter Specific Warnings: angst, heartbreak, binge drinking to ease emotional turmoil, mild violence, mentions of blood and injury

09: LET ME TAKE CARE OF YOU

"i still haven't figured out how to sit across from you, and not be madly in love with everything you do." ⏤ william c. hannon

Three years ago, Nima tried to convince you to go skydiving with her. She begged and she pleaded, but you told her ‘no’ on account of thinking she was a crazy person for wanting to jump out of a perfectly good plane. Which was hilarious now considering you were sitting beside Joel wanting to pull open the door and dive out. The irony was not lost on you.

The only reason you hadn’t gone scrambling for the door was because Joel was forced to take a work call a few minutes into the flight. He hadn’t moved away. Joel stayed right next to you with his arm behind you as he spoke, and every few moments he’d glance at you with a silent apology and shake his head. You’d reply with a tight lipped smile and go back to mindlessly scrolling through instagram. 

Unfortunately the mindlessly scrolling was not so mindless. Since leaving Vegas, you had a high pitch ringing in the back of your mind like an endless, echoing siren. Married. A married man. Joel was⏤ Your teeth were clenched together so hard you wondered if Joel could hear them grinding against one another. Yesterday had been filled with so much anxiety, and you had managed to work through it by the end of the night. Mostly. But this was worse. This was so much worse. 

Married?

Your throat suddenly felt tight, eyes stinging with unshed tears, and you hastily undid your seatbelt and stood. Joel glanced your way and you pointed to the back of the plane and mouthed the word ‘bathroom’ to him. He nodded with a soft smile, and you spun on your heel and practically sprinted to the tiny plane bathroom. You struggled to get the folding door shut and the stewardess who sat not far away stared at you in confusion. You gave her an awkward wave and finally got it latched. 

“Fuck.” You shoved your face in your hands, leaning against the wall, and held back your tears. You were confused and frustrated, and you couldn’t even find relief in a good cry because Joel would spot it in a heartbeat no matter how much you tried to put yourself back together. The thought of confronting him about this right now was your worst nightmare. You hadn’t had the time to process any of the wild thoughts pinging around your head yet.

Your mind was at war with itself. On one hand, maybe you were being stupid and naive. For the last month and a half you’ve spent nearly every day with Joel and on the days you weren’t actively seeing him the two of you would talk either over a call or through text. You knew Yo-yo for 24 hours. Sure, she seemed nice and sincere, but what if Rosalind sent her to screw with you? For all you knew, Yo-yo had cruel intentions and was trying to drive a wedge between you and Joel. By taking her word you’d be playing right into that trap. What she said about the other sugar baby and about Joel being married? Maybe it was all fake and you’ve been stressing for no reason.

On the other hand, Joel didn’t kiss you. He didn’t kiss you because he wanted to ‘do right by you’. Joel asked for time. Was it because he needed to get a divorce? Worse. Was he married with absolutely no plans to get divorced and just buying time for something else? 

God, if you kept up this line of thought you were gonna vomit. Quickly, you turned to the sink to splash a little cold water on your face in hopes it would help you get your shit together for the next thirty minutes. Half an hour and you’d be on the ground. But then what? It would be a miracle if you kept it together for thirty minutes let alone any longer. 

You took in a long, slow breath and tried to clear your mind. When you felt steady enough, you stepped out of the bathroom. As tempting as it was to hide in there for the rest of the flight, it would probably be a red flag for Joel that something was wrong. You wandered back over to Joel and at your approach, and at the sight of you, he covered the bottom of his phone and whispered, “You alright?”

“Mhmm.” You nodded quickly and sat back down.

“I’m sorry. Jus’ another minute.” 

You waved your hands at him as nonchalantly as you could and he went back to his call. You leaned back in the seat, phone in hand, and Joel readjusted his arm on the back of the seat so he could settle his hand on your shoulder. As he always did, his thumb was tracing circles on your shoulder. An action you always loved, but now an intrusive thought slammed into you⏤ does he do this with his wife? The question was so startling, so sickening, that you couldn’t bite back the nausea that rolled through your body. You jumped up so fast you nearly stumbled over your feet, and you scrambled for the bathroom. 

Vaguely, you heard your name behind you, but you didn’t stop until you reached the toilet. You fell to your knees and threw up. The taste of acid in your mouth made you wince, but getting it all up did bring some relief. That relief was short lived though as you felt a large, warm hand settle on your back.

“Jesus, sugar.” He said in a soothing voice as he rubbed your back. “What’s goin’ on? Have you felt sick all mornin’?”

You spat into the toilet bowl, trying to get the taste of bile out of your mouth, before reaching out and flushing the toilet. You tried to stand, and Joel hooked his arm around you to help you up. He called out of the bathroom and a second later the stewardess brought in a cup of water and a ginger ale. Joel handed you the water and kept his hand rubbing up and down on your back.

“I’m⏤ I’m fine.” You shook your head and took a sip of water to swish and spit into the sink. “Really.”

“Obviously not.” Joel replied. “C’mon, let’s sit you down.”

“Joel…” You tried to argue, but he wasn’t hearing it. He kept an arm around you as he carefully led you back to the seat. He brought the bottle of ginger ale with you and the moment you finished the water he took the cup out of your hand to replace it with the soda. “I feel better now. It’s fine.”

“You’ve been off this mornin'. I was worried.” Joel lifted a hand to feel your forehead. It made sense that Joel picked up on your distress. He had always been so good at reading you. “You seemed fine when we first woke up. When exactly did you start feelin' sick?”

You took a sip of the ginger ale, “I…I don’t know. After breakfast maybe.” You lied. The sincerity in his eyes, the concern in his voice, it was both bringing you comfort and making you sick again all at once. You felt so stupid. Either you were freaking out over a lie a woman you barely knew told you or you were being tricked into feelings by a married man. Either way, you felt pathetic. “Your, um, your work call, Joel.”

Joel shook his head in response and didn’t even bother addressing the work call he stopped. He set a hand on the back of your neck and his thumb was lightly ghosting over your skin. You closed your eyes and took a slow breath in and out through your nose. “Tell me what I can do, sugar.”

“I⏤” You swallowed the lump in your throat. You forced your eyes open, finding Joel’s furrowed brow and worried gaze already on you, and it made you want to cry. You shook your head, “I, um, I think I just wanna lay down for a while. If that’s okay.”

“Course it’s okay.” He replied. 

The seat the two of you were sharing wasn’t long enough for you to lay down without laying your head on Joel’s lap. You planned on moving to the other couch seats to lay down, but Joel’s hand was still on the back of your neck and he lightly began to guide you down. Too tired to even try and move, you settled your head on his thigh and curled your body up onto the rest of the seat. 

In any other situation, this would be one of the most comfortable spots on Earth. Your head rested on his thick, firm thigh, and Joel’s hand traced where he could reach. Up and down your jawline and neck⏤ his thumb and forefinger would occasionally massage your earlobe. You tried to calm your racing thoughts. The truth was, you didn’t know the truth yet. It was a fact you kept repeating in your head in hopes it would numb the sharp pain of your worst fears, but those intrusive thoughts continued to pummel you.

“I’m so sorry, baby girl.” Joel murmured while his fingers dragged across your skin. “What a shitty way to end this weekend.” You hummed in agreement. This really was a shitty way to close out what started as one of the best weekends of your life.

Avoiding Joel made you realize how involved in your life he was. After landing in LA, Joel tried to drag you to a doctor and only conceded when you told him it was probably a 24 hour bug and you just wanted to sleep. He called you later that night to check in on you, and you managed to talk to him for a few minutes before lying about wanting to go to bed early. Come Monday morning, you went to work despite Joel texting you that you should stay home. Trying to focus at work was physically painful. Enough so that after the nightmare Monday had been, you left midway through the day today claiming to Henry that you didn’t feel well. It wasn’t even a full blown lie. You felt like shit.

Nima threw the folder of papers onto her desk and set her hands on her hips, “I’m gonna hit him with my car.”

“Please don’t.” You mumbled with your chin resting in your palm as you leaned on the other side of her desk. After leaving work, you came directly to Nima’s office. Going home and sitting on your couch, alone with your thoughts, would only make you ten times more miserable.

“No, actually, my car isn’t big enough. I’m gonna commandeer a bus and hit him with that.”

“I haven’t confirmed anything yet. For all I know, I’m being this pathetic over nothing.”

Nima snapped her hand up and pointed at you with a glare, “No. I will not have you shit talking yourself when the only person we should be shit talking is Joel Miller and his wife.”

You groaned and let your head fall to the desk. The words ‘Joel Miller and his wife’ made you viscerally ill. The time you spent not talking to Joel Monday night you spent stalking people on social media. You reached dead ends very quickly though since Joel didn’t have any social media whatsoever. The easiest solution was to just look Joel in the eyes and ask him for the truth, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You wanted to know the truth, but you were scared to actually seek it out. 

If you asked Joel for the truth, if you confronted him, then he’d give it to you.

What if the truth was something you didn’t want to hear?

“Alrighty, babe, real talk.” Nima said and you lifted your head, keeping your chin resting on the wood, and saw she had dropped down into her office chair. To meet your eye line, she held her chin on the desk across from you to mirror your position. “I can threaten and plot his demise all I want, but I know I’m not allowed to kill him until this is confirmed or denied.” She twisted her lips. “You deserve the truth.”

You pouted, “How am I supposed to ask him about this, Nima??”

Her eyebrows furrowed in concern, “If you did ask… How sure are you that he’d answer truthfully?”

You pushed up and leaned back in the chair. That was a good question, and with anyone else it would probably be a real concern. However, you weren’t worried about that. You truly, deep down, believed that if you confronted Joel about this he would give you the truth. 

“I really think he would.” You answered. “Is that naive of me?”

“You know him better than I do.”

This entire situation made you question that. Did you know him? You knew he grew up in Austin. He had a younger brother, Tommy, and it was just them and his mom for most of his childhood. You knew he attended one year in college when his mom passed away⏤ cancer. Joel dropped out of college to take care of his brother and picked up a job in construction. That’s where he got his start. His first boss saw he had a knack for more than just the manual labor and trusted him with more and more until Joel was running sites for the man. At 27, Joel’s girlfriend of three months got pregnant. They planned to make it work, but she left when Sarah was two weeks old. You knew he adopted Ellie three years later. That he earned his bachelor’s degree in business at home through online classes while raising two young girls and working a full time job. That he started Miller Construction shortly after earning that degree, and it blew up from there.

You knew despite being a tough guy, he didn’t like horror movies.

You knew his favorite whiskey was Lagavulin⏤ neat.

The one thing you didn’t know was if he was married or not.

“I am going to suggest something,” Nima began, “And I want you to listen before you call me crazy.” You shot her confused look and she continued on. “I have this cousin.” You groaned and Nima chastised you to listen. It seemed like she had a cousin available for every situation that arose, and half the people she called cousin weren’t even technically related to her by blood. Anytime you asked her about it all she’d say was ‘Korean moms’ love to talk’, as if that clarified anything for you. “Seriously. He’s dating a private eye. With one text, we can get some answers.”

You shook your head, “Nima, that’s insane.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, hiring a private investigator is insane.” 

“Look, it’ll get us reliable answers.” Nima argued. “The truth.”

You rolled the idea around in your head. It was literally the epitome of paranoid absurdity, but you were wondering if that’s the point you were at. Would it be better to find out this way? That way when you finally did confront Joel you wouldn’t be blind sided by the answer. Hell, if the answer turned out to be ‘no, he isn’t married’ then you can chalk up the last few days as time wasted and move on with your life. That being said, it did seem like an invasion of Joel’s privacy. 

“That feels…” You paused, “Illegal?”

“It’s not illegal to hire a PI.” Nima countered then tilted her head. “I think. I’m not a lawyer, but people do it on TV all the time, right?”

“Well, that logic is foolproof.” 

“I’m not gonna do it if you tell me you don’t want to do it.” Nima said firmly. She crossed her arms and gave a small little shrug. “But you have to do something. Either this or just call him right now and tell him the two of you need to talk.” There was a protective sincerity in her eyes that felt like a security blanket being settled on your shoulders. “I don’t want to see you get more attached to this guy just to be hurt. I don’t want him to lie to you.”

You knew Nima only had your best interests in mind. Technically, Joel had given you no reason not to trust him. Half the time you thought on this topic you convinced yourself you were overreacting and being a pathetic, paranoid mess. Yo-yo, as nice and fun as she had been, was a virtual stranger to you. Her word shouldn’t trump Joel’s. You knew all of that, and you wanted to trust him. However, it felt like some broken part of you was looking for something to be wrong. Joel Miller was too good to be true. Why would someone like him be interested in someone like you? There had to be something else going on. According to your ex, you hadn’t even been worthy of him and Joel Miller was ten times the man he was. 

“Okay, do it.” You blurted and hated yourself for doing so.

Nima held your gaze for a second, but you pushed to stand and crossed her office to her private bathroom. You took one of the paper towels, dampening it, and set it on the back of your neck in a poor attempt to ground yourself. For a while longer, you just stood there in front of the sink. Not staring at yourself, but staring forward at a singular spot as your thoughts raced. You needed a positive thought. Just one would do, and you were prepared to drag it out of your thick skull kicking and screaming if necessary. 

“Everything is going to be okay.” You mumbled to yourself softly. 

The whispered words did nothing for your anxiety. However, the memory of him did. You found comfort looking back at the soft moments spent with Joel and let yourself fall down that rabbit hole. The temporary peace was nice, but it didn't last. Finding strength you didn’t know you had today, you splashed your face one more time and then left the bathroom.

Your eyes immediately landed on Nima who stared back with wide eyes. Nima spoke first, “What?”

“What?” You repeated. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh, I thought you said something.” Nima flipped her phone over and settled her hand on top of it. You glanced from her face to her phone and back again. A look of misery flickered across her features. You tilted your head in question. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry.”

“Nima.” You crossed the room quickly. “Did they already text back??”

“No. Yes. Maybe?” Nima shook her head. “Not exactly.”

“Nima.”

She twisted her lips and drummed her nails against the plastic case of her phone. You shot her another look and she blew out a sigh. “He sent me a response, but it’s like half an answer. Half a report. We should wait until he can⏤”

“What did he say?”

“Apparently, he’s working on a case for someone else right now and had a database right in front of him so all he had to do was type in⏤”

“Nima, please.” You blurted. It felt like your heart was caught in your throat. You couldn’t breathe and you didn't feel coherent enough to string together a thought. Her hesitance was an answer in and of itself. You rubbed your throat, your other arm wrapping around your torso in a poor attempt to hold yourself together, and gasped. “Just say it.”

“He’s married, babe.” Nima mumbled. You knew the words had been coming, but they still overwhelmed you. The air left your lungs as if someone had gut punched you and you fell back into the seat in front of her desk. “He said he’d send me the certificate when he could, but he has to finish this job first. I’m so sorry. I am so, so sorry. I⏤”

Nima stopped herself from speaking as she came around her desk and wrapped an arm around your shoulders. You sat in her embrace for as long as your shattering mind could endure and then shook your head, “I need a drink. Drinks. Plural.”

“It’s three in the afternoon, babe.” Nima mumbled in concern. You shot her a dry look and she offered you a tight lipped smile. “Drinks it is! Let’s go. We can go back to my place and⏤”

“No.” You pushed to stand. “I wanna go out.”

“Oh… kay. Where?”

“Anywhere.” You turned and began to leave.

Nima was scrambling to gather her belongings into her strawberry shaped purse before rushing out after you. “Just one drink though. I hate being the voice of reason, but we should limit ourselves to one drink.”

One drink turned into two which turned into three which turned into twelve.

By 6 PM, you were borderline wasted. It was by no means the best decision you’ve ever made, but you couldn’t classify it as your worst considering that, for the first time since leaving Vegas, you didn’t feel sad or defeated. No, those blue emotions had turned into a burning shade of red. You had finally found your anger and all it took was copious amounts of alcohol. 

“I mean, married?” You scoffed as you stood at the bar with Nima at your side. “That’s⏤ That’s illegal.” Nima nodded in agreement as she blindly tried to find the straw in her drink with her tongue. You reached out and pushed it toward her lips. “And worse than illegal! It’s fucking rude.”

“So rude.” Nima slurped at the last of her drink and all you could hear was the rattling of ice in her glass. She pulled away to slam the cup down and pointed at you⏤ her pink hair had been let down from the braid to messily rest around her shoulders. “You should get a new sugar daddy!” You stuck your tongue out in disgust and shook your head. “No! This is such a good idea.” Nima began to look around the bar. “Let’s find you a super hot, super not married sugar daddy.”

“I don’t want a new sugar daddy. I want another drink.” You leaned on the bar and waited for the bartender to look your way. Nima and you had bounced to a few bars. The two of you, back when you were sober, decided to start drinking in an area that had multiple bars all within walking distance. The one you were in now wasn’t familiar to you⏤ it wasn’t a place you and Nima had been to before. It was a bit too upscale for your liking. Sober you would not have been a fan. Drunk you? Loving it.

Nima was tapping on your shoulder rapidly and when you looked her way she was pointing across the bar to God knows who. “He looks like he wouldn’t marry someone without your permission.”

“That’s,” You shook your head, “not my situation.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” You shook your head and looked back toward the bartender who was busy with a group of women further down the bar. The sound of vibrating vaguely filled the air and you leaned closer to Nima who immediately wrapped her arms around you in a hug. “You’re vibrating.”

“You’re vibrating.”

You found her purse and opened it so you could rifle through it. It dawned on you then that somewhere around bar two and drink five you had shoved your phone in her purse for safe keeping. When you finally managed to pull it out, Joel’s face was flashing on the screen and you yelped in surprise. You tossed the phone onto the bar and held your face between your hands.

“Oh, no. Oh, no, no.” You shook your head and the vibration stopped. Joel’s picture disappeared and was replaced with a notification of a missed call that joined the notification telling you that you had unread messages. Your eyes snapped to Nima who was trying to drink out of her empty cup again. “Joel.”

“Bastard man.” Nima edited.

“Dinner.” You grimaced. “At 7. I’m supposed to get dinner with Joel at 7. It’s 6:35.”

Nima shook her head and crunched the ice she had shoveled into her mouth, “Bastard man can go to dinner with his wife tonight.”

 You grimaced, “I hate all the words you just used.”

The bartender began to wander over and Nima turned to order more drinks. You picked up your phone and leaned against the bartop with your elbow. With a frown and furrowed brow, you opened your text messages. Every unread text was from Joel unsurprisingly. The first came in at 4:29 and it was a simple, ‘Hey sugar, I’m excited to see you tonight’. The next was almost exactly an hour later and it said, ‘Hope your day’s been alright. We still on for tonight?’. Finally, the most recent at 6:15, was just your name with a question mark.

You set the phone back down before the temptation to reply could overcome you. It only sat on the bartop for a second before it began to vibrate violently as another call came in. Joel’s face filled the screen and you felt a wave of sadness drag you under. The fact that you were mourning the lack of his presence to this degree was probably a sign you were doing this ‘sugar baby’ thing very wrong.

“Maybe I should answer it.” You voiced the thought aloud.

Nima caught it and gasped before slapping her hand on top of the still buzzing phone, “No, ma’am! You will not be doing that.” The bartender set two new drinks between the two of you. Nima pushed one in front of you and moved the straw to point directly at you. “Drink.”

You took a sip then spoke, “I don’t even know the whole story⏤” Nima pushed your face back to the straw so you took another long sip. “Maybe it’s a misunderstanding…” This time your lips found their way to the straw on their own accord and you took a sip that could be argued as dangerously long. “I need to talk to him. Confront him. Demand answers.”

“Yes. To all of that. Eventually.” Nima replied with a nod. She reached forward and bopped you on the nose with her finger. “But not tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know one thing in life,” Nima held up the one finger she used to bop your nose, “You do not have serious conversations while drunk.”

You shook your head with a pout, “I thought you said you don’t like being the voice of reason.”

“If it means helping you, I’ll always lean toward reason, babe.” 

The two of you went back to drinking. Your vibrating phone stopped and a few seconds passed before a notification for a voicemail popped up. You turned to Nima, “Can I listen to it? That’s not talking. That’s listening.”

Nima chewed on her straw slowly before bobbing her head in an affirmative nod, “I shall allow it.”

You picked up the phone to listen to the message he left you.

‘Hey, sugar.’ Joel’s voice rumbled over the line and you felt your chest physically ache at the sound. You closed your eyes in annoyance with yourself. If you hadn’t fallen so hard, so fast for this man you wouldn’t be in this scenario to begin with. ‘Gotta say I’m a little worried. Haven’t heard from ya all day. Gimme a call when ya get this.’

You groaned and set your head down on the bar. Guilt gnawed at you. It felt childish of you to be ghosting him like this, and that wasn’t your typical go to move. You had enough respect for the people in your life to address them when needed rather than hide behind voicemail. With the guilt was a swirling vortex of anger. You were angry at Joel for not being up front with you. You were angry at Yo-Yo for being the one to plant the initial doubt that started all this. You were angry at yourself most of all. Angry that you felt guilt at all, angry that you had foolishly placed so much trust in a man you barely knew, angry that despite everything there was still a part of you that craved his presence. You missed his touch and his voice. You missed those burning brown eyes and the way his very glance could melt you into a puddle.

“You okay, babe?” Nima’s voice asked softly. You shook your head without lifting it. “I’m sorry. I can break his knee caps if you want?”

“What?” You lifted your gaze.

“What?” She replied innocently. 

The phone began to vibrate again startling you. He had just called so you didn’t expect him to call again, but then again you were supposed to be in your apartment waiting for him to pick you up for dinner. You pictured him standing at your door dressed up and holding a bouquet of flowers. Nausea rolled over you in waves, and you grabbed your mixed drink thinking it could cure your troubles.

A few minutes passed before another voicemail was left. You snatched your phone up and shoved it back into Nima’s purse so it would be out of your line of sight⏤ not even bothering to listen to the second voicemail. Tomorrow, you decided. Tomorrow you would confront Joel and have this difficult conversation. You both finished the drinks in front of you as the lively bar continued to thrive around you.

“Why is he married?” You asked suddenly. Nima must have known it wasn’t a question you expected an actual answer to as she stayed silent. You rested your face in your hands and sighed. With your eyes closed against your hands like this you began to feel dizzy. A sure sign that you should stop drinking. Nima rubbed your back soothingly and you dropped your hands to shoot her an appreciative glance. “You’re the best best friend a girl could ask for.”

“I know, babe. And you know what else I know?” Nima squished your cheeks together with a wide grin, “You deserve the universe in a gold hand basket, and any man who can’t see that or who would play games with your big, loving heart doesn’t deserve you.”

You laughed and Nima chuckled herself before letting go of your face to pick up her empty glass. Her tongue struggled to find the straw but once it did she tried to take a big gulp only to get drops and air. Nima pulled away from her straw and furrowed her brow, “Who finished my drink?”

With another laugh, you raised your hand to order two more drinks. At this point you’ve already had so much to drink, what would one more hurt? You knew the hangover tomorrow was going to be a bad one, but a part of you was looking forward to it. There would be no mourning Joel tomorrow if your head hurt too much to even think his name. 

Nima successfully managed to distract you again as she drunkenly delved into a story you weren’t quite following, but you enjoyed the way she told it. A low whistle interrupted the moment of peace the two of you had found. You glanced past Nima to see two men in business suits wandering over. Nothing about them stood out to you. One was brunet and the other blond, but they both looked like they never grew out of the frat lifestyle on a college campus.

“We saw you two pretty ladies from over there and wanted to come and offer you our company.” The blond greeted smugly.

Nima turned in her seat to face him and waved her hand at him while taking a long sip of her drink until the ice rattled in the glass. Then she pulled the straw out of her mouth to finally speak with a shake of her head, “Sorry, we don’t speak english.”

“You just said that in English.” The blond chuckled.

“Sorry, sorry.” Nima waved her hand once more. “I don’t understand your accent.”

You snickered under your breath while chewing on your straw. The brunet stepped forward to stand side by side with the other and shook his head, “No need to be a bitch. We just wanted to talk.”

“Oh, you haven’t even begun to see bitchy yet.” Nima pointed her glass in their direction⏤ a bit of ice sloshing out with the exaggerated movement. “I can show you bitchy.” She reached back to swat at your arm. “Tell them, babe.”

“She can.” You nodded in agreement.

The blond set a hand on his friend’s shoulder and tugged him back, “Let’s just go, man.”

The brunet reluctantly let himself get dragged away, but he continued to stare at you and Nima the entire time. Nima spun in her seat and scoffed, “Where was I before I was interrupted by douchebag one and douchebag two?”

“I’m not gonna lie,” You shrugged, “I have no idea.”

“I’ll pick a place then.” Nima said and jumped into the middle of her story. “So, there I was covered head to toe in honey.”

Same as before, you really couldn’t keep track of her tale but it amused you all the same. The two of you chatted for another minute or two before a new face came across the two of you again. Nima had bounced in her seat, excited, and it knocked her strawberry shaped purse to the floor. Your phone clattered out. Before you could climb off the bar stool to grab it, a man passing knelt down and scooped it up. In one tanned hand he grabbed the purse and in the other your phone. The phone’s screen lit up and you swallowed at the sight of the multiple missed messages all from the same person. 

“Oh.” The man cleared his throat and straightened his stance. He was handsome with a kind face. Dark hair, a bit on the longer side, was messily pushed back and it matched the scruff on his upper lip and chin. The man wore a pink button up shirt, all the buttons undone, over a white t-shirt. “I suppose this is yours, miss?”

You begun to reach out, “Thanks⏤”

“Hold it!” Nima pointed at the man making his dark, brown eyes widen. “State your intentions, sir!”

“To…return your purse?” He lifted up the strawberry bag.

Nima narrowed her eyes at him and snatched it away, “Likely story.”

“Thank you.” You reached out and he handed the phone over to you. A glance down revealed four missed calls, two unheard voicemails, and five texts. You winced at the sight and set your phone face down on the bar. You were surprised to see the man still standing by your stools. “You…” You narrowed your eyes at him. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

He chuckled and shook his head, “Afraid not, ma’am.”

It was sitting on the tip of your tongue, but your foggy brain just couldn’t quite grasp it. Nima snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “I got it. He’s that guy.” You lifted an eyebrow at her words and she nodded frantically. “Yeah, he’s that actor! You play in that one show with, like, the zombies or whatever, right?”

“Not at all.” He laughed with a shake of his head. “I ain’t no actor.”

“Well then, I’m out of guesses.” Nima grumbled. She tilted her head, looking him up and down once more, “You seem nice enough. Got a pretty face. You rich? You wanna be a sugar daddy? She’s in the market.”

You rolled your eyes, “Nima.”

“You’re in the market for a sugar daddy?” The man asked in shock. You could hardly blame the man for his confusion and disbelief. This was hardly a normal bar conversation. “Really?”

“No. She’s just drunk.”

“Irrelevant.” Nima argued.

You chuckled then introduced yourself and Nima. The man paused for a beat before nodding and offering you his hand. “Nice to meet you both. My name is Tommy.” It took a second to click, but once the name finally wormed its way through your mind your eyes widened. Tommy chuckled and answered your unspoken question, “Yeah. I am.”

Nima glanced between you two with a frown, “Hold on, I’m not following. You are what? You’ll be her new sugar daddy?”

“No way in hell.” Tommy grinned. “If I even thought 'bout it, my brother’d skin me alive.”

The look on Nima’s face stayed confused until you swallowed the lump in your throat and finally spoke, “It’s… Nima, this is Joel’s brother.”

Her face remained frozen before morphing into one of shock. She gasped, almost comically, and pointed at him. “Oh, fuck.” Her eyebrows furrowed into a glare. “You son of a bitch, your brother is a son of a bitch!”

Tommy didn’t pay her outburst any mind, but his eyes darted back to you. “I asked my brother to come out drinkin' with me tonight, but he said ‘no’ cause he had a date with you.” Tommy stuck his hands into his pockets. “Funny I’m findin' you here without him.”

“That’s because your brother is too busy with his wife to be with my girl!”

Tommy’s eyebrows furrowed in surprise and he glanced back to you, “He already told you about her?”

It was quite possibly the worst string of words you could have heard all day. Only in competition with Nima’s ‘He’s married, babe’. You felt nauseous and dizzy⏤ the breath stolen from you again. Nima was arguing with Tommy, you could hear her voice, but you couldn’t concretely understand a single word that was said. When you finally managed to get a handle on reality, you looked back to see things had fallen apart and more time than you realized had passed in your mental breakdown. 

The blond and brunet from earlier, in the suits, had come back and were somehow arguing with Tommy and Nima now. You suddenly began to regret the last two drinks you had. Maybe if you had gone with a couple glasses of water instead you’d be able to puzzle out exactly what was going on right now.

“Get the hell outta here. They ain’t interested.” Tommy snapped.

“Just curious as to why we weren’t good enough for these bitches and you were.” The brunet slurred his words. Tommy stood a step in front of Nima who had slid off her bar stool to stand in front of you with her hands on her hips. “What’s so special about you, bub?”

“Ugh. How about the two of you run off to the bathroom and jack each other off, huh? Then leave us the fuck alone.” Nima sneered.

“Shut your damn mouth!” 

The blond tried to push past Tommy toward Nima, but Tommy shoved him back immediately. He grabbed the guy by the collar. “You gonna charge at a woman like that? Fuckin' coward.” Tommy’s voice came out in a gravelly growl that reminded you so much of Joel that it was staggering. “You got a problem, you take it up with me.”

The next moment happened fast. The blond tried to swing out at Tommy so Tommy blocked it with his elbow before tackling the man to the ground. The brunet grabbed Nima and wrapped his arms around her. She howled in anger and squirmed in his arms trying to find purchase to hit him. The brunet spun so his back was to you and you slid off the stool. Without pause, without thought, you picked up your empty glass and smashed it to the back of the man’s head. He released Nima, crumpling to the ground with a groan, and any shred of a fight stopped⏤as did the entire bar.

Tommy was kneeling on the ground pinning the blond while Nima stood off to the side.

“Oh my God.” Nima squealed, amused.

“Oh my God.” Tommy blurted, impressed.

“Oh my God.” You gasped, shocked at your own action.

You were panting, damn near hyperventilating, as the brunet began to rise on shaky limbs. Other patrons nearby converged on the scene to help out and before you knew it you were being ushered off to the side where a few couches and seats sat in a lounge area. 

“You’re such a badass.” Nima gushed from beside you. "How’s your hand??”

“Hurts.” You mumbled and stared down at the white cloth wrapped around your hand. Bright red was beginning to seep through. The consequences of smashing glass against the back of someone’s skull. Police had shown up and you knew Tommy was across the room talking to them. But still, your eyes stayed glued on your hand. The cuts weren’t terrible but they stung something awful.

“Babe?” You finally looked up and met Nima’s concerned eyes. She nodded, “You alright?”

You shot her a small smile, “Yeah. Are you okay? I can’t believe he grabbed you.”

“I’m fine.” Nima peeked at your hand then stood. “I’m gonna see if this bar has a real first aid kit we can use. Be right back.”

She jumped up and jogged over to the bar. You sunk in your seat with a sigh and leaned your head against the back of the couch. There had been something very sobering about smashing the glass against that guy’s head. The adrenaline and pain cleared any lingering fog from your previous drinks right out of your head. It left room for you to think about Joel. Meeting his brother certainly didn’t help. Tommy clapped one of the officer’s on the shoulder with a smile and they went separate ways. You lifted your head when you heard his footsteps draw near.

“Well, I spoke to the police.” Tommy stuck his hands into his pockets. “You’re not gonna get in trouble for the, you know, the glass. Won’t have to go downtown with ‘em.” You breathed a sigh of relief. Tommy held your gaze for a few more seconds before scrunching his nose and bobbing his head toward you. “And Joel is, uh, on his way.”

You covered your face with your good hand and groaned, “Can I please just be arrested instead?”

“Sorry, no can do.” Tommy sat down beside you. “You know, I didn’t say it earlier, but it’s nice to finally meet you. Joel never shuts up about you.”

“Please. Don’t.” You blurted. “I can’t… I can’t talk about him right now.”

Tommy nodded, “Right. I, uh, when I called him we didn’t talk much.” He laced his fingers together and rested his arms on his knees. “I mentioned you were hurt and things kind of spiraled from there. That’s probably for the best though. I don’t wanna get in between a lover’s quarrel⏤”

“I’m not his lover.” You snapped, and you hated the way your voice cracked. You shook your head, “Not if he’s married. Not…” The adrenaline was beginning to wear off and you were exhausted to your very bones. “This is so fucked up. I never should've agreed to…

Tommy didn’t immediately reply. He sighed, “I don’t know you, and I don’t got the exact details of what’s going on right now, but… I’m glad you agreed.” He turned and met your gaze with a tight smile. “Joel’s been… He’s been better. Joel was in a rut for a long time. So long that I kind of forgot he was in one. For a while, that was just Joel.” Tommy’s smile grew as he chuckled. “But ever since the two of you met, it’s like this weight has been lifted from his shoulders. We’ve all noticed it, and we’re all thankful.”

  “He’s married.” You whispered. “And he didn’t tell me.”

Tommy rubbed the back of his neck, “I know, but it’s⏤ it’s not that simple.” He nervously chewed on his lower lip. “Can you just give him a chance to explain?” You flexed your hand and sucked in a sharp breath as pain lanced up your arm. “Consider it a favor for me.”

“A favor for you?” You snorted.

“Yeah. I kept you out of prison, remember?” Tommy joked.

You cracked a smile and Tommy’s smile widened in victory. Nima skipped back over and dropped into the seat on your other side. She pulled your hand into her lap and carefully unpeeled the cloth away. As Nima rewrapped your hand while Tommy criticized her technique and the two bickered over you. You couldn’t help but flex your hand when she finished.

“Come on, pinkie.” Tommy stood. “I’ll take you home.”

“Uh, I am not leaving my girl here alone.”

“Joel will be here soon.”

“Then I’m definitely not leaving her alone!”

You reached out to squeeze her wrist and gave her a reassuring nod, “I’ll be okay. Gotta talk to him eventually, right?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t have to be right now.” Nima argued. You pulled her into a hug to reassure her once again. Maybe this was a bad idea, but you had just smashed a glass against a guy’s head so the degree of your bad ideas couldn't possibly get worse. Nima sighed and stood up too. “Okay. You’re sure you’re fine?”

Tommy clapped his hands. “Joel’s a few minutes away. But we can stay until he gets here if you want.”

“No.” You shook your head. The thought of being alone for a minute was kind of nice. “You guys go.” Your eyes locked onto Nima. “If you’re okay with him driving you.” You glanced at Tommy. “No offense.”

He held his hands up in surrender and shrugged nonchalantly. Nima nodded, “We survived a bar brawl together. We’re bonded.” She grinned and pulled her strawberry purse around her shoulders. “Plus, worse comes to worse, I can stab him.”

“You can what now?” Tommy questioned.

“You’ve already offered me a ride. It’s too late to back out now.”

“Fine, pinkie.” Tommy waved her to follow. 

You watched them go and sunk in your seat. The sounds of the bar was decent background noise, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the noise in your head. You picked at the edges of the gauze wrapped around your hand. Your eyes felt heavy and if you weren’t careful you were going to pass out on this bar couch surrounded by strangers. It was the sound of a crash that startled you back into the moment, and when you looked up from your hand you realized the door had been thrown open hard enough to hit the wall. Joel stood in the doorway panicked and wild eyed. He wore a suit without the tie and his shirt was unbuttoned at the top.

You stayed silent, sinking further into your seat, and watched as Joel’s wide eyes scanned the room. His gaze finally landed on you, doing a double take, and when he realized where you were you saw his shoulders slump in relief. Joel jogged across the room until he was able to kneel down in front of you. Joel’s warm hands found your face, cupping it softly, as he sighed, “Sugar, what the hell is goin' on? Are you okay?” Joel’s eyes studied your face then glanced down at your hand. “Jesus, your hand. Tommy called me. Sugar, I⏤”

“I’m okay.” You whispered, throat growing tight, “I just wanna go home, Joel.”

Joel tensed and he nodded, “Yeah. Alright. Let’s get you home.”

The ride in the truck beside Joel may have been the most awkward and tense ride of your entire life. It was silent. The only sound coming from the road outside. Joel’s hands were white knuckled around the steering wheel. You assumed his tension had something to do with you ghosting him this evening. His truck pulled up outside your apartment complex and your alcohol soaked brain realized not only did you not have your keys but you also no longer had your phone. Both were sitting in Nima’s purse right now.

You opened the door fully prepared to sleep outside your apartment on the welcome mat like a lost dog, but Joel grasped you by the arm cautiously to hold you in place. “You got your key?” You twisted your lips knowing he wasn’t going to fall for a lie. “Where is your key?”

“With Nima.” You mumbled. “She has my phone too.”

Joel sighed and let go of you to instead grab the truck door and shut it. He buckled you back into the seat and began to drive once more. You wanted to ask where he was taking you, but none of the words would come out. You drowned in your indecision while picking at the bandage on your hand. Joel suddenly reached over and lightly pushed your hand away from the injury.

“Stop pickin' at it, sugar.”

“Where are we going?” You blurted.

Joel shifted in his seat, “My place.”

“I don’t wanna go to your place.” You mumbled.

“Don’t care.” Joel replied gruffly and you lifted your head to glare at his side profile. 

The tone of his voice stirred something inside you, and you felt the dormant anger start to reawaken. It had gotten buried under everything that happened, but now it was back full fledged. You sat up, “Take me back. I want to go home.”

“You don’t have your key.”

“I don’t care.” You snapped. “Take me home, Joel!”

“You’re comin' to my place where I know you can safely sleep it off, 'nd then tomorrow we’ll figure out how to get ya back into your apartment. Understood?”

You scoffed, “Don’t talk down to me. I’m not a child, Joel.”

“Oh, you’re not?” Joel scoffed. His tone was angry and frustrated. “Cause you’re sure as hell actin' like one.” He shot a glare in your direction before focusing back on the road. “Are you outta your goddamn mind?! Do you know how worried I was?” You crossed your arms and stared out the passenger window. “I don’ hear from you all day long. You disappear on me with no explanation 'nd then I get a call from my baby brother that you’ve been in a bar fight? And that you’re hurt?!” You stayed silent and Joel scoffed. “And now I get the silent treatment? Very mature.”

“You don’t want to argue with me on what’s mature, Joel.” You said, head whipping back to glare at him.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean??”

“You’re a hypocrite!”

“Excuse me?”

You scoffed, “It’s not very mature for a married man to pay a sugar baby for attention.” Joel hit the brakes and the seat belt caught you as the truck screeched to a stop. You glanced out the window to see his truck had reached a neighborhood and the streets were mostly void of other vehicles. When you turned back to Joel, you found him staring at you in a mix of shock and horror. You shook your head, “What was I, Joel? Some kind of midlife crisis?”

Pain could be seen through the horror, and he reached out to grab your wrist again. “No. No, that’s not…” Joel’s voice was hoarse and broken. He whispered your name. “Please. That’s not what this is.”

You tugged your arm away from his grip. “I don’t wanna talk about this right now, Joel. Either start driving again or I’m gonna get out.”

Joel kept his hands to himself as he slowly went back to driving. As if the awkward silence hadn’t been painful before it was downright agonizing now. You were pressing your thumb into the wounds of your palm just to try and keep from crying. Joel pulled into the driveway a few minutes later, and you couldn’t even get your brain to collect a single feature of the house in front of you. Joel jumped out of the truck and you stayed frozen. The passenger door opened but Joel didn’t move to pull you out. He held the top of the door frame and a foot rested on the running board so he could lean in just marginally.

“Sugar…”

“Don’t, Joel.” You said firmly. “Don’t.”

“Please just let me⏤”

“Are you married?”

Joel’s face crumpled in agony and he hung his head, “It’s… It’s not that simple. Just let me⏤”

“It’s a yes or no question.” You shrugged and tried to ignore the tears welling up in your eyes.

Joel looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack. His eyes were squeezed shut, but he still refused to answer. You whispered his name. Finally, he lifted his gaze back to you and opened his mouth. His jaw hung open silently for a second before he could speak. “...Yes.”

You felt the tears lingering at the waterline drip down your cheeks and hastily began to wipe them away with your hands. Joel gasped and began to reach out but when you flinched he held back. He shook his head, “You’re bleedin'.”

The bandage around your hand was soaked with blood, probably from digging your thumb into the wounds, and when you felt your cheek with your fingertips they came back tinted red. You must have smeared it across your face. 

“Sugar, let me… let me take you inside.” Joel murmured. “Please. I know you’re… upset, 'nd you have every reason to hate me right now, but… just let me get you inside.” His hand reached out for you once more, but he stopped himself. “You can leave in the mornin', but for tonight just⏤ just let me take care of you. Please.”

You gave a small nod. It felt weak of you, but you reassured yourself that you had little to no other option. Your hand hurt, your head ached, you were exhausted to your very being, and deep down you were torn between wanting to yell and scream or curl into a ball and cry. Joel took a few steps back to allow you to climb down yourself, but when you wavered his arms shot out to try and steady you. Joel herded you toward the front door without actually touching you. 

Your eyebrows furrowed when you studied his front porch. The entire front of his house didn’t look like the typical rich LA style you were accustomed to seeing. In fact, his porch and front door reminded you of a quaint farmhouse. Joel unlocked his front door and held it open for you to walk in. Right inside the house, the foyer had an open style with a set of stairs pressed against the wall just up ahead. It opened straight into a large living room that evolved into a dining room with a matching open kitchen to the side. The entire back wall by the kitchen and dining area was made of glass but the back porch lights were off so you couldn’t see the view. 

Joel tossed his keys into a bowl sitting on an accent table against the wall right by the door. You glanced over to a little bench built into the wall on the other side beneath a set of bay windows. The rest of his furniture from what you could see was modern and plain. You were drunk off alcohol and misery, but your brain was still able to take the time to note that Joel’s furniture didn’t match what you imagined him to have.

“C’mon.” Joel motioned you up the stairs. He followed after you and when you reached the top of the stairs he pointed to the left. You stepped into the master bedroom and Joel slid in past you moving straight toward the master bath. While he rooted around for something, you glanced around his room. There was a king sized bed sitting in the middle of the room covered in dark green sheets. A window sat on either side of the bed. The wall to the right was where the bathroom door and the closet door sat, but on the left was a single loveseat pushed against the wall. All the furniture was dark brown including the large dresser against the wall by the door and the smaller bedside drawers on either side of the bed under the windows. You drifted toward one of the bedside drawers where a photo was propped up. It was of Joel and two young girls. Joel had shown you enough pictures of Sarah and Ellie for you to recognize them, but in this photo all three of them were significantly younger. 

The sound of a throat clearing made you look up to see Joel standing there with a first aid kit in hand. “Sit down for me?” You sat on the side of the bed and Joel sat beside you. He opened the kit then carefully unwrapped your hand. When he saw the three lines haphazardly cut into your palm he let out a soft hiss. “You hurtin' much?”

“It stings some.” You mumbled. He hummed in response and used an alcohol swab to clean up the cuts. Joel did so with soft touches and his eyes flickered to your features every second or so to check in on your status. You locked your jaw to bite back any sounds of pain that tried to slip out. 

“They look bad, but I don’ think they’ll need stitches.” Joel thought out loud. 

“Good.” You said. Joel grabbed some fresh gauze and began to wrap it around your hand. You studied his features as he focused so intently on the task at hand. His warm gaze was burned into your skin as his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. You had the urge to trace your fingers through the scruff along his jawline. When he finished, he lifted his gaze and his eyes locked with yours. The two of you stared at one another in tense silence. Pain and longing filled his brown eyes, and you wondered if it could somehow just be a reflection of your own. It made no sense for you to both be so miserable right now. “Where is she?”

Joel tensed, “What?”

“Where is your wife?” You asked more firmly. 

“Are you sure you wanna get into this tonight?”

“I just want answers, Joel.” You sighed. “I need something. My mind has been a mess since we left Vegas.” Joel’s face crumpled as he closed his eyes with a sigh. “Yo-yo told me I wasn’t your first sugar baby and then she said you were married to your first sugar baby.” The words were falling out like pouring water now. “And then Nima has a cousin who has a cousin who has a friend or something that was able to find your marriage certificate⏤”

Joel murmured your name in reverence and opened his eyes. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you from the start. That way there’d be no miscommunication or confusion. I meant to. But… I kept puttin' it off 'nd it got to the point where too much time had passed…” Joel hesitantly reached out for you and when you didn’t shy away he settled his hand on your arm. “I did have a sugar baby before you. It’s a… long story, but I am not married to her.” 

Your eyebrows furrowed, “You didn’t marry her?”

“No. Absolutely not. She was… Like I said, it’s a long story.” Joel squeezed your arm. “One that I promise to tell you. In the mornin', when you’re not half drunk 'nd half hungover all at once.”

“Then who the hell are you married to, Joel?”

“I… I am technically still married to Celina.” Joel finally spat the words out. You shook your head in confusion. The name was foreign to you, but Joel heaved another sigh and added, “Sarah’s mom.”

taglist (closed):

@weddingfairy @bfences @jasminedragon @biwitchy @huffle-punk @shelbyteller @anoverwhelmingdin @aheadfullofsteverogers @stagerightlauren @basicoccult @boofy1998 @farintonorth @thepascalofus @amatis-gray @casa-boiardi @northernbluess @jettia @sapphicsoie @spidey-3 @hrtsforpascal @gingersince97 @sentients17 @bigboiseason123 @lunxramour @ktheunready @heyheyheygaypay @keepingupwiththeskywalkers @adoringanakin @come-hell-or-eldren-fire @cherriebat @whitewolfstar01 @alyssa121611 @asreadbyaj @painfullyandprettypoetic @cantobightcafe @str84pedro

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✨J.M. Masterlist✨

[iammorethananame-library]

I'm so in love with these two. The progression of their relationship feels so natural and earned and it never feels rushed. Also, it made me so happy that they didn't have sex!! As a perpetually-questioning-maybe ace, it's been so frustrating lately that I can't read a fic without there being smut. But I crave the deep connection that writers usually work into the sex scene so I read anyways, but with your writing that connection is there regardless. The way you write nonsexual intimacy is why you can get me reading any fandom regardless of if I know the source material. Your writing is my drug of choice.

I need to go back and reread this story from the beginning just so I can swoon over the imagery all over again. It's so beyond atmospheric! It's like sitting in a patch of afternoon sunlight. It's just so warm and hazy and peaceful. I'm just 😍😍😍😍😍

(also, ever single part has reminded me how badly I want another tattoo, but my bank account keeps saying no 😡)

Blush

Summary: All you do is want, while Joel worries he won't ever be enough.

Find out how it started: You put aside your touch aversion for a tattoo from Joel.

Pairing: tattoo artist!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~9.2k

Warnings: slow build, no outbreak tattoo!au, just the barest hint of angst/argument, the ‘believes they’re hard to love, loving them is like breathing’ trope, tattoos and getting tattooed (the process isn’t really described), reader is touch adverse, vague mentions of a past abusive relationship, insecurity, self confidence issues, abandonment issues, anxiety, lots and lots of intimacy and touching, mentions of arousal, Joel gets to have both his daughters in this

A/N: Hello, so here we are at the final part of this lil four part thing. This fic owns a piece of my heart now, and I hope it's found somewhere to live in yours too. It's special for a lot of reasons, but the support its gotten has really been something incredible. Thank you for being so kind and lovely.

Once again, we’re ignoring canon and pretending like Joel can draw for this fic, thank you. Thank you for reading! As always, I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.” 

Joel glances up at you from where he’s kneeling on the floor. A lock of gray hair falls to the middle of his forehead. You reach down, without thinking, and push it back into place, letting your fingers trail through his hair. He always wears it so carefully parted to the side, especially now that he’s let it grow out a little longer. 

You picture him standing in front of the mirror in his bathroom brushing his hair and feel something warm and fluttery beat against your ribs. 

The image comes easily because it’s not something you have to imagine but remember—Joel tilting his chin down, eyes on his reflection in silvery morning light. 

Pink stains the tips of his ears when you let his hair slip softly from between your fingers. 

“Yeah, I did,” he disagrees before laboring to his feet. You hook one hand beneath his elbow and help him up. His knees pop and he hisses. “It’s past due we fixed it, anyhow. Past time I let you get back to your own life,” he continues, not pulling his arm away from your hand as he stoops down to shove the screwdriver in his hand back into the toolbox on the floor.

You like the way he says we. 

You rub your thumb against the inside of his elbow as he straightens again with a groan that means his back is aching again. “Well, now you get your house back to yourself,” you tease. 

“Ain’t like you’re trouble to have around,” he grumbles. 

You keep a steady pressure on his arm, because you like the way his skin feels under your hand, warm and pliant, like he’s been in the sun. You like the way you can feel the shift of muscle and the micro jump of tendon beneath your fingertips. 

You don’t like admitting to yourself that you like touching him, that you like the way he lets you hold on to him but so rarely tries the same with you. 

But, you’ve come to realize over the last week, where you shy away from touch, Joel craves it; he’s positively starved for it. He tries his best to hide that he wants for anything at all, but you see it. 

He would never ask for anything from you; it’s anathema to who he is, to ask for care. He’s stubborn and a little proud. 

When the locks that fit your door weren’t in stock at the local hardware store and Joel insisted on you staying with him until they came in, you saw that want first hand. 

He’d been busy for so many years—with work and his kids and his business and his brother. He’d lived in a busy house with a revolving door of people who constantly needed him. And now, he lives alone and away from his kids. His schedule is one he sets for himself, with easy, quiet days. His girls are busy, Tommy has his own family, and his house is empty. 

Maybe Joel would never admit it, but he is lonely.  

Staying with him for a week had shown you just how much he wanted—touch and companionship and company—and just how absolutely solitary his days were, especially in the evenings. Guilt like a tide had washed over you. How closely he paid attention to you, how cautious and watchful and giving he’s been, and you haven't really done the same. You haven’t tried to give him anything, to meet him somewhere in the middle. You hadn’t even thought of it. 

“Thank you for letting me stay with you this week,” you say, releasing his arm to press your hand against his spine, rubbing gently. It’s easier that way, you find, subtly giving, easing hurts he wouldn’t admit to. “And for changing the locks. You’re too good to me.” 

“No trouble,” he assures you again, quickly. “It’s too quiet without my girls livin’ with me. It was nice. Havin’ you around.” He clears his throat and bushes past the admission. “Anyhow. I’ll let you get settled back in.”

You frown at him, but Joel only puts an arm around your waist and leans in to press a kiss to your temple and then your cheek. “You call me if you need somethin’. Anything.” He says it against your skin, his lips warm and slightly chapped. “Even for nothin’.”

You close your eyes and absorb that affection, let it sink deep into your body, into your blood and bones, the ventricles of your heart. 

For a moment, all you can feel is him breathing against you—the patient, steady rise and fall of his breath—before he starts to pull away. You don’t want him to go, you aren’t ready to be parted from him. 

You aren’t ready to let him go. 

“Joel,” you say and cup your hand around his wrist to keep him in place. “Wait. Why don’t you come in? For some coffee?” 

He meets your eyes, searches your gaze for a long moment there in the doorway of your apartment. His brows relax, his mouth softens, and you know he knows exactly what you’re doing, that he’s been found out. He thinks it’s pity and not cloying sweetness, not needling want and a building codependency that you don’t particularly mind driving your request. “Sweetheart—”

“Please? I don’t want to be alone just yet.” 

A few pleading words are all it takes for him to crumble. He nods and relents, “All right. Just for a minute, I have a client this afternoon.” 

“Okay,” you nod and pull him inside. You snap the door shut behind you and make a show of locking your brand new locks.

 Joel rolls his eyes at you, but doesn’t comment, settling himself at your kitchen table instead, toolbox tucked between his feet on the floor. The morning light paints him in sunburst orange and bumblebee gold, rays falling like a halo around him. He taps his fingers against the muraled, painted surface of the table, tracing the lines with one blunt nail. 

Unfamiliar want bubbles up in you again. You want to touch him again.

Already. 

You just let go of him.  

It’s an ache, right in the center of your chest. It feels like something pulsing and raw, infectious and torn. 

You’d like to plant yourself against his side and sit in the brutally warm, fall Texan sun shining so innocently through the slats of your blinds. 

Cured. Clean. 

That’s what you’d be, if you allowed yourself to reach out and grab it. 

Instead, you cup your hands against the sides of his face and stroke your thumbs over his graying beard. 

You half expect him to pull away, to jolt out of your hands, like you would. And though he does look startled, he doesn’t pull away. Hazel eyes flick up to meet yours. You trace the scar on the bridge of his nose with one finger. “Thank you,” you say again, just so he’ll hear it even if he won’t respond to it. “You don’t have to worry about me but you do.”

He pulls one of your hands away from his face and nods, staring down at the lines on your palm before he hooks your pointer fingers together. “‘Course I have to.” 

You keep stroking his cheek, the soft bristles of his beard catching on your fingertips. “Of course,” you say. “It’s what you do.” 

Joel thinks you look beautiful. He also thinks you look wistful, with later October light falling in drafts around your shoulders—merigold, sunshine, sepia. 

For once, you aren’t looking back at him. Joel catches you looking at him all the time now, mostly at his hands, chancing glances from the corner of your eyes  like he would mind you looking. If he thought more of himself, he’d probably say you look at him with a dreamy cut to your gaze.

Your feet are propped on the porch railing. Your jeans and scuffed sneakers are splattered with bright splotches of paint. His guitar is across your lap and Ellie is next to you, teaching you, he supposes. Or at the very least correcting you occasionally as the two of you talk. You say something and she tilts back with a full bodied laugh. 

You’d worked with Sarah and Ellie all day, painting the chicken coop in bright swatches of pastel blush and lavender. It sticks out something awful, but he’d said you could paint it however you wanted and he meant it. 

Any way Joel cut it, he was outvoted three to one anyhow. 

He thinks you probably let Sarah influence the color palette more than you let on, and that makes something ache deep in his chest. 

Joel’s not exactly good at saying what he feels, he knows that. He’s always known it. 

But he can build you a chicken coop. He can fix your locks and your door and worry about your safety and drive to get you in the middle of the night. He can sketch out tattoo designs until his wrist aches and make you a million cups of coffee. 

And you decided to share part of what he gave you with Sarah and Ellie. Whether you know it or not, it means something to him. It brings a tight feeling to the back of his throat. 

Though the afternoon is mild, you’re wrapped up in a flannel over your t-shirt. It’s his flannel from that first night he spent at your kitchen table; the one you haven’t given back and that he doesn’t want back. 

Joel keeps his eyes on you as he finishes up the last of the chores that needed doing. His back is aching again, a flare of pain that starts at the base of his spine and ends behind his ears. 

It was lucky, maybe, that you’d convinced him, in your offhand way, to get chickens instead of horses, that he decided that was the best thing to give you. He isn’t sure he could keep up with much more than what he has. 

“You’re staring again,” Sarah says from behind him.

“I’m not,” he snaps.

“It’s okay to stare at your girlfriend, dad,” she says and he can hear the laughter in her voice, the damn teasing. 

Joel winces. “That is not—we ain’t—” Not yet. You aren’t anything yet. Maybe not ever. 

You’ve bloomed in the last month or so. Opened up, shiny and blush bright. You’re still that watchful little doe, but now you’re one that recognizes something kind. 

Not so skittish, not so afraid. 

And that’s good, that’s something. But he worries. Worries you’ll start to see he’s nothing but an old man waiting around for his kids to visit, for his brother not to be busy with his family, for you to pay him any mind. 

You surely noticed it weeks ago when you stayed with him those few days, all that painful, solitary loneliness that happened so quickly. Maybe you’d noticed it earlier than that, when you stopped coming by the shop after your first tattoo and his days went lonesome again too. It’s not like he has been subtle about how much your absence smarted. 

He’s not sure when his life slowed down so much, when he suddenly looked around and realized he missed the noise.

Maybe he’s been the one to pry you open, but if you wanted something better for yourself, something more, he’d have to let you go. It doesn’t diminish all that time he’d spent gaining your trust, that trust he’s still trying to grasp at some days. He doesn’t want you to be burdened by his loneliness, to feel weighed down with it, to feel trapped by it, to feel like it’s your responsibility. 

Joel already worries that’s already the case, with how often you’d ended up at his house in the evenings over the past month. But he isn’t strong enough to make you stop. 

Still, he could never live with himself, if he were next in a long line to make you feel helpless and trapped. 

Sarah rolls her eyes and herds the second stubborn goat into the barn and shuts the gate. “If you say so,” she says. “I’m gonna get Ellie and head out. Busy day tomorrow.” 

“Okay, baby girl,” Joel says. Sarah fits herself into his arms and he presses a kiss to her hair. “Thanks for the help. Be safe.” 

She pulls away and nods, jogging across the yard without looking back to hop the little fence that separates it from the driveway. He watches Sarah say goodbye to you, the way your mouth lifts in a smile, the way you move the guitar from your lap and lean forward when she climbs the steps to give you a hug. 

Ellie gives you a much briefer hug, one armed and slightly stiff before she follows Sarah. He lifts a hand to her, knowing Ellie won’t come over and say goodbye the way Sarah does. She pulls a face at him and waves back as she climbs in the car.

When they disappear in a cloud of red dust at the end of the drive, you lean back and stare down at the guitar again, adjusting the positioning of your fingers on the strings as though nothing of note just happened. 

Maybe, nothing of note has happened. 

You’d hugged them so easily, smiled at them so warmly. He’s grateful for it, that ease you have with them, that you feel safe and secure. It makes something warm and protective and territorial for all three of you settle in around his ribs.

His girls and you. 

Your mouth pulls down at the corners as he watches you clumsily reposition your other hand along the frets. 

He tries to repress a smile and glances away from you to continue his work. A poorly struck chord followed by a frustrated sigh echoes across the yard. 

You ain’t exactly a natural with the instrument, though you try. 

Joel taught Sarah and Ellie to play when they were young. He taught Tommy, when their mother didn’t have time to. He’s happy to teach you now, too. 

More notes float on the air, curl into the whispering leaves that skitter along the drive. You aren’t doing so bad, he thinks, when the music suddenly stops. 

He turns to peer over his shoulder at you. 

You’ve taken your feet off the railing and have folded your arms along it instead, chin leaning on your forearms, head tipped to the side, guitar propped between your knees. “Joel?” 

“Honey?” He answers, and you smile. The effect is like being lit from the inside out. You brighten and there’s sunshine in his soul, in all the dark places in his chest. 

“Will you play for me?” You uncross one arm to hold your hand out to him, like you could reach him from there if you tried hard enough. 

“You were doin’ just fine at it,” he calls back, escorting the chickens as gently as he can into their newly painted home. 

You smile at him again. “I know. But I want to hear you and it’s getting dark anyway.” 

“Guess so,” he says, wiping sweat from his brow. “Just a minute, darlin’.” 

You nod and grab the guitar again to settle it in your lap. 

The evening light is bleeding gold through the boughs of the oak that overhang the driveway, the whispers of autumnal, purpled shadows bruise the horizon as the sun sinks ever lower.

With the other goat and his lone sheep herded into the barn, he crosses back to the porch where you’ve lit a lantern and tucked yourself deep into one of the rocking chairs. The blanket he keeps folded over the back of one of the chairs is now curled over your lap. You look cozy, too warm, in the lingering heat of the day. He takes up residence next to you, picking up the guitar you’ve abandoned in his seat. “What would you like to hear, darlin’?”

It had taken a week’s worth of needling for him to play for you, but now he wants to do it all the time. 

“Whatever you want to play for me, Joel,” you say, bracing your elbow on the arm of the chair to lean your chin on your hand, eyes already closed. 

He plucks idly at the strings, watching your face. You put yourself in his hands so easily these days, without thought or worry. There’s trust in its purest form in your expression, like you’d laid yourself at his doorstep. He can’t imagine you closing your eyes like that, relaxed and at peace, even a few weeks ago. 

Joel says your name, watches your eyes blink open, the peaceful little spell broken. You pull back, sitting up straight. Doe eyes meet his, round with question. “Joel?” 

“I just wanted to say how pretty you look this evenin’.” 

You transform, bloom, duck your head and say nothing. The air is rose colored, heavy with the scent of magnolia. 

You aren’t exactly good at taking compliments, either. But that’s something you’re both working on. 

“Hey,” he says. You look up and lean toward him again, like you’re so ready to drop yourself into his waiting hands. 

And when he reaches for you, you do. 

Joel cups his hands against your jaw, and leans in to kiss you. Your mouth is soft against his. You taste like autumn air, and like the spiked sweet tea at your elbow. When you pull back, your eyes are oceans, like soil, like smooth, dark glass. 

You also have a dot of bright paint on your cheek that he hadn’t noticed before. 

He sweeps his thumb over it and finds it’s stuck there. 

“What?” 

“Nothin’. Got a bit a’ paint there.” He presses his thumb over it. “I like it.” 

You pout at him, watchful eyes hooked into his. “Are you ever going to play for me or are you just going to make fun of me?” 

He chuckles and releases your face. “I would never make fun of you, honey.”

“Good,” you say as he strums the strings again. “Or I’ll never paint another chicken coop for you again. Not even if your girls help.”

He likes that you tease him, that you feel comfortable enough. He smiles, stares down at the toe of his boot. “You know you didn’t have to let ‘em.” 

“Let them what?” 

“Help. Y’know, create a monstrosity,” he gestures to the monstrosity in question, the pink and purple slightly washed out against the blush of the setting sun. “I built it for you.”

Your foot nudges against his and he looks up to find you already gazing at him. There’s something vulnerable in your eyes, something soft and unafraid. “I know. I wanted them to help. I like spending time with them, Joel.” 

He nods and you smile. “Colors are kind of awful, though. Looks like one of Sarah’s old dollhouses. Thought you’d do a mural, like your table.” 

You laugh, and the sound is something he wishes he could capture, box up inside him and never release. “But it’s mine, like you said. And chicken dollhouse chic is what we were aiming for.” 

He snorts, but he feels better about it. “That so?” 

“Yeah. Now, play something for me?” You request again softly. 

Joel mentally shifts through the catalog of songs he could play for you before settling on a song. When he glances back at you, you’ve once again closed your eyes. Orange light, flippant and fleeting, has drifted across your face in a fiery bar as the sun sinks lower on the horizon. You glow in that beautiful light. 

He itches to do something other than play the guitar for you.

Although he’s painted you as a doe more times than he can count, he’s never attempted to actually capture your likeness. He could never do you justice, so he just shouldn’t try. It would be embarrassing enough, if you ever found out that you’ve been the source of all his creativity the last few months. That you are his muse. 

The plum color on the horizon has darkened, the navy of the encroaching night feathering against the tops of the trees. 

You’ve settled back into a peaceful position, eyes closed as you listen. 

He plays through a couple of songs before he glances up again and finds you watching him, your gaze focused on his hands. “Will you ever sing for me?” You ask softly, eyes flicking up to meet his. 

He hasn’t sung since his girls were little, not to anyone anyway, and not to anyone that could tell him his voice was terrible. 

Even still, he’s never been more tempted. 

“No,” he says, even though denying you anything is hard. “You don’t want to hear me sing, honey.” 

“But you have such a pretty voice,” you disagree. 

He plucks out a final note, music hovering in the air. “That just ain’t true,” he shakes his head and leans the guitar carefully against the bannister. Night has fully fallen, your face is shaded in shadow when he looks at you. “Do you want to stay with me?” 

Joel’s offered a few other times, because he always wants you to stay. That week you’d stayed with him while he waited for your new locks to come in at the hardware store had been kind to him. He’d gotten used to your presence in his house embarrassingly quick, and when he got the call that the locks had been delivered, it was like ice sliding down his spine. He’d forgotten, in just days, that you didn’t actually live with him. 

That was weeks ago. 

And since then, you haven’t stayed. 

You usually, always, decline and then he drives you home. 

But today is different. 

You reach out a hand to him and fold your fingers around his. “Yes,” you sigh. 

“Sure?” He asks, surprised. “It’s no bother to drive you home, honey.” 

“I’m sure. If you’ll have me.” 

“I’ll always gladly have you.” 

Your lips curve up, and you duck your head. “What do you want to do for dinner?” 

Joel burns whatever he attempts to make on the stove for dinner. He turns to you, with spatula in hand and an irritated tilt to his brows, and asks if you’d like to ride into town to eat at Flu’s.

You agree, and go, still laughing when Joel pulls onto the main road. He grouses under his breath the entire way to town, but he holds your hand against the center console. And when you get to Flu’s he opens the passenger side door for you, then the diner’s door, his hand held lightly against your spine. He tucks his legs around yours under the table, knees and calves brushing together. The diner’s lights are dim and cozy. 

He looks soft, in that buttery light. The hard edges of his face ironed out, smile lines and crow’s feet divoted into his skin. He holds your hand on the table, and you watch his fingers more than his face, the rounded swell of his knuckles, the veins in the back of his hand, the knob of his wrist, on which he always wore an old watch that had long stopped ticking. When you’re apart, you find yourself daydreaming of his hands, scarred and broad and warm. 

Joel insists on paying, doesn’t let you even consider doing it. 

When you climb back into the truck, he puts one hand on your thigh and you sink back into your seat, warm and full and content. You slide your hand over his and feel the rough calluses on the tips of his fingers. 

When you close your eyes, you see him working in the sun, poking fun at you while you and Sarah and Ellie paint the chicken coop, squinting through the bright light. He still smells like sun, like warm skin and his cologne and faintly of sweat and whatever thing he’d burned on the stove earlier. 

When Joel kissed you that first time, he opened a door in you, one that’s impossible to shut and that does nothing but want. 

You’ve never craved touch like you crave his. Even when you feel like you don’t want to be touched at all, you think his hand would be tolerable, would be okay. 

You’re painfully aware that part of his appeal is knowing that he would always let you go, that he always knows when it's time to leave you be. And the times you don’t want him to touch you, have been shrinking. 

Lately, all you want is for him to fold his fingers between yours, touch the bare skin at the small of your back, to trace your spine up between your shoulder blades, or cup his palm over the back of your neck and tuck you into him. 

When you get back to his place, it’s still pretty early in the evening, and all you can think of is ways to get him to touch you again. He turns on the battery powered radio that sits on the porch, perpetually set low on an oldies station. 

You can’t look away from him, something like agony twisting in your chest, like there’s a knife between your lungs. He’s talking about something, gesturing across the yard with one hand, his other tangled with yours. Joel’s thumb strokes little circles against the back of your hand, each pass like a bolt of addictive lightning. It’s not enough. His hand in yours is no longer enough. 

Joel doesn’t protest when you pull him to his feet when a new song starts up. He gives what you don’t ask for but desperately want. He drags you into his chest and slides his arm around your back, tucking you in close to him. You can hear his heartbeat, feel it pulsing in his chest. He tilts around the porch with you for a long time, even when the music is interrupted by obnoxious ads. 

He hums along under his breath and when you slip your hands beneath his shirt to rest against his bare skin, you can feel the vibrations of his voice against your fingers. 

You wish you could sink your hands inside him, just to be a little closer. It feels so strange to want that. You’ve never been held that gently before, it loosens a knot you didn’t know existed in the core of your chest. 

And you think, even when things with your ex had been good, when he hadn’t been yelling at you or bruising you with a tattoo you didn’t want, he had never held you gently or with such love. 

When you pull back, Joel lets you go. There is no fuss about it; there is no guilt. 

Eventually, you go inside.  

He lets you shower first, just like he always had when you stayed with him before. 

After, you watch him brush his hair and then his teeth and something painfully sharp gets caught up inside your chest. It’s hard to breathe around that feeling, that ache. 

You watch him get ready for bed, and you watch him groan when he has to stoop down to pick a pair of socks up off of the floor, and you feel something more than warmth flood your heart. It unravels, spools through your veins, and it's so warm it burns.  

Joel catches you looking at him, as he often does these days. 

He smiles at you, the lines by his eyes crinkling up. He looks domestic in a heather gray t-shirt that sits loose on his frame, pajama bottoms that look as though they’ve seen a few too many years, and glasses perched on the end of his nose. “You all right?” 

You nod. “Really good, Joel.” 

That gets a little laugh out of him. “Must be worn out,” he says as he sits on the edge of the bed. You lie back and curl on your side, watching him adjust his pillows, admiring the shape of his hands as he goes, remembering what they looked like sun drenched and warm in the yard. He drags his knuckle over the curve of your cheek and neither you nor your body remembers to flinch away. “After all that paintin’ and gettin’ me to dance.” 

“It was fun though, wasn’t it?” You ask, suppressing the urge to trace the length of his spine through his shirt. “You liked dancing with me.” You clutch the pillow tighter to your chest and dip your chin into the fabric. 

He takes his glasses off and then finally lies down next to you. Nerves burst in your belly when he turns to look at you. “I enjoyed it very much, sweetheart.” 

“Good.” You wriggle a bit closer to him. 

He watches you and then offers a place for you to fit yourself against his side. You slide in close to him, tucking your hands between his body and yours, slotting your nose against the dip of his collarbone. 

He smells good there, like soap and something that’s purely Joel and so soothing, like sage and pine. 

“This what you been wantin’, huh?” He asks, stroking your back slowly. You stiffen but he chuckles into your hair. “I mean that in a nice way.” 

You lick your lips, feel the shift of muscle beneath your cheek as he reaches to turn off the lamp. There’s no point in denying it. “Yeah.”

“I know,” he says against your forehead. “Me, too.”

You settle against him, the feeling of his palm sliding over your shirt, up and down, tapping over your spine, soothes you. Your stomach flips when his hand drags along the bare skin at your hip. 

If you could dig a trench into his bones, take cover there, you would. And still that wouldn’t be close enough. 

“Joel,” you say, tracing your hand over his chest. 

For once, your voice seems to encourage more than caution and he doesn’t stop touching you. His hand slides higher again and your breath hitches. 

It feels so nice, like all the empty places inside you are slowly being colored in, shaded in emerald green and butter, sunshine yellow, jewel bright blue and blush pink.

You curl into him, shakily pressing the hand on his chest up to his neck. You cup your palm there and Joel turns on his side. His hair is soft and a little damp when you dig your fingers into it, the scent of him wrapping around you, cradling you close and safe. Joel touches his forehead very gently to yours, his breath fanning across your lips. 

He waits for you. 

You close the distance between you, and press your mouth to his. 

He sighs into you, his grip tightening on your waist for a moment, and you push yourself closer to the circle of warmth that is his body.  

His fingers graze the edge of your shirt, then push it up, rough palms sliding over your back again. His hand is so big, so warm, it spans your back and then covers your ribs. You gasp into his mouth when the pad of his thumb caresses the curve of your breast. 

Goosebumps erupt along your body. “Joel,��� you murmur against his mouth. 

“Mhm,” he hums. “I know, honey. I got you.”  

He touches you there again but doesn’t go any further. You shiver and press your mouth back to his, tasting the mint of his toothpaste when his tongue slips into your mouth. 

Moonlight filters pale and bright into his bedroom, and when you pull away his eyes are dark, hungry. You wish you had the courage to feed that gaze, but you aren’t there yet. A stab of guilt pierces your lungs. He’s so patient with you, and you can’t help but wonder if one day that patience might run out. 

Instead of lingering on that, on wondering how much time you could possibly ask him to give, you offer him something else. “Can I show you my tattoos?” 

He blinks at you, pink, kiss swollen lips parting. “If you want.” 

“But do you want to see?” 

“Baby,” he touches your cheek, traces the line of your jaw. “I’ve been dreamin’ about it since you told me about ‘em.” 

You squirm, embarrassment crawling up the inside of your belly. “You have?” 

“Mm.” He kisses you again, his mouth lingering long against yours. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest, his breath against yours. “I think about you all the time.” 

You get your knees beneath you and push up from your place beside him. Joel turns on his back when you swing one leg over his waist and find yourself, boldly, very much in his lap. His hands anchor on your hips, thumbs beneath your t-shirt.

“Oh,” you say, pressing your hands over his, something nervous wriggling in your gut. “Sorry. Is—” 

You try to move away but his grip doesn’t change. “It’s all right,” he says evenly, the barest hint of something tremulous beneath. 

Before you can think about it more, overthink being in his lap or how much of you you’re about to show him or how heavy and uncomfortable his hands might become, you release his wrists and tug your shirt up to just beneath your breasts, so your ribs are visible. 

Those feelings don’t come though. You don’t feel anxious or weighed down or wrong. 

He’s looking at you and touching you and seeing you and it's fine. It’s fine because it’s Joel. No one had ever understood you before the way he has—not your family or your friends or any previous partner. They try, but Joel just seems to know you, understand, without really trying. 

Joel clears his throat, his expression unreadable as he lifts one hand to your tattoo. When he traces the ink, you exhale against his curious fingers. It tickles. “That’s real pretty,” he says. “Antlers. It really suits you.” 

“Thank you,” you murmur. “Deer are like good luck, I think. They know things.” 

He looks at you like you’re some ancient creature he can hardly believe exists. Embarrassment claws at you but you don’t look away. “That so?” He looks at the ink again, tension slicing through the air. “Jesus you’re somethin’.” 

You don’t get a chance to respond because he meets your eyes again and asks, “Where’s the bee?” 

You laugh and the acid burn of uncertainty disappears. “How’d you remember about the bee?” 

“‘Cause I’ve been wonderin’ about it too.” He’s still absentmindedly tracing the antlers, the moss and the flowers that loop through the branches of the antlers. His expression is open now, curious and needy. “It ain’t on your hip, if I’m rememberin’ right.” 

You shift your hand to your sternum and carefully tug your shirt up a bit higher. There, nestled between your breasts, is a tiny, tiny bumblebee. “Well, ain’t that a surprise.” He shifts his hand up and covers the bee with his thumb, the length of his fingers sitting right beneath your breast.

An ocean wells up inside you, threatens to break apart your ribs. You lean into his hand, your chest warm, catching, like fire is spreading from all the places he touches you. The knuckles of his other hand drag up your side. 

You shiver under his eye, fighting the urge to look away, to tug yourself out of his grip. But the thought of losing his warm hands against you is worse, it outweighs everything else.  

“Where did you think it was?” You ask, hardly able to breathe. Everything in the world narrows down to his dark bedroom, his eyes skating over your newly revealed tattoos, milky moonlight parting the tiny space still left between you. 

“I couldn’t get it out of my head that it was on your hip.” 

You laugh and Joel keeps looking at you, his eyes flicking between your bared skin and your eyes. The room is warm, his gaze heavy. “You’re real pretty. Did I ever tell you that?” 

“Once or twice, maybe,” you smile.  

“Mm.” 

You cup one hand around his wrist, the pressure of his hand against the swell of your breast sending shockwaves through you. It’s all you can focus on, the slow sweep of his thumb against sensitive skin. You push his hand harder against you until it feels hard to breathe. 

You think about how much Joel gives you, how carefully he listens even when you don’t speak. 

He deserves to know you hear him, too. That you see what he wants, that you hear what he’s saying, and that you’re trying. 

“You show me what you think,” you say. “And I—I get it.” 

“I don’t think you do,” he says, eyes dark. He reaches for you slowly, giving you time to tell him to stop or to pull away, but you don’t. You desperately want him to keep touching you with his safe, patient, cautious hands. 

Slowly, you’re pressed back into the sheets. Joel goans, a pained sound that means his back or knees hurt and he won’t admit it. 

He settles himself against you, his body fitted against the cradle of your hips. Joel is heavy against you, but comforting. His fingers clench around yours, and for a long moment he just looks at you beneath him, starved eyes skittering across your skin. 

“You all right?” He asks gruffly, like there’s something tangled in his chest. “You say it. If you aren’t.” 

“I’m okay.” 

You reach up and touch his cheek, then the tail of his eyebrow, as he assesses you. He tilts his chin down, brows lowered heavily over his eyes. You can’t exactly blame him for being cautious. You warned him that you were hard work, and he meant it when he said he didn’t mind, that he didn’t think you were. Caring comes naturally for him. “Really. I would say it. I trust you.” 

He nods once and your chest hitches when he dips his head and presses his mouth softly against the bee and then the antlers. 

The rough feeling of his beard against your skin tingles. Your eyes flutter closed at the feeling, and you aren’t sure where to put your hands. Joel’s are pressed to your sides, forearms snugly against your body, warm and twitching. You settle on his shoulders, the wide planes of his back, so reassuringly large against your body. 

Then, his tongue, firm and soft, slides over your skin. Over the bee and the tips of the antlers strung through with ivy and flowers, over the underside of your breast. 

You gasp and arch against him and you suddenly know exactly where you want your hands. You tuck them against the back of his head, threading through the feathery gray strands to keep his mouth against your skin. 

Want tightens between your legs, makes your belly ache. Your nipples tighten painfully hard. A whine catches in your throat that you know he hears because he answers you with a low groan of his own against your throat when he sucks a kiss to the underside of your jaw. 

It’s overwhelming. You want to push him away and pull him closer. You want to bury yourself inside him and never look into his eyes again. You want this feeling to last forever. You never want Joel to feel lonesome again. You want him to be able to ask for what he wants, to let you give it to him. 

Your ex again, flashes through your mind, an unfair comparison. How rarely he’d kissed you, shown you affection, for just the sake of it. 

You want you want you want you want—

You want—

“I want you to tattoo the cover up,” you say suddenly. Tears salt that backs of your eyes, tightness itching at the back of your throat. You hitch your knees up around his ribs, fear that he might pull away swimming to the forefront of your mind. It’s dizzying, because your instinct has always been to move away, to put space between you and things that might hurt you. You’ve given Joel so many pieces of you; he could break every part of you, if he really wanted to. “If you still—if you want—I mean—” you stammer. 

His head lifts and your thighs clench because you want him everywhere and nowhere all at once. You want him to want you as badly as you want him, and that just doesn’t seem possible. Not in all the ways you mean anyway, the kind where you tuck yourself inside his ribs, and into the dark places in his mind, like love letters that will never be sent. 

You love him, you think. You love Joel. 

It doesn’t feel like enough. The word isn’t big enough to encompass what he makes you feel. The feelings worming around in your chest are expansive, wide as the night sky, splattered with stars and distant galaxies that have yet to be found, let alone described. 

“‘Course I want to,” he says easily. “Of course, I will.” 

“Tomorrow?” You ask breathlessly. 

“If that’s what you want, honey.” 

You nod. “It is.” You suspect you could say you wanted him to do it right at that moment, and he’d find a way to make it happen. He’d drive you to his studio in the dark. He’d sit with you until morning bruised the sky, until the peach of the sun dripped sticky sweet down the horizon. “I want you to do it. I want it to be from you.”

“All right,” he agrees. “Tomorrow mornin’ we’ll go and do it.” His hand slides down your side to your hip, then your thigh. “You okay?” 

You nod. 

“You have to talk to me,” he says. “I ain’t a mind reader.” 

“I know,” you admit. “I’m sorry I put so much on you to figure out.” 

“That ain’t what I meant.” 

“But that’s what you do. You figure me out.”

Joel pats your thigh and then presses the pads of his fingers to the hinge of your jaw. His eyes search yours for a long time, black in the low light of the room.

He kisses you until you start to fall asleep, the lazy press of his lips whispering things you can no longer hear.  

Morning dawns bright and warm. 

Joel gets up long before you even stir. You’re curled as close to him as you can get without actually touching him, hands tucked beneath your face, lips parted softly. You’d migrated to the center of the bed, taking up space he’s not really keen on reclaiming. 

The memory of your skin against his mouth, all the other places on your body he’d like to touch and taste, is like nectar, like the sweet promise of a good dream after a long day. You aren’t ready for that though. Not yet, anyway, and that’s all right. 

But he’s only a man, and he’s painfully hard. 

Before, you were like a deer he’d accidentally come upon, skating around the rim of his peripheral vision. Now, you’re still doe-eyed and watchful, but you’re closer; you’re relaxed, lying in the shade of trees you trust, at ease. 

Your hand twitches toward him when he presses a slow kiss against your temple, the jump of tendon beneath his mouth soothing somehow. He pulls the sheet up and tucks it around your shoulders, because without him next to you the draft from the fan overhead is too cool for you. 

He takes care of himself in the bathroom without much fuss, and then feels a little bit guilty for it when you’re sleeping on just the other side of the wall. It wasn’t the first time though, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. 

In the kitchen, he makes coffee just the way you like it, with a little bit of cinnamon in with the coffee grounds. The coffee creamer you like is sweet, so he sets that out with a spoon next to a pale blue mug, pours himself his own cup, and relocates to the back deck. 

The trees at the far edge of the property are still dark and skeletal, the thicket full of shadow and the buzz of night insects. 

Even at the end of October, it’s still warm. A breeze ruffles his hair, shakes the nearly naked trees and sends a cascade of brown and orange sifting to the ground. Next month it would cool off, just a little. 

He hadn’t told you when his birthday passed in September, that you’d inadvertently spent that day with him. Sarah and Ellie had tried to get him to tell you, but he hadn’t been able to stomach it. 

Dread accompanies that day. 

It hadn’t always, just since Sarah was little, like his body was braced for a tragedy that would never come. He couldn’t have you be a part of that too, though the girls had pointed out you would eventually notice his lack of a birthday, if you were around long enough. 

He’d cross that bridge if he ever came to it. It’s hard to imagine he’d get you for that long.  

It doesn’t take long for you to find him. The flood of morning sun has passed the tree line and twists dappled green and yellow circles over the deck. When you push open the back door, you have your cup of coffee in one hand and the neck of the guitar in the other. 

He’d have to get you your own. Either that, or make one for you.

“Hey,” you smile at him as you set your steaming cup down on the patio table. 

“Mornin’. You sleep okay?” 

“Mmm.”

Joel expects you to ask him to play, but you settle down in the chair next to his, your bare knee pressed against his, and adjust the instrument in your lap. 

The sound is clumsy, but beautiful and careful, when you play. Joel’s glad he decided to teach you. He just listens and watches you. Your expression is thoughtful but closed, like you’re somewhere else. That’s how he thinks too, music in hand, mind far away. He likes that look on you, until you suddenly pause and glance up. You watch him for a long moment with those doe eyes of yours, folding your arms around the body of the guitar. 

You lick your lips and his eyes flick briefly to your mouth, the plush curve of your lower lip. He hadn’t kissed you good morning. “I want to figure you out too, you know,” you say. 

You hold his gaze for just a second before dropping your eyes to the wooden floorboards instead, fidgeting like you’re repressing the urge to curl in on yourself, fold yourself away. “You got me all figured out, honey,” he assures you. 

You shake your head and lift your eyes again, tapping your nails against the wood. “You—” you pause and swallow, “You’re allowed to want things from me, Joel.” 

Something falls in his chest, like he’s missed the last step on a long staircase, gravity turned against him. 

His heart lurches up into his mouth, tangy with some unknown fear. “I do. Trust me, I do.” 

“Why don’t you ask?” 

“Honey—”

“I know,” you say softly. “I know. I know how I am and how—” you stop and flounder, frustrated for a moment. “I know I’m not easy to ask. But you. . . I don’t feel that way with you anymore; I’m not afraid anymore. And I want to be enough for you. I hope I’m not too slow about it.” You look away again. “I want you to know you can call on me, too, Joel.” 

He clears his throat but the tightness doesn’t go away. “You could never take too long. I don’t mind waitin’.” 

“But?” 

But, he’s bad at this.

But, he loves too hard, cares too much. 

But, part of him is convinced that the loneliness is deserved. Everyone seems to leave him, someway or another. He’s just preparing early for it this time. He’s never held onto a romantic relationship before, so why should this one be any different than all the ones that came before it?

He doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t want; he gives and cares and that’s why people stay. It really doesn’t have all that much to do with him, or what he wants. 

“But you don’t want anything from me?” You ask, your voice noticeably smaller, and the warm morning suddenly feels cold. 

“It ain’t that.” He should say more, but nothing else comes out, words trapped like moths inside a lamp. 

You swallow and nod, like you’re battering back your instinct to flee, to think the worst. You’ve come so far and it’s hard not to feel a little pride, that you stay, that you aren’t worried, not usually, that he’ll hurt you someway. He’s reminded of the first day he’d tattooed you, how one misplaced word was enough to have you jumping to your feet, fretful and afraid. “I like spending time with you. I like touching you. I can give that to you.” 

He doesn’t answer and you eventually continue. “You can’t protect me from the whole wide world. Not even from you. I’m making a choice. To be here with you.” And he knows you’ve seen much more than he wanted you to, that you’ve seen the interior of him, bleeding red, splattered onto everything he touches. You’ve seen the want, the need, and you’re still here. 

He’s still not sure letting you care wouldn’t end with you leaving. But he doesn’t see what other choice he has. 

“Okay. But you promise me somethin’,” he says. “Just one thing and I’ll try.”  

You tilt your head, the picture of a curious little doe, almost nosy, peering into unfamiliar woods. “What?” You ask, looking away as you set the guitar aside.  

“If you ever want somethin’ better for yourself. You tell me. And you go.” 

Your eyes snap back to his, mouth parted in shock. “Joel—”

“I’m serious,” he snaps and you recoil a little, hurt in your eyes. “You deserve better’n this. Better than a lonely old man.” 

You shoot up from your seat in a rare show of anger. And that surge of pride hits him squarely in the chest again. He’s proud of you for that. For standing up for yourself, for letting yourself be angry with him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice doesn’t raise in volume, but it is waspish, venom laced. “Better? What’s better for me than you?” 

“Honey,” he says, softens his voice. “Just ‘cause you opened up with me, don’t mean I think I get to keep you.” 

Your shoulders loosen and you step closer. When you reach out, God help him, he leans into your hand. 

Gentle fingertips run along his shoulders, bite into the knot at the top of his spine. “Keep me,” you scoff lightly. “I want you to keep me.” 

You don’t protest when he winds an arm around your waist and tugs you down into his lap. You’re warm and soft and frowning so hard at him. There’s a divot between your eyes that he wants to press his thumb over, to smooth away. Instead he takes your wrist in his hand and traces the tattoo on your forearm. “You’re the only one who’s ever wondered if they should,” you say. “You aren’t keeping anything. I’m giving you something no one else ever even tried to earn.”  

He doesn’t answer immediately, a hot fist around his words. He’d rather walk away, not talk about it, not talk about himself. But that would break all that hard won trust.  

“I just can’t have you feelin’ like I’m your problem,” he admits, voice graveled and scraping. “Like I’m holdin’ you down.”  

“It’s okay to need people,” you answer, ignoring him. “I want to take care of you too. I want to be here with you.” You slide your hand over his shoulder again. “Even if it's just like this. Especially if it's just like this.” You scratch your fingers through his hair. Sun spills around your shoulders, blinds him when he looks up at you. “I know how much you like it. And you can tell me when you need something. I’m still learning your tells.”

He chuckles at that, let’s you keep touching him, because he does want it and you don’t seem to mind so much that he’s just some lonely man. “All right,” he runs his hand up your thigh to your hip. “Promise me anyway.” 

“I promise,” you say. “To learn your tells.” 

You make breakfast without burning anything, while Joel watches, hip leaned against the counter. His smile is soft, affectionate. 

Warmth balloons in your chest, bursts in your veins like champagne bubbles. You managed to reassure him, you managed to say what you want without feeling bad about it. 

“Lonely old man,” you burst out with a laugh. “I’m lonely and old.” 

Joel rolls his eyes when you dig your elbow into his side. “You ain’t old.” 

“Neither are you.” 

Joel buys you coffee from the little cafe you always stopped at before visiting him at the studio. He drives with his hand in yours. He opens the passenger side door for you and gestures you ahead of him into the studio. 

After going through the usual motions of disinfecting and sanitizing and picking one of the many, many, many coverup designs he’d sketched for you and getting the stencil on right, you find yourself in much the same position as the first time you got tattooed by Joel. 

Joel isn’t talking. He’s taking his time looking you over, intense and careful and muttering about that bastard that had dared lay his hands on you. He’s meticulous in everything he does, but especially when it concerns someone he cares about, when it comes to you. 

You’re lying down, studying the side of his face. He touches you without asking, and you don’t flinch once. The memory of his body against yours sends a flushed heat over your skin. Your scalp tingles with it, your toes curl with it. 

He finally seems satisfied after a few long minutes, his hand on the curve of your elbow. You nod your consent when he looks at you, tattoo gun poised in his other hand over your shoulder. “Sure?” 

“Never been surer.” You smile and then cover the hand resting on your elbow. He gives, you give back. “You don’t like it when I say thank you.” 

“I don’t,” he grunts. There's a blush beneath his beard.

You sweep your thumb against his knuckles, and think about how different that first time had been. Joel had reassured you, gave you a physical anchor you hadn’t known you needed, kind and steady and already lodged somewhere deep inside your heart.

Now you can give that back to him. 

“Okay.” 

But he knows. You know he hears it anyway.

Still, you want to say it. 

“Thank you, baby. For giving me back to myself.” 

He leans over you, and you tilt your chin up so he can kiss you. 

“Couple sessions, okay?” He croaks when he pulls away. “Don’t want to wear ya out.” 

There is nowhere in the world you’d rather be.  

💞 Thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are so appreciated. 💞

[iammorethananame-library]

Just reread this because I'm pinning for a soft cowboy to teach me things and hold me close. I cannot recommended this highly enough it's just sheer perfection and so atmospheric and I would like to give Crest a pat on the nose.

Out of the desert

Summary: You need to get out of town, and the bounty hunter that sometimes passes through is willing to help you escape. He'd do anything for you, but you don't know that yet. As you journey together, you realize you have more in common than you thought. Western!au

Pairing: cowboy!ace!Din Djarin x ace!Reader

Word Count: ~13.4k

Warnings: western!au, pining, very protective din, absolute FOOLS in love, old fashioned social norms (this fic borrows from a lot of things, so it is not a typical western au or social norms), mentions of previous relationships, nonthreatening injuries, playing fast and loose with adapting mando lore

A/N: I'm happy to finally be able to share this with y'all. It's very special to me. Please let me know what you think and thank you for reading and being so patient.

The setting sun looks like violence on the horizon, blood red tendrils of light spearing across the dust ridden desert. 

It chokes the air, settles in a fine mist over everything. 

You watch the particles float for a moment, your back to the empty apothecary behind you. 

Travelers are settling in for the night, horses tied to the banister outside. Most are single men passing through looking for work. You tilt your head and watch them shelter in the tavern across the road, the one you’ve had your eye on for the last hour or so. 

You're waiting for the Mandalorian to emerge.

The orange light of the sun hurts your eyes, but you don’t look away. 

Still, seeing them pass through, knowing they could leave, that they probably had people waiting on them, makes your heart ache with loneliness and you have to remind yourself that this is what you chose, this life, this town.

You’re content here, even if you’re so lonely your chest feels like an empty cavern most days, echoing back your own lonesome wails. 

You’re safer here, for now, even if no one cares for you. 

Only the sheriff looked out for you, and he didn’t so much as care for you as covet you. His attention is a constant reminder that you do not belong, and that one day his patience with you would wear thin and the town would no longer be the safe haven it currently is. 

You should be grateful for the safety the town provided to you, even if it's a brief respite. 

Still, you would like to belong somewhere, to someone. 

That a lump forms in the back of your throat at the thought means nothing. You don’t take your eyes off the door of the tavern across the road.

The sun settles lower in the sky, sinking slowly beyond the horizon. The flush of dusk makes everything look more beautiful, a sky coated in midnight hues instead of the painful blinding sun of the day reflecting off parched earth. Stars are already appearing on the horizon. 

You should just close up for the night, but you know the Mandalorian is across the street. And you won’t get a chance to talk to him alone if you go over now. You need him to come to you, to the quiet little store away from the prying eyes of the tavern’s patrons. 

His people, the Mandalorians, are famed bounty hunters, or cultists, depending on who you asked. You’d seen him come down the street with a bounty, watched him tie up his horse before he disappeared inside. 

Crest is in front of the apothecary, so you know he hasn’t left yet, that you haven’t missed him. 

The Mandalorian’s horse is a beautiful silver gray and speckled with black, as though someone had flicked a paintbrush at her. She’s incredibly intelligent and seems to meet your eyes through the glass, like she knows you’re there and waiting for her owner. She isn’t tied to the post, though he never seems to be worried about her wandering off. 

Everyone in town knows the Mandalorian’s horse. She’s still saddled, his pack rolled on her back. 

They know, too, that you keep an eye out for him, on his things and his horse. They’re wary of you, whispering wild rumors to each other when they think you can’t hear - about how you’d come to the town, that you killed your husband, that you were a witch. 

Your vigilance is unnecessary, really. The townspeople might be wary of you but the Mandalorian terrified them.

When the dark settles in fully, you sigh and unlatch the front door. Crest nuzzles her nose against your hand when you step down to her. The air is still warm from the day’s heat. The sun ripened smell of hot earth hangs in the air, the scent of desert flowers beneath sweetening it.

It’s a clean scent, and a comforting one. 

“He’s taking longer than usual,” you tell Crest when she snorts at you. “Turning in a quarry? You must be heading west again.” 

You’d only been in town a little over a week the first time you saw the Mandalorian. You had just been hired by the pharmacist for your knowledge of herbs, which only added to your reputation as a witch. 

The woman next door had been holding you hostage on the front steps that day, trying to understand where you came from, who you were. She’d stopped talking and glanced at the lone man riding slowly down the center of the street, a body lashed down to his horse’s flank. 

Intimidating didn’t even begin to describe him. 

Hat pulled down low over his eyes, bandana tucked over his nose, you hadn’t really been able to make out his face, just the faint wisps of dark brown hair curling by his ears and the sweat shined cut of golden skin of his throat. “Get inside,” the woman had advised, starting to turn towards her own door.

“Wait,” you’d said. “Why? Who is that?” 

“Don’t you know a Mandalorian when you see one?” She’d asked with a sneer. “Sheriff didn’t think to tell you about that cult that lives up in the mountains?” You’d started to open your mouth, “Go on and get inside. He’s a mercenary and bounty hunter. He’s bad news.” 

She’d slammed the door without another word. 

You hadn’t gone inside, just watched him come down the road, chin lifted. 

He hadn’t paid you any mind. The Mandalorian just calmly dismounted his horse, and took the bounty inside the tavern to the sheriff, who regularly drank himself sick there. 

It had only been later when you were closing up the shop that you spoke to him. He was standing out front with his gloves off. His knuckles had been bloody, his skin purple with bruising. 

“You got bandages for that?” 

He’d slowly looked up at you, eyes still obscured, face still mostly covered. “No.”

“Well, c’mon in and I’ll get you some.” 

There had been a pause long enough that you’d started to doubt if you should have bothered, when he answered. “I’m not usually welcome.” 

“You are today. The good doctor isn’t here,” you’d jerked your head toward the door with a roll of your eyes. “C’mon in.”

Since then, the Mandalorian has become something like a deterrent to the townsfolk that found you odd. You were still an outsider, but now one with a powerful guard dog. 

The Mandalorian had taken to you easily that day. He had listened to you talk, offered surprisingly kind, if short responses. He hadn’t fussed too much when you insisted on bandaging his hand for him. 

And after that day, he made a point of seeking you out every time he was in town. 

He’s kind to you, even if he’s quiet and a little gruff. Even if you don’t know his name, and his face remains perpetually shrouded in shadow. He always makes time to sit with you for a while, and even if it was because he pitied you a little, you don’t mind. He listens to you, and, once, he’d even brought you a gift - a white and blue western patterned cowl that now perpetually rests around your neck. “Keeps the sun off,” had been the only thing he said about it. It was similar to his own, different in coloring and pattern. 

You suspect it means something to him, that gift, something important to him or his people. But you wouldn’t know, no one knows anything about the Mandalorians. 

He’s never made you uncomfortable. He’s never tried to come onto you, which you couldn’t say for the rest of those that frequented the tavern across the road. He should intimidate you - a strange man with a dangerous job and no ties.

The town gossiped, but you tried not to put stock in anything they said, since they whispered the same kinds of things about you as they did about him. 

You glance up from Crest’s nose now to see the Mandalorian in question step out onto the front step of the tavern, the sheriff just behind him. 

His wide brimmed hat sits low over his eyes, the rest of his face obscured by the bandana he always wears over his face. His button up shirt and vest are obscured by the long coat he wears, the barrel of his rifle poking over his left shoulder. 

“Are you sure?” The sheriff steps up next to him, their voices carrying much too easily across the road to you. You glance down, not sure if you want them to know you can hear them. You watch them from the corner of your eye, careful not to turn your head. “Sure we can’t interest you in any of the…services here? On the house, of course, as a sign of our continued gratitude.” 

His voice carries a sarcastic edge. He knows the Mandalorian would never accept the kind of thing he’s offering. 

Mando doesn’t so much as turn his head. You reach for the Crest’s brush in one of the saddlebags. “If not for women…men?” The Mandalorian still doesn’t speak. “We got all types of folks around here, y’know.” 

“I’m not interested.” He steps neatly away when the other man attempts to lay a hand against his shoulder. 

“At least stay the night,” he insists. “It’s dangerous here and out there alone,” he nods at the open plains beyond the town’s perimeter. “After dark.” 

You can’t help feel those words are meant for you, that he knows you can hear, a reminder that you’re stuck and alone. 

Mando finally turns his head, but doesn't say anything for a long moment. The silence stretches until it's uncomfortable. “No,” he repeats, his voice low and rough as it always is. 

“C’mon now, Mando. I know you’re crazy about that creed of yours, but you can have a little fun.” He puts his hands on his belt and raises an eyebrow, the wooden planks creaking beneath his feet as he shifts. 

The Mandalorian’s shoulders rise and tense, the first real sign of his irritation, when the sheriff continues, “Maybe I can offer you somethin’ - someone you really want. What about that one there?” Even without looking you know the sheriff is pointing straight at you. “I know you’ve taken a special liking to her and all. Well, I have too, but…she’s playing a little hard to get y’know? She-,” 

“No.” 

His voice is stern, this time, hard. 

He steps down the tavern’s front steps to the cracked earth below without another word. 

“Fuckin’ Mandos,” you hear the sheriff mutter. 

You tuck Crest’s brush back into the saddlebag as Mando approaches. The words unsettle you, a shake twisting inside your chest, the walls of your safe place closing in again. You weren’t long for this town now, not with claims like those made out in the open. 

“Headin’ west again?” You ask lightly, like your nerves are knotted in the pit of your stomach, like you weren’t just offered up like someone’s leftovers. 

He nods, his voice low and gentle as it always is with you. Different, you’ve noted, to how he speaks to most anyone else. “I need some supplies.” He steps close to you and glances over his shoulder, blocking your body from the view of the tavern. 

“Of course,” you say, swiping your hands along your trousers. “C’mon then, Mando,” you jerk your head in the direction of the apothecary. 

He follows and you hold the door open for him before flicking on the gas lights. They come on with pop and then glow low and yellow.

The shop is rather homely, worn dark wooden cabinets lined with jars take up most of the wall space. The scent of the shop reminds you of the forests where you grew up near, earthy with the smell of healing herbs. 

The Mandalorian takes up too much room in the small shop, large and imposing as he shifts on the wooden floorboards, hands on his belt buckle. 

Usually, when he comes in for supplies, he takes up residence in the chair in the corner of the shop and keeps you company for a while. Normally you talk about the goings on in the town and the characters that came through. Sometimes he’d tell you about the bounty he just hauled in, or his travels. Usually he would talk about his son, a rambunctious, sweet child from how he spoke of him. He never mentions having a partner, and so you assume the child must be from a relationship he was no longer in. 

“What do you need?” 

“Just the basics.” 

You nod and move behind the counter to get to work when he says your name. 

When you turn back with a jar in your hand, you find the Mandalorian without his hat on for the very first time. It’s clutched in his hands in front of him. His eyes are a deep shade of brown, shadowed and wide and sad. Your eyes dart over him, and you wonder not for the first time what he looked like without the bandana that covers his face. 

He repeats your name and then asks tentatively, “Are you okay?” 

“I’m…fine,” you answer as confusion washes through you. “Why?” 

“The way the sheriff speaks about you-,”

You shake your head and interrupt, “I heard him. You’re very kind to worry, but I’m fine.”

You aren’t, but what else could you say? The sheriff had made it known in the last few weeks that you belonged to him, and that your freedom depended entirely on your willingness to comply. 

It had gotten worse the last couple of weeks, because he’d come to the belief that the Mandalorian wanted you too. He didn’t like that you were friends, that Mando was oddly protective of you. 

His words had been harsh. You think he’s your friend, but he wants the same thing any man does. 

The words were nothing but a reminder of how broken you are. 

Mando doesn’t look away from you, his head tilting to the side. Your blood thrums beneath your skin, drumming along the inside of your veins. “He talks about things he doesn’t understand,” he says. “And you didn’t hear everything. You don’t know what he means to do. He means to marry you. And if you refuse, you won’t have a place here anymore.” 

“Mando-,” you begin. 

“He already thinks he owns you,” he continues over you. “He thinks you need tamed. He thinks your choices are just rebelliousness.” His voice is low, dangerous, brows tugged down over his eyes. He’s angry, you realize. “You heard him. He…offered you to me. It doesn’t matter to him if you say yes or no.” 

You cross your arms over your chest, and cock your head to the side. “You think I don’t know that?” 

He straightens, brows lifting in surprise. “What?” 

You sink slowly onto the pharmacist’s stool behind the counter. 

“You’re right,” you say. “To him, I am no longer a novelty that needs to be broken, but a nuisance that needs to be reminded of my place.” You shake your head, “But I don’t have anywhere to go. I have no family and hardly any money. Everything I had, I used to come here. Besides, I came from the east, and I don’t know how to survive the desert. I am out of options.” 

The Mandalorian doesn’t respond right away. When you look up, you aren’t quite able to meet his eyes, not used to seeing them. There’s something deeply hurt in his gaze, a sadness you can’t name. “No harm will come to you,” he promises, a dangerous edge in his voice. “I can take you west.” 

You stiffen and slowly glance up at him. His words wriggle in your mind, slither coldly down your back. First you escaped your husband, now you have to escape the sheriff, to…what? One day have to escape the Mandalorian? You’ve learned better than to trust. 

The sheriff’s words echo in the back of your mind. He wants the same thing any man does. 

And how long until he demands that from you? How long until he wants something from you in return for all his kindness? 

Still, the Mandalorian has never made you feel unsafe, he’s never made you feel uncomfortable.

And he might be your only chance to leave. 

You close your eyes, and slip a hand into your pocket to grip the knife you keep there, just to feel a bit stronger. It was only a matter of time before you had to leave, you knew that. 

The Mandalorian is a safer choice then remaining in the town. You trust him more than the sheriff at least. He’s your friend, but-

You shake your head and meet his eyes. “I already told you, Mando, I hardly have any money. I can’t pay you to take me west. And I have nothing else I can offer you,” you emphasize, gritting your teeth. “Nothing, understand? I have nothing else to offer you.”

He seems to understand. 

Mando steps forward and leans his forearms against the counter. “I am not asking to be paid. And I would not ask you for anything else.” He holds your eyes for a long moment before straightening and putting his hat back on his head. “But we have to leave now.” 

If you waited it might be several weeks until Mando returned, and by then it might be too late.  

You nod curtly and stand, gathering the things he’d ask for. “Go on and take it,” you push the supplies across the counter. 

He takes the supplies you set on the counter for him.

“He’s gonna have eyes over here. I was supposed to close up nearly an hour ago.” You glance up at him. “He’ll know.” 

“I can handle it.” He tilts his head, “Do you trust me?” 

You hesitate, you’ve learned better than to trust anyone, but you’ve already decided to throw your lot in with his. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?” 

When the Mandalorian steps outside the apothecary, you know he’s being watched. Behind him, you click the lock into place in the door and turn off the gas lights. He descends the steps and tucks the supplies into the saddlebags. 

A few men stand in clusters on the other side of the road, coats pinned back with hands on their hips, the shine of the revolvers they carry visible even in the dark. The orange glow of their cigars burn bright in the darkness. 

“Heading out of town, Mando?” The sheriff calls. 

He nods without answering. 

“Won’t be back for a while, I reckon? Shame you can’t stay, there’s a wedding tomorrow.”

You jolt at the words. 

Mando saddles his pack and glances surreptitiously up at you, his head dips forward slightly. You nod, knowing the men across the street can’t see you in the window with the lights off, and move away from the door. 

He would tell them that you were finishing a draught for one of the neighbors, someone who came to the back door. You don’t have a pack, but you have so few possessions it doesn’t matter. You grab your journal and stuff your hat on your head before slinging your long overcoat over your arm, sweeping tinctures at random into your pockets. 

You leave the key behind, and don’t bother to lock the back door. 

You can think of few things worse than being married. Again. And especially to a man like the sheriff. 

The street behind the apothecary is silent and still. It’s almost too easy to sneak past darkened doorways and empty alleys. Still, you keep your head bent to conceal your face, and move quickly. The red dust of the place swirls around your ankles, coating your boots in a fine mist. 

You wonder if this is wise, to go with the Mandalorian. He’s quiet and kind but that meant nothing, really. With the sheriff, you at least know what kind of monster he is. You aren’t sure what’s worse, to be left with a monster or to be surprised by one. 

Something about Mando tells you he’s not that way, even gruff and dangerous, he isn’t dishonorable. 

You hear a few gunshots as you hurry along, anxiety biting at your lungs. 

When you turn a corner a few minutes later he’s waiting exactly where he said he’d be. Crest snorts when she sees you and Mando reaches a hand down to pull you up. You settle behind him on the saddle, and he lets you shift until you’re comfortable. “They’re coming.” 

“Then let’s go.” 

He nudges Crest into a trott and then a gallop, and you hope you never see that town again. 

The sun is just peaking over the horizon behind him, threads of purple dawn coloring the sky, when the Mandalorian feels you shifting against his back. You’d fallen asleep a few hours into the journey when he’d slowed Crest out of a trot, your cheek pressed to his spine as you snored lightly. 

He’s given you a good head start, if the sheriff decided to follow. He’d have to take care of his wounded first before he could. 

The Mandalorian means to move quickly, to keep both of you safe. 

There’s an ache in his back from the position you’re in against him but he wouldn’t dare disturb you. You’re sleeping so peacefully and your weight against him is nice, warm. 

Din is trying to swallow the turbulent emotions swirling inside him. He cares for you, and the fear that curls around the base of his spine at the prospect of you being married to that man, is anything but friendly. It makes his chest feel tight, the weight of feelings he harbors for you crushing. 

He’ll never tell you, because he’s already learned that caring for someone isn’t enough. He wasn’t enough to settle for, he’s learned that lesson. 

To hear from the sheriff the way you’d arrived in that town, desolate and desperate. How he’d taken you in and provided for you, not because you needed help, not because you were in danger, but because you were estranged from your husband, and thought it only a matter of time before you broke and went looking for a new one - it had incensed him. 

The sheriff had assumed it would happen quickly. But you’d settled into a routine, a quiet, lonely little life in the town, seeming to enjoy your independence and solitude. 

Well, aside from Din. 

You were alone aside from him. He’s your friend, but more than that, he’s your protector. 

Sure, there was only so long the sheriff could put up with something like that. Your kind were supposed to need help, were supposed to need someone. But you didn’t seem to. And that grated on the sheriff. 

He might have already acted, if it weren’t for Din. If it weren’t for him taking a liking to you, if it weren’t for the two of you becoming friends.  

Crest trots along at an easy pace, and Din sets his sights on a copse of trees up ahead that he often stops at to rest. There’s a creek nearby too, for water and washing. 

“Hey, Mando,” you mumble against his back. Your voice is soft and fuzzed with sleep. “I’m gettin’ pretty sore. You mind if we stop for a bit? Or I can walk along if we need to keep moving.” 

Like he’d let you walk. 

He gestures to the trees. “We’ll be stopping there.” 

“Okay,” you agree, your hands lightly gripping into the fabric of his coat. 

Din doesn’t reply, patting Crest’s neck instead. The purple on the horizon quickly bleeds into a parched yellow, and then the spear of a blue that only ever came with early morning, clashing with the burnt orange of the earth, the sand yellowed grasses and pale cacti and desert blooms. 

“It’s pretty out here,” you comment, hands tightening on his sides when you lean around him. “Prettier than that town.” 

He glances out over the landscape, parched, cracked earth, dotted with sporadic clumps of trees that eventually fell away to nothing but the orange of the open desert. Gold poppies and desert lilies make homes next to cacti and tumble weed and desert grass. 

It’s an okay view, but he prefers the mountains. He prefers green.

“Yes,” he agrees with you anyways. It’s beautiful, even if he doesn’t prefer it. 

When Crest comes to a halt beneath the trees, the sun has risen far beyond the horizon. It drips from the sky, swollen and lazy with midday heat. Din dismounts carefully before offering you a hand down. 

You aren’t used to riding, as he is, and you stumble a bit. 

He catches you, steadies you with a hand on your waist before he releases you. The warm press of your hands against his forearms disappears, and the weight of the loss leaves him hollow. 

You don’t seem to notice that he can’t stop himself from drinking you in. There’s a certain beauty in the cut of your features. 

You duck quickly away from him before he gets the chance to fully admire you, stretching your legs and adjusting the hat on your head until he can no longer see your eyes. 

He wonders how long you thought it could go on. There was no way you would have been able to keep on living like that in the town. You hadn’t seemed surprised, just resigned and tired, like you hadn’t really believed you could find a place to just be. 

“We should rest. For a while.” 

“How far along is the next town?” You ask, tipping your chin up to him, hands fisted on your hips. You’d put on your longcoat, but you have the sleeves pushed up, your forearms exposed to the sunlight. He tries not to look at the glow of your skin in the light. “If it’s somewhere I can walk, you can just let me go here. I’ve been enough trouble and I can figure it out.” 

Din doesn’t respond and you knock back the brim of your hat with one finger to better see him. “We should rest here. Travel when the sun gets low again.” 

You lift a brow. “So it's far?” 

“What?” 

“The next town?” 

“Yes.” 

He’s lying. Kind of. 

You could probably walk to the next town, but it’d be a long one and dangerous. 

He isn’t planning to take you to that one anyways. It’s much too close to the one you’d just left, it would be too easy to find you there. 

And he isn’t quite ready to part with you. 

Neither of you will be able to return to the town you’d just left, and he’d like to be sure you’re safe wherever you end up settling.

You nod slowly. “Okay, Mando.” You turn and lead Crest down to the water to drink. “Go on and rest. I slept enough.”

He shifts from foot to foot for a moment before turning to the copse of trees. 

Din settles himself on the ground and leans back against the trunk, tipping his hat over his face. He trusts you enough to let himself sleep. 

You let Mando sleep for a couple of hours. 

His breathing is deep and even. You watch the rise and fall of his chest from where you sit on a log, chewing on a stick of something you found in Mando’s pack. You wonder if you should wait a while longer to wake him. 

You aren’t sure how far ahead you are of anyone that might have followed you from the town.

If anyone followed you from the town. 

Crest munches on desert grass nearby. It’s a peaceful spot. The creek makes for a gentle background noise, the air cool beneath the trees. 

The scent of wet desert earth is pleasant, the soil around the creek bed is like wet clay and when you push your free hand into it it squishes pleasantly around your fingers. When you finish the stick of whatever the ration was made of, you wash your hands in the stream before standing to refill the canteens with water. 

“We need to move again.” 

Mando’s voice startles you, and you nearly drop the canteens.

His voice is close, and when you turn, you find him directly behind you. You clear your throat and take a step back, “So, you’ll tell me how far the next town is now?”

He shifts, head tilting to the side. You can just make out his eyes. “We can make it to the next town by sun up tomorrow. But I think you should bypass it.” 

“Why?” 

“It’s not far enough. It’s the first place they’ll look for you.” He tilts his hat back a fraction, like he’s trying to get a better look at you. “You should go farther west.”

You give a slow shake of your head. “Really, I think it’s fine. I don’t have anything to pay you with to take me further.” 

You’re also not sure you want to travel any further with him. You would not jump from the frying pan into the fire. 

Mando makes an irritated noise. “I am not asking for payment,” he says. “You shouldn’t go to the next town, but I’ll take you there, if that’s what you want,” he agrees, though he doesn’t sound happy about it. 

You blink, surprised. 

You’ve never had someone so easily bend to your wishes. You’ve never had someone listen to you the way the Mandalorian does, who actually takes your opinion and wants into consideration. 

He seems to value your opinion, and accept that you know what’s best for you, even if he doesn't agree.

“We’ll have to rest again before we get there.” He turns on his heel and makes his way back to Crest, patting her side and then checking over her hooves. 

You stand by the stream for a few long seconds, emotions swirling in your belly. The Mandalorian seems to be genuinely trying to help you. And you know him - he’s your friend. You’ve known him for months, had soft feelings for him for most of that time. 

That, and he’s right. You’re still much too close to that town. A day’s ride was nothing to a determined man. 

“Mando,” you call as you start towards him. “You’re right. The first town is too obvious.” 

He doesn’t speak as he saddles Crest and adjusts the pack on her back. “I wouldn’t do that to you,” he says, his voice muffled and laden with something heavy, though he doesn’t sound angry. “I wouldn’t harm you.”  

Something in you twists, gravel lodging in the back of your throat as you shift nervously, fidgeting with your fingers. “I know. It’s not you that’s made me afraid.” 

Mando nods, “I know.” He swings himself onto Crest before leaning down to help you up behind him. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the next town?” 

“I’m sure,” you answer, lightly fisting your hands against his sides. 

The sun is once again tilting low on the horizon. You think again about how beautiful the desert is, and how dangerous. 

In the distance you can see the peaks of the mountains where the Mandalorians must live. Even a half day's ride west makes them seem so much larger. They seemed mere pinpricks from the town. “Do the Mandalorians really live there?” You lift a hand and point to the peaks in the distance.

Mando cups his hand around your wrist and lowers your hand so it’s pointing midway up one of the smaller mountains on the range. “Yes. About there.” 

He doesn’t let go of your hand for a moment, and the press of his worn leather gloves against your skin is warm and pleasant. His thumb slides over your pulse point before he seems to realize what he’s doing and abruptly releases you.

A warmth spirals up from your belly and prickles pleasantly at the underside of your skin. You’re glad at that moment that you’re behind him and he can’t see your expression. It must be written all over your face how much you’d liked his hand on yours. 

Even so, he’s warm in front of you, if a little stiff with tension now. Your thighs bracket his and you lean into his back, cheek pressed against the soft, worn material of his jacket. 

You clear your throat, “So, is it true that you’re in a cult?” 

You feel the slight rumble of his chest when he laughs and tries to suppress it. The brief tension breaks, and his spine softens back into you again. 

“No,” he answers. “It’s a good rumor, though.” 

“Why not correct them? They wouldn’t fear you so.”

There’s a long pause, the clop of Crest’s hooves the only sound aside from the buzz of insects hiding in the low grasses. “We don’t live the way they do. Their fear is our protection.” 

You consider that, watching the side of his face. 

Just above the bandana, you catch a glimpse of golden skin and the peak of a sharp cheekbone. His eyes are a deep mourning brown. The color of his eyes seems lighter now than it had in the low light of the apothecary the day before. The sun casts them a deep chestnut, even though they’re shaded by the hat tipped over his eyes. 

He’s rather beautiful, you don’t need to see the rest of his face to know that. You’ve thought so before, many times over, when he visited the apothecary. You’ve always liked the shape of his shoulders, the way he stood with all his weight on one foot, the slightly shy way he ducked his head. 

You like a lot of things about him. You like the way he covers his face, and listens to the town gossip you impart on him, and tells you about his travels if anything worth mentioning had happened. 

“I never feared you,” you feel the need to tell him. 

Mando’s shoulders straighten, the tilt of his head angling up. A strange kind of pride radiates from him. “Because you understand. You understand fear.” 

You know exactly what he means. 

You understand not living the way others do, you understand their fear being a kind of protection. But while you are alone, the Mandalorians at the very least have each other. “Would you tell me about them?” You ask. “The Mandalorians? Are you all nameless, like they say?” 

He laughs again, and this time the sound is more distinct. His body relaxes further back into yours, and you wonder what Miss Next Door would say if she could see you now. Likely she’d have a heart attack over the way the two of you are pressed together. 

It makes you wonder again, at what’s wrong with you. You can’t help feeling that being this close to him, listening to him talk, feeling the warmth of him, should inspire something more in you. 

But it doesn’t. You like this just fine. You like being close to him, you like the comforting scent of him, the sun warmed leather of him. But you don’t want more, you don’t feel more than that.

And that is why you’ll always be alone. There’s no place for someone like you. 

“Another rumor,” he dismisses. ‘No, we are not nameless.” There’s only a moment of hesitation before he continues, “My name is Din Djarin.” 

It’s a slightly strange name to your ears, but it suits him. You tell him as much, “You have a lovely name. Din Djarin.” 

“We are people of many kinds,” he says without prompting, like he’s settled into his trust of you. “A creed binds us together. We are warriors, survivors.” 

You hum and lie your cheek against his back again, through his layers of clothing you can just make out the sound of his heart. It’s a steady comforting sound, just like he’s steady and comforting against your body. “Survivors,” you murmur. “And protectors, it seems.” 

“This is the Way,” he says, the inflection of his voice a bit odd. “Our people were once decimated by purges. I was not born to the Mandalorians.” 

“You weren’t?” You ask, surprised. It seems like something so integral to who he is, like it's something woven into his bones and blood. “I find that hard to believe.” 

“It’s true,” he reaches a gloved hand out to pat Crest between the ears. “My parents were killed when I was young. The Mandalorians saved me. I was a foundling, taken care of by the collective. You know I have a foundling of my own.” 

“Your son,” you say, and he nods. You’d always assumed he was a child from a past relationship, but this somehow makes more sense. 

Foundlings are an odd notion to you, but a nice one, one that appeals to you. “So everyone takes care of the foundlings?” 

“And the children born to Mandalorians, yes.” 

You shift against him, intrigued. “You are quite different.” His spine stiffens and he doesn’t answer you. It takes you a moment to realize he thinks you mean it in a negative way. “It’s nice,” you amend. “I imagine my own life would be quite different if we shared responsibilities in that way.” 

Din relaxes again, his chin dipping forward in a nod. “It has its advantages.” 

“Are other things very different?” 

The Mandalorian pauses for a long moment, before he begins telling you of life in the mountains of Mandalore. Not everything about it is idyllic. The Mandalorians are warriors after all, which means a certain level of baseline brutality. But their culture and religion intrigue you.

He’s never spoken so much to you, and never about the other Mandalorians, like being alone together has given him permission to open up. 

“Women,” he mentions, “and men are equal. All are equal. The way you and some of the others are treated…it’s not understandable. Not to me, or any Mandalorian, I would guess.” 

“Equal,” you echo. “How do you-,” 

“Of course we have leaders, a hierarchy. But all can be leaders and all are warriors. We are all warriors.” 

You straighten at that, darkness falling in earnest now, the sky once again a hazy blue and purple. “All of you? Really?” He nods as he brings Crest to a stop. “Would you teach me?” You ask as his boots hit the ground and he holds out a hand to you. 

“Teach you?” 

“To fight. Or at least to defend myself.” You slide off Crest, your legs aching again. 

He makes a noise under his breath as he steadies you, “I’m not sure how much I can teach you in a few days.” 

“Somethin’ at least,” you plead as he releases you. “I’ve got a knife and everything.” 

“Fine,” he agrees, but something about his tone tells you he’s proud, happy that you’ve asked, that he wants you to know how to defend yourself. “After we eat.” 

You nod and let him point you to some tasks. Gathering anything that can be used for fire fuel, while Din takes care of Crest, making sure she’s well watered and that there’s something for her to eat. 

When you have a little fire going and the last wisps of rosy light are burning out in the western sky, the Mandalorian goes about preparing a dinner for you. He’s methodical and precise, and when the food is finished he makes a gesture at you to eat. 

“Won’t you too?” You ask when he makes no move to serve himself. He shakes his head. “Why?” 

“You would see my face.” 

“Oh.” Your brow crinkles. “But I’ve seen-,” 

He shakes his head, “Not all of my face.” 

Din doesn’t explain further, but you decide not to question him. 

He’s explained a great deal to you in one day, revealed things you think must be information most outsiders don’t have. 

You nod, “Okay. So come sit back to back with me. You must be starving, I won’t eat while you don’t.” 

Din seems surprised with your concern, but he does as you say. You lean back into each other as you eat, listening to the sounds of him doing the same. Cicadas sing in the grasses that sway in the low breeze.

Already you can see the changes in the landscape, soon you’ll be out of the desert bowl and into the flat plains that make up the earth before the foothills of the mountains. 

The ground is rocky beneath you but you don’t mind. The warmth of Din soaks through to your skin, even though layers of clothes, as the night and the cold descend on you. 

He’s a comforting presence. He always has been. You crave this, this closeness, the way he feels against you without the expectation of anything more. You’re starved for it. 

You’d looked forward to his time in the apothecary because it gave you someone to talk to, but also because you felt safe with him there, comforted. Now is no different.  

“Din?” You ask, to make sure he’s listening but also just to speak his name. Another thing he’s given you today; his name. 

“Yes?” 

You stare straight ahead, out into the blackness of the empty desert, and you imagine all the times the Mandalorian must have traveled these lands alone. You wonder if Din is as lonely as you are, or if he was content to be alone. 

Maybe he isn’t lonely most times. You aren’t sure how often he goes back to the mountains.

“You said the Mandalorians are equal among each other.” You feel him nodding. “And the collective cares for the children. So, is it possible to stay single? Not to have children?”

You feel his breath stop, a still kind of silence hanging in the air between you for a moment. “I only ask because it's so important to most where I’m from, and I wonder if it's the same with Mandalorians. If you didn’t, you were an outcast.” 

There’s a long pause but you just continue eating, waiting for him to decide whether he’d like to answer you or not. 

“Yes. Many don’t,” he says eventually. “Most important is the survival of the group. And many of us are foundlings. Blood is not as important. We have a saying - Aliit ori'shya tal'din. It means family is more than blood.”

You nod and don’t reply, focusing on finishing your food instead. You hadn’t known the Mandalorians had their own language, but it makes sense and the sound of it is pleasant. 

It must be nice, in those respects at least. Without the pressure of finding a match, or being matched. Without the pressure of producing children. 

Homesickness washes over you in a fierce, sudden wave, followed by a loneliness that lodges so firmly in your chest you find it hard to breathe for a few minutes. 

You desperately want a place to belong, a family and a home, you’re just sure you can’t have those things because of what it seems to require of you. You aren’t enough alone, not enough the way you are. 

The grief of not having a place, a home, is a physical thing. No family, no future.

You push the melancholy down, that lonely ache in the middle of your chest that said you would never be enough, that said there was something deeply wrong with you and that made you unlovable. 

When you’re done eating and the mess has been cleared away, the Mandalorian teaches you the basics of wielding a knife. He’s a patient teacher, his voice soothing and low in your ear as he maneuvers your hand on the handle of the blade. 

“It would be better if you had a revolver,” he tells you. “The knife should be a last resort, since it means someone got close enough for you to be able to use it.” 

You nod in agreement. “But it would have its uses,” you weigh the blade in the palm of your hand. “For protection.” 

His eyes squint and you know without seeing his mouth that Din is frowning at you. You shrug at him and tuck the blade back in your pocket. “I’m only thinking of the sheriff.” 

You expect his brow to relax with understanding, but it only makes him appear more worried. “That wouldn’t have happened.” 

“Well,” you concede. “Now it definitely won’t.” 

Your breath clouds in the air around you, and you reach up to tug off your hat. “We should get some shut eye.” 

Mando nods at you, looking distinctly more distressed.

You start to turn away but before you can, his hand circles your wrist. He says your name, the sound of it gentle. “I need you to know - you should know, I would not have left you there alone, if I thought that was a possibility. It’s why I didn’t leave you this time. Do you understand?” 

You aren’t quite sure you do, but a lump has formed in the back of your throat nonetheless. He cares about you, you realize, and has for a while, and that hurts because it means he’ll probably tire of you too. You like Din more than you care to admit, and you won’t ever be enough for him. “Yes,” you nod. “I understand.” 

His chin dips slightly in acknowledgement before he releases your wrist. 

You sort out sleeping arrangements, and Din offers to take the first watch. You curl on the ground with a blanket that smells like hay and earth, near enough to the fire not to shiver, while the Mandalorian settles beside you. 

There’s a moment, right before you fall asleep, that you think you feel his hand brush over your forehead. 

The next few days of travel are easy. 

Those few days quickly run over into a week, but you don’t mind. 

You and Din Djarin slip into an easy routine. He tells you, more and more each day, of the Mandalorians, and of the land you travel across which he knows well. He knows every swell of the earth, every crack in the soil, where to look for water, each blade of grass. 

You don’t remember him being as chatty in the town, but maybe he simply wasn’t comfortable enough there. This is his domain, and for once he’s not traveling it alone. 

He does seem more comfortable out on the open plains, away from people. 

And he seems to like you, or at least enjoy your company. 

Evenings and midday are by far your favorite times of the day, because you and Din get to lean into each other and eat, and because he teaches you small things, like how to track game and read the signs in the wilderness to tell if people or animals have passed by. 

Din lets you hunt with him, and a few nights you have rabbit for dinner. Learning how to break down the animal is by far the worst part of it all, but it’s still a useful skill to have and one you wouldn’t have had otherwise. 

He teaches you how to use your knife and then his revolver and the rifle too. 

You like how he guides your hands and presses his chest to your back as he shows you movements and how to handle the weapons. The feeling of his body around yours makes your skin prickle pleasantly, your stomach filled with butterflies you haven’t felt in a long time. You like how he touches you, careful and precise, his hands lingering just a little long. “No one ever showed you how?” 

“Never,” you say. “It wasn’t something I was supposed to know.” 

He makes a discontent noise but doesn’t comment further. You have a distinct feeling the idea is offensive to him, that some are taught to defend themselves and others aren’t. 

Each night, he points out the constellations to you. He describes how they move across the sky through the seasons and how they’re used for navigation. 

You listen with rapt attention. “So, if you know the season and where the stars sit at that time, you can find your way around?” He nods. “Wow. I never knew the sky was used to travel.” 

Din is sitting on the ground, reclined against a rolled pack while you lie flat on the ground next to him, the crown of your head almost touching his thigh. It’s cold and not particularly comfortable but you don’t care. The earth of the grassy plains is much more comfortable than the rocky desert had been, and the Mandalorian has given you both the blanket and his coat to lie on. It smells like him, like leather and pine. 

It’s the first time you’ve seen the skin of his arms. He removed his gloves when you sat down to eat earlier, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Din’s forearms are scarred, his skin crossed with lines from what must be many years of bounty hunting. You don’t mind it, the golden bronzed hue of his skin appealing. The veins in his arms collect in strong hands, and you want to know what his calloused fingers would feel like between yours. 

You could spend forever watching the stars, and listening to his low voice tell you stories. 

He tilts his head down at you. He doesn’t have his hat on, his hair like tufts of cloud that stick up around his head. “How did you come to that town? How did you know where you were?”

“I…wandered. Anywhere was better than what I was facing.” You don’t elaborate further than that and Din doesn’t ask, just looks up and points out another constellation. 

He tells you of the legends that are attached to the stars by the Mandalorians. You listen until the fire burns low and he tells you to get some sleep.

You sit up and lean against his bent leg. The position is a little close, but you spend most of the day plastered to his back, and figure it isn’t too close. His scent becomes more intense when you shift, like the small cake of soap he’d used to wash at the creek when you stopped for the day, like pine and leather. “It’s nice out here. Quiet.”

He stares at you for a long moment, the dying embers of the fire reflected over his skin and in the depths of his dark eyes. His gaze flicks over your face before settling on your eyes again. You swear the skin above the bandana turns a bit pink. “It’s usually a lot lonelier,” he admits. 

“Yeah,” you smile. “I was in a town full of people, and still lonely.” You glance up at the sky, “At least out here, there’s no one to judge you.”  

You touch his hand lightly, just because you want to know how it feels. It feels nice, warm. The nerves in your belly beat up against your lungs, step on your ribs and over your heart. “Thank you for sharing so much with me, Din.” 

You release his hand when his fingers flex beneath yours and lie down again, closing your eyes to the stars. You don’t feel as alone as you once did. 

Before you drift off, you feel his fingers sweep across your forehead again. 

You wake to the Mandalorian dousing the fire suddenly, his hand is on your arm shaking you awake as he says your name. “Get Crest and go, I’ll find you.” 

“What?” You sit up, groggy. “Why? Go where?” 

Despite his urgent tone, his touch is gentle. “I need you to get to Crest,” he repeats, “and ride until you cross the river.” He helps you stand when you see the riders in the distance, torches held aloft. 

Your heart seizes hard in your chest, a fierce panic crawling up from the pit of your belly. 

“No,” you latch onto his arm hard. “Din, they-,” 

“Go to Crest,” he says, eerily calm, a quiet rage humming just below the surface. “I’ll find you.” 

“Din, there’s five of them!” You say, digging your heels into the ground. Maybe more than five, you can’t tell. 

“I can handle it,” he assures you. “I need you to go now,” his voice softens a fraction. 

You move slowly toward Crest, feeling as though you’re in a dream. You never thought you were important enough to chase this far. The last few days, you had been able to convince yourself they hadn’t followed at all. “But I can help. What - what if something happens to you -,” 

“I’ll be alright,” he says, the sky behind him starting to lighten, a rosy, dawn colored pink. “If not, just keep riding west. There’s a map and a compass here,” he taps the saddlebag. “You have enough supplies to reach the next town. Now go.” 

He has the rifle in his hands. “Din-,” 

Instead of answering, he says something lowly to Crest, in the same language he’d used the other day. She takes off immediately, and you struggle to hang on for just a moment. You dig your knees in and manage to get the reins into your hands. 

Crest seems to know where she’s going, following a small, well worn dirt path through the grassy plains. Behind you, the sound of gunfire echoes. You try only once to glance over your shoulder, but you can’t see anything. 

You aren’t sure how long you ride, and you find it hard to track the movements Crest makes. Eventually, when the sun is just fully over the horizon behind you, she slows. 

The river comes into view. 

It isn’t a large river, but Crest trots over the wooden bridge across it like she knows it well, before finally coming to a stop beneath a copse of trees on the other side. 

She’s foamy with sweat and breathing hard. “Good girl,” you pat her gently before sliding from the saddle. You’re breathing hard too, your body is stiff and your stomach churns with nerves. You clench your hands into fists to try to contain the shaking. 

How long would it take Din to walk to you? Already you want to turn Crest around and go searching for him, but you aren’t sure if that’ll make it worse. You don’t know where you are or how to get back to where you’d come from. 

You pat Crest gently and decide to stay put. 

You’ve only seen the Mandalorian commit violence once, in a shootout in the center of the town. And, you suppose, when you left the town, he’d clearly at least delayed them with injuries. 

For you, and now he was doing it again. Something about it makes your heart flutter. Its kind of morbid, and you kind of don’t care. 

You lead Crest to the water to drink before turning her out into the grass to graze. She never seems to need tied up and so you just leave her, watching the sun rise ever higher in the sky. 

A cool breeze blows over the land ruffling the swaying grass. The sky burns bright blue, clouds drifting in from the north until the day feels colder than it should. Your heart hasn’t slowed since Crest came to a stop. 

You press your hand to your chest, a bit worried something might be wrong. The stillness irks you, but pacing only makes your heart rate tick higher. The wind continues to pick up, the sky promising rain. 

Just when you start to feel too much time has passed, a figure appears on the horizon. You can’t be sure it’s Din but you click your tongue at Crest anyways. She trots over and snorts when you clamber onto her back. “Look,” you point. “Is it him?” 

She breaks into a gallop without another word from you. 

Din is clutching his side, a spot of red bleeding through his shirt. 

You slide off Crest before she’s even come to a stop and catch yourself against him, nearly knocking both of you to the ground. 

Sweat slicks his brow and he’s panting, but aside from the blood on his side he seems unharmed. “Din? Are you hurt?” 

You reach for his side when his hand captures yours, his grip tight. “I’m fine. I told you to cross the river.” 

“We did,” you look up at him. “I need to look, you can’t just bleed out.” 

He grunts and whistles for Crest, before urging you up onto her again. You help him swing up behind you before he nudges her into a trot. “I’m fine. It looks worse than it is.” His arms circle you, reins held loosely in his grasp. 

He’s still breathing a little hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly against your back. “What happened?” 

A long silence passes. You cross the river again and keep moving west. “We should stop so-,” 

“There’s a better place up ahead. It’s going to rain,” he says, his voice a familiar, comforting rasp in your ear. “Secluded. Runoff creek from the river. A couple apple trees.”

“Okay,” you agree, pressing your hands over his on the reins, just to steady yourself. Even through his gloves, you can feel the heat of his hands. To your surprise, he turns his hands in yours and captures yours lightly. He squeezes your hands and you return the comforting gesture. 

The patch of trees and the runoff creek are near a steep rock face you’d seen in the distance. It's hemmed in and shaded. It feels safe. 

Din lets you fuss over him, sitting still on one of the rocks near the creek bed while you clean and bandage the wound on his side. He was only grazed by a bullet, and he was right that it looked much worse than it actually is. 

Still, it needs cleaned and bandaged. You try to move quickly, since Din seems fairly shy about being seen, but your hands are shaking and it takes longer than you would like. What if he hadn’t been grazed? What if it had been worse? All because of you? 

His side is lined with old scars, wounds that look like he badly tended them himself. He doesn’t make so much as a peep as you work. You're glad to have taken some of the tinctures with you.

When the bandages are firmly in place, you check over his knuckles. They’re swollen and bruised but otherwise fine. “Are you in pain?” You ask, glancing up into his eyes. “We have a tincture for that if you are.” 

“No.” 

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” You ask, hands still covering his.

His gaze bores into yours, dark and calm. “You don’t have to worry about them anymore.” 

You stare at him for a long moment, before you nod. “Okay.” You glance away, very aware that you’re still holding his hands between yours. “Thank you.” 

He did that. For you. It sends another bolt of guilt through you. 

He’s your only friend and you’d nearly gotten him killed. 

Din nods and you nod back, decidedly not letting go of his hands. You can’t seem to bring yourself to do it. 

He pats your fingers. “I’m okay. I would do it again.”

You’re sure your heart is in your mouth, and you can’t seem to swallow it down. Tears gather in the corners of your eyes but you blink them back.  

“Just,” you squeeze his hands again. “Give me a minute.” 

He doesn’t try to pull away, and when you fit yourself into his arms, he doesn’t comment on that either. His hands curl into you, warm and safe and grounding, and don’t let go. 

You don’t travel that day. 

Din catches fish in the stream for you to roast over the fire that evening. He watches you carefully from the corner of his eye, not able to shake off the feeling of you curled in his arms. You’d fit yourself there as though it came naturally. 

It was only then that he’d felt you shaking and knew that you wouldn’t be able to travel. 

He also hadn’t wanted to let you go. He isn’t sure how long you’d stayed there like that. 

Instead, once you calmed enough that your lungs weren’t trembling with fast, suppressed breath, he’d let you get him the tincture, which did help with the pain even if he didn’t really need it. Only then did you seem comfortable with moving away from him. 

While he fishes he watches you. He watches you gather apples, and then twigs for a fire. He watches you feed and water Crest. The trees keep most of the light rain off, but your clothes are still lightly spattered with it. You wear the cowl he’d gotten you, he’s hardly seen you without it since he got it for you. It makes him feel like he’s standing in the sun. 

“How many have you got?” You ask as Din directs his eyes back to the stream when you approach. 

“Three so far,” he answers, the heat of your skin sinking into his when you step closer. He holds his breath but you don’t lean into him. 

“That should be enough, shouldn’t it?” 

He agrees, and drops his makeshift spear to start cleaning the fish. You stand by and watch, insistent to learn how. Din is glad you want to know, he’s happy to show you. The way you lean into his side as you watch only has a little to do with it. You rest the side of your forehead against his shoulder. 

He’s been thinking of asking you to come to Mandalore. You would be safe there, and, he hopes, happy. You could learn to fight and navigate and hunt, like you want to. 

But it also feels selfish. Din knows. He knows why he wants to ask you, and it feels dishonorable. 

You roast the fish, and then eat back to back like you always do. 

No one has ever made that consideration for him before, to make that simple change so he could eat at the same time. 

“Mando,” you curl against his spine because you always somehow finish your food before he does. Maybe because he spends too much time thinking about your warmth pressed against his back. 

“Yes?”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“Yes.” 

You make a noise like a hum and settle again. You fist a hand into his coat and he thinks about you in his arms again. Something painful clenches in his chest. He wishes he could just tell you that he cares for you. 

It’s quiet for a while before you suddenly ask, “Have you ever danced?” 

The question is a little odd but he answers you anyways. “No.” 

“We used to have dances all the time. Where I’m from.” you say. “It's something I really miss about home. I wasn’t any good at it but it was fun.” Your cheek is pressed to his shoulder. “I could teach you, since you’ve shown me so much.” 

He almost refuses before thinking better of it. He sets aside what’s left of his dinner and slips the bandana back over his nose. “Okay. Show me.” 

“Really?” You ask as he stands, clearly surprised.

“Yes.” Din helps you up from the ground, and you smile at him. He patiently lets you lead him through a couple steps that he’ll never remember the motions to, before you settle in a slow sway. 

He closes his eyes, because it's nice and he’s gotten what he wants again, you curled in his arms. “This was everyone’s favorite part,” you say. “Just holding and swaying.” 

It is nice. It’s comforting, the feeling of you in his arms, warm against his chest. 

He pulls you tighter to him, rests his chin against your shoulder, and leads you in a slow circle. 

Maybe he will remember the steps, because the laugh it pulls from you is worth it, the pleasant weight of you against his chest is worth it. 

You pull in shaky breaths, and he doesn’t make a noise of protest when your arm curls around him inside his coat. You smell like bluebells, like new rain on grass. 

He isn’t sure how long you stay together like that. 

One evening, several days on, Din just watches you breathe from his place leaning back against a fallen tree trunk. You’re closing in on the end of your journey together, and feels he should while he has the chance. You’re on the ground next to him, chewing on the slice of apple he’d just handed you. 

He likes watching you, and he’s glad you’re slightly in front of him so he can do it in peace. 

You’re pretty. Everything you do is beautiful. 

It’s not right, but he understands why you’re coveted. 

It’s also not right that he covets you.

He stares at you for another long minute before returning his gaze to the horizon. The sky is still boiling, red bleeding into orange as the sun settles lower through the long waves of grass. He’d stopped you earlier than he normally would have. 

Maybe he’s trying to prolong your time together just a little bit. 

Your body is pressed to the side of his bent leg, your chin on his knee, the warmth a comforting thing. 

You’ve completely let your guard down around him again. He doesn’t blame you for thinking the worst of him, for being wary in the beginning. What else could you be expected to think? He’s become protective of you, he’d kill those men again, if given the chance. You’re protective of him too, now. You make sure his wound, shallow and superficial as it is, is taken well care of. You make sure he eats, and rests.

Din likes you. He doesn’t want to leave you in some town that would probably treat you just the way the last one had. 

You’re smart and capable and a fast learner, and you deserve better than to be whatever thing they were trying to mold you into. 

You’ve become incredibly important to him over the last few months, ever since you offered to bandage him in front of that apothecary. He cares for you, and the last two weeks have only solidified that. He always wished he had more time with you when he visited you, and now that he’s had it, it's made everything worse, and much more complicated. He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to let you go. 

He wants to court you, but he’s not sure if the way Mandalorains court would mean much of anything to you, and he’s not sure you want that anyway. Besides, anytime he’s tried that, it’s gone badly.

He doesn’t want things to go badly with you. 

That, and he knows he won’t measure up to what you need. He never has. 

“Din?” You ask suddenly, turning from the fire to look at him. He raises a brow and continues slicing through the apple he’s cutting up for you one piece at a time.  

He likes the easy way you curl into him, craves the contact, the warmth like nothing else he ever has. 

He offers the next slice of apple to you, perched on the edge of the knife. 

You take it with a glowing smile. He knows it pleases you when he does little things like that for you. 

“Y’know,” you fidget with the slice of apple for a long moment before biting into it. “I’ve never met a man like you before.” 

He tilts his head. “What do you mean?” 

You smile and look away, scuffing your boot along the ground. 

The terrain turned in the last two days, from the light brown of the plains to the deep, rich coffee earth that lies in the foothills of the mountains. 

He’s close to home, close to losing you. 

“You don’t seem to really want anything from me,” you shrug. “You know how the sheriff treated me. Wasn’t any different with any of the other men in the town, or where I came from. I know what they wanted from me. I’m not stupid.” 

Din doesn’t say anything, just watches you reach up to push your hat back on your forehead.

“I mean, men have tried to control me most of my life,” you admit, still not looking at him. “And you don’t. You seem to see me as you said, equal.” You pause before lifting your eyes. “I was married. Before.” 

“Sheriff said as much,” Din says. “Knew you were hiding from someone.” 

That had been the sheriff’s point to Din that evening he helped you leave. You were desperate and alone. Weak, he’d said. But stubborn, and he’d already picked you, you just didn’t realize it. 

Din couldn’t have left you there, he wouldn’t have gone anywhere without you after hearing what he had. 

“Right,” you nod and take the next slice of apple he offers you. You reach over with your other hand and cup your fingers around his wrist. It sends a jolt through him anytime you touch him, and now is no different. A slow warmth spreads through him. You’ve been touching him a lot lately. “I know. But he didn’t know why.” You glance at him from beneath lowered, thick lashes, and wait for him to nod before you continue. 

You release his wrist and fiddle with the apple slice. “I did love him. He was so kind and courted me properly.” A jealousy that means nothing rakes along his veins, that someone before you’d known him had gotten the chance, that you’d married him. “At first, anyways. And all the girls kept telling me how good it’d be once I was married. That being intimate was…something special. Only I couldn’t understand what they meant. I didn’t want that, but I thought I just had to wait.” 

You shrug, “But that feeling never came. And I realized something was wrong with me. Because even as much as I cared for him and for other people, the little crushes over the years, I’d never wanted anything more. I’ve never really wanted to be intimate with anyone. And if I understand it right, that’s not normally how people feel.” 

There’s a pause, where you stare into the fire and then gaze toward the faded midnight blue of the horizon. He watches the way a tendon in your jaw jumps as you chew the apple slice. 

Part of him can’t believe what he’s hearing. He’s never come across anyone who feels the way he does, he’s never heard anyone else describe what he feels. He holds his breath, heart seizing in his chest, not daring to think you might be saying what he thinks you are. Din opens his mouth when you continue. 

“I’ve…I never felt that way about anyone,” you repeat. “I know somethin’ is wrong. I should feel something. But I don’t.” You shrug, “Anyways, he was my husband and I did love him, so we were intimate. But then I couldn’t get pregnant, and he said it was because I didn’t really want him, because I was broken. My body wasn’t welcoming. I was too cold.” 

You glance up at him, “So that’s why I had to leave. It got around the village and-,” You take in a sharp breath and shake your head, “Anyways so I left, and I decided I’d do things my way. Makes for a very lonely life, though, when you know you’ll never be good enough. I know I’ll always be alone.” 

You pat his hands again, frozen in place on the apple. “I’m sorry if I’ve said too much,” your voice takes on a nervous tinge. “I realize it’s a sensitive subject but you’ve shared so much with me, I thought you deserved to know why I was in the situation I was in. Especially since you helped me. You saved my life, I know you did. Twice. So, you should know.” 

You breathe out hard, your hands releasing his and twisting together anxiously. “And…well, I’ve come to care for you. Maybe it's presumptuous of me but, I want you to know that. How I feel and what you did for me. You saved me from more than you can ever know. Given me more, with all you’ve shared.” 

Din turns toward you and meets your eyes, your irises are glowing in the fading light. You’re so beautiful, and he can’t believe you’ve put to words something he’s always felt. That there’s someone else that feels that way. 

You swallow nervously and look away from him. “I know it's strange and you probably don’t understand. I thought I should just tell you because…I think we’ve been going along pretty well and I don’t want to disappoint you.” 

Din’s heart lurches. He needs to say something. 

He sets the apple and knife to the side and captures your fluttering hands. “I understand. I - it's the same for me.” 

You shrink back from him, your expression pinching in. It’s a pained look, like you think he’s making fun of you, like you can’t fathom someone might feel the same. And, he supposes, a couple minutes ago he hadn’t been able to either. “You don’t have to be cruel. We can just pretend I didn’t - I know I shouldn’t have said it, I’m-,” 

“No,” he interrupts. “No. I’m not - There was someone once. Someone I loved. I courted her. I did everything right. But it - it didn’t work, because I didn’t want to be with her that way. I wanted everything else but that.” 

You stare at him, unblinking. “You cared for her?” You ask slowly. 

He tugs down the bandana from over his nose and looks at you head on. You blink in surprise, your eyes flitting down his face. “Yes. But she wanted to be intimate and I didn’t. I never felt that.” 

“Oh,” you say, still staring at his face, your eyes darting from his lips to his eyes and back. “So, you’ve never-?”

He’s shaking his head before you’ve even finished the question. “I understand. Part of it at least. At first, I thought I just didn’t have time - traveling, bounties - but then realized I - I feel what you do. I never wanted it.”

You don’t answer him for a long time as you search his eyes. “Really?” 

“Yes.”  

“I didn’t know - I-,” you stumble over your words, leaning closer. “I thought there was something wrong with me.” 

He nods and takes the apple and knife back into his hands to steady himself. “I didn’t either.” 

You smile suddenly, so widely it looks just a little painful. He watches you fight the expression back as you bite your lip and look down. “Well,” you say, “ain’t that somethin’.” 

“Here,” he nudges another slice of apple into your hand.

You take it from his fingers, still smiling. 

Din presses his knee into shoulder, and you immediately lean into him. “I care for you,” he says before he can think better of it. 

You finish chewing the bite of apple before answering. “I know.” You look up, “I was just worried I wouldn’t be enough.” You sit up fully and reach up to cup his cheek gently. 

He leans into your touch. It’s all he’s ever wanted, your touch and attention. You smooth your fingers along his jawline, the tug of your skin against his is pleasant. “You’re handsome,” you say. 

A flush burns hot through him, but he doesn’t answer, lost in the way you cup his face in your hands. 

You smile, and lean up to kiss him. 

Din hesitates for half a second before meeting your lips. You taste like apple and smell like the fresh breath of rain brewing on the horizon, like desert flowers. 

You settle softly into his arms when he pulls you into them, your fingers skating down his throat and over his collarbone. 

He anchors his hands on your waist when you open your mouth to him. He’s hungry for you, and you return the press of his lips against yours eagerly. You’re so warm against, against the chill of the night, and you grin when he pulls back to rest his forehead against yours. 

Your mouth is just a little swollen when he sweeps his thumb against your lips. 

The truth of you settles down in his bones, you were never going to want more than he could give. You would never find him wanting. 

He kisses you again, and you laugh when he does. 

The next morning, when a town comes into view on the horizon, he manages to say it. “You should come to Mandalore.” 

“What?” 

“That town,” he says, tipping his head towards the collection of buildings just in view. “It’s not going to be any different from the others.”

“I thought they weren’t a problem anymore?” Your fingers hook anxiously into his coat. 

“No,” he says, his voice slightly gruff as he tries to tell himself it wasn’t a bad idea to bring it up. Just because you care for him, just because you had the same kind of feelings he did, doesn't mean you’d want to stay with him. “Not them,” he says. “But their people might be just the same.” He brings Crest to a halt. “And you wouldn’t ever have to worry about that with me.” 

“With you?” You ask softly.

You peek around at him, eyes wide and waiting. “With us,” he corrects. “With Mandalorians.” 

A smile breaks over your face and you pat his side. “It’s okay, I like the thought of being with you.” His heart nearly stops at your words, affection seeping into his very blood. His love for you integrating itself into his very being, the core of himself and his creed. “But are you allowed to do that? Just bring people back to the cult?” You tease.

“Not a cult.”

“Not a cult,” you agree. “But, really, are you?”  

“Yes,” he swings down from Crest and offers you a hand. “I am.” You let him help you down, and both of you stare out over the horizon to the town. “I will take you there, if that’s what you want,” he says, not letting go of your hand. “But I think it would be more of the same.” 

You tug at the brim of your hat before taking a step back from him. “Yeah, probably.” 

“Mandalore would be unknown to you,” he continues. “But you wouldn’t have to stay. Not if you wouldn’t want to.” 

You turn and gaze toward the mountains. “How far?” 

“Another day’s ride. Quicker if we pick up the pace.” 

“Have we been going slower than usual?” 

“I didn’t want to push Crest with two of us. This journey usually takes under a week for me alone.” 

You smile again. “Oh, and here I thought we were makin’ time.” 

He ignores your joke. This is important to him, and important that you know what choice you’re making. “You know much of Mandalorians now. You can decide if you’d like to live amongst them.” 

Your mouth twists to the side. “But, would I be allowed to learn to become a warrior? And learn to use the stars for navigation? And how to track people and animals?” 

“You already have - you are-,” he starts. 

“And I wouldn’t have to marry. And-,” You stop and stare at him for a long moment, your eyes searching his. “I could be myself and I would be with you.” 

“Yes.” A strange swell of pride bubbles up. “You would be with me. And you could leave, if you wanted. Or, I can take you to the town now.” 

You take his hand again, and consider your twinned fingers. “Would you visit me there?” 

“Yes.” He’d go to you anywhere, visit you wherever you settled. 

For a moment, you’re quiet, and he resigns himself to you leaving him. At least you wouldn’t be so far away. “I want to come with you,” you say, meeting his eyes. 

The sharp pang of relief swells in his lungs. Din steps forward and tugs you into him, cradling your face between his palms. “Good,” he says. “I don’t think I can be without you now.” 

You reach up to tug down the bandana over his mouth, your eyes running hungrily over his face, drinking him in. He tilts your face up and kisses you gently, unable to believe you’re real, someone who fits with the pieces of himself. 

He had been so sure he was alone in his feelings. 

And then, you, a perfect fit. 

[iammorethananame-library]

I read this within the first 24 hours of it being posted and I've been trying to collect myself enough to leave a coherent comment since then.

I've had the phrase "Joel Miller is a married man" on loop in my head since I read it. I'm heartbroken. I'm betrayed. I'm angry. I'm desperate for an explanation. JJ, I am trying SO hard to trust you right now. I know you've said stuff about never redeeming a character that's cheated in your writing and I am clinging to that! But I'm also really hoping that it's not just a flat out lie cuz I want that groveling apology from Joel. I want him to have fucked up a bit (but not as much as Sugar currently thinks right now). I just- my head is spinning with the possibilities of what could be going on right now!!! It's been lurking and lingering in my brain since I finished the chapter.

Also! Rip to Sugar on that flight back, it's gonna be Rough! Also also, rip to Joel when Nima finds out, I don't think Sugar's gonna be able to hold her back (excellent first meeting opportunity though 😂). Last also, if things don't get cleared up by the time the jet lands, I have a feeling poor Riley's gonna get caught up on the middle of these two idiots (affectionate) with NO idea why the vibes are suddenly Rancid.

I've just been having a lot of thoughts about them. It got to the point that I had to give my roommate an entire rundown of the fic up to this point so that I could talk about my theories and emotions. Just full on raving. (Shout out to MJ, you're a saint!!)

Anyways, everyone should read this fic, and JJ, you should feel very proud of yourself for making the internet people go completely feral 💜💜💜💜💜

TAKE CARE OF YOU [8B]

Sugar Daddy!Joel Miller x Female!Reader

Overall Warnings: slow burn, angst/comfort, power imbalance, age gap, possessive tendencies, eventual smut, #daddyissues, independent reader learns to let go and relax, emotionally constipated Joel Miller learns to be vulnerable; (more specific warnings to be added to individual chapters if necessary)

Chapter Word Count: 11,971

Summary: You spent your entire adult life supporting yourself and barely getting by. It’s why a life of ease offered to you by a mysterious stranger sounded so foreign and unbelievable. Joel Miller, dressed in flannels that had seen better days, didn’t look like the kind who could promise you the world on a plate, but he seemed desperate to help out. All he asks is that you let him take care of you. That wouldn’t be so hard. Would it?

[a/n: it's here, holy moly. I'm glad I split it up otherwise this would've been a 23k word chapter 😂 love all of you for reading though and double love the beautiful souls who leave me words of kindness!]

Chapter Specific Warning: masturbation (F), reader is a thirsty bitch (which like is totally fair considering Joel Miller is 🥵), fluff and my usual attempt at humor, angst (but like the 'please trust me as the writer babes' kind)

08: YOU'RE JOEL MILLER'S SUGAR BABY!

"in the mess of feelings, focus on what is important, what brings peace to your soul, and let all the rest go." -all is not lost

The room was sweltering. You were damp with sweat. It’s the first thing you notice when you slowly begin to awaken. The second thing you notice is the strong arm resting around your waist and the firm chest at your back. Your groggy sleep heavy mind reminds you that Joel and you had gone to bed not too long after you iced his hand for him. Granted, being tangled in his limbs was a new thing.

You took a deep breath and settled against him. Everything about this moment screamed comfort. The soft morning sunlight streaming through the window, the warmth radiating from Joel’s embrace, his soft breaths fanning against the back of your neck. You could spend eternity in his arms.

Your squirming hadn’t woken Joel, but his sleeping form shifted to match yours. Any leftover drowsiness you had vanished when you felt something firm press against your ass. It took you a beat to recognize what was pressing into you because there was no way it was what you thought it was. Joel gave off ‘big dick’ energy without a doubt, but this was significant enough that you had to be mistaken. You squirmed once more and Joel’s arm tightened around you, pulling you in closer, and there was no mistaking it now. The hard bulge pushing perfectly against you was his cock. Holy fuck. When Joel had said he was a ‘big man’ yesterday you thought it just meant his broad shoulders.

Joel let out a soft sigh, a content mumble, and in a panic you let your body go limp and closed your eyes once more. Seconds later, you felt Joel stiffen behind you⏤ sucking in a sharp breath through his nose. You kept your own breathing even and smooth as Joel stayed completely still. Finally, he slowly pulled his hips back, trying not to shift the mattress, and untangled his arm from you. You rolled over and continued to feign sleep. 

“Jesus Christ.” Joel mumbled softly. You heard his soft steps padding across the room behind you, and you didn’t move until the bathroom door shut. 

You rolled onto your back then and lifted your hands to cover your face. 

Idiot, idiot, idiot. You chastised yourself. There was an ache in your core that you only had yourself to blame for. All these missed opportunities. You went to bed last night without kissing Joel. You woke up this morning and pretended to still be sleeping when Joel’s dick was literally pressed against your ass. The sound of the shower kicked on and your mind involuntarily conjured an image of Joel under a spray of hot water. The urge to slip your hand under your waistband and touch yourself was growing more and more overwhelming by the second. 

After a glance to the door, your need shoved common sense to the back of your brain, trampling over it to get in control, and your hand slipped into your pants. This had to be fast and the absolute dripping desire you found told you that wouldn’t be tough to manage. You dragged your middle and ring finger up your wet lips to the apex where you let it curl around your clit in circular motions a few times. Your breath hitched and you pushed your fingers back down through your wetness to sink into yourself. With the memory of his cock pressed against you and his hot breath on your neck, you were already dangerously close to snapping. The pace you found with yourself was fast rather than the languid way you usually would pleasure yourself, and you let the heel of your palm grind against your clit. It was startling how quick and hard you came at your own hand with the image of Joel’s broad shoulders and rough hands in the forefront of your mind. The beginnings of a cry accidentally slipped from your lips and you bit down on the inside of your cheek to shut yourself up. Your hand lingered against yourself as you caught your breath and let the waves of pleasure ebb and flow over you. 

The shower squeaked off and you sat up breathless, hand yanked out of your shorts. You could hear Joel moving around the bathroom and you struggled to calm your racing heart. As you shifted in place, trying to piece yourself back together, the feel of your now soaked panties was made more apparent and the back of your neck burned with a new warmth. You sent a silent prayer up to whatever deity may be listening that there wouldn’t be a noticeable damp spot on your sleep shorts when you stood.

  Much sooner than you thought, the bathroom door opened and your spine stiffened to sit straight up with your hands resting in your lap. Joel stepped out, hair damp and slicked back, with a towel wrapped around his waist. His eyes landed on yours and widened, “Hey. Hey.” Joel cleared his throat and his hand fell to readjust the towel on his waist. “You’re awake.”

“Mhmm.” You hummed with a tight lipped smile. Joel stood in the doorway like a deer in the headlights and you felt a weird awkward tension. There was no way Joel heard you. Not over the sound of the shower. Plus, you were mostly quiet. The tension must be coming from somewhere else. You pointed your hand out toward him with a nod, “So, I didn’t kick you last night, right?”

Joel’s face cracked into an amused smile and he chuckled, “Not a bit. I’m impressed.” Joel came further into the room and nodded back toward the bathroom. “You need it? I can change out here.”

“Yes. Yes, please.” You slid out of the bed and tugged the edge of your shirt down a bit⏤ not that it helped in covering your shorts. Joel’s eyes trailed up your legs to meet your gaze and you tried not to feel self conscious in your morning state. Between the bed head and the state of your underwear, you felt like a spotlight was shining down on you. 

Without pausing, you made a beeline to the bathroom. Before you got too far past Joel he caught you by the elbow and pulled you a bit closer. Your face burned warm under Joel’s stare. It was soft and warm, but underneath that was a hunger in his eyes that you were positive would remain burned into your memory forever⏤ haunting every dream you had of him. The corner of Joel’s lips twitched up. “I gotta say it proper.” He pinched your chin between his thumb and forefinger and traced the bottom curve of your lip. “Good mornin', sugar.”

“Uh, yeah.” You mumbled in a daze. Joel raised an eyebrow at you skeptically, and you shook your head with a small laugh. “I mean, good morning, daddy.”

“Good girl.” Joel approved. As if you hadn’t just touched yourself at the thought of him, you felt a new ache between your legs demanding attention. He tapped his fingers under your chin once and pulled away. “Go on. I wanna spend as much time with ya as I can 'fore I’m dragged away for work.”

You smirked and scrounged up every ounce of bold bravery you had in your body to reach out and set a hand on his bare chest. Joel sucked in a sharp breath and the look of hunger burned so hot you could’ve sworn you literally felt the heat on your skin. “You could always play hooky with me.”

“As temptin' as that is,” Joel cleared his throat and rested his hand on top of yours, allowing his thumb to rub against the back of your hand, “Tess'd literally castrate me if I skipped anythin' today.”

“Well, we can’t have that, now can we?” You teased before you even considered the words. Joel raised his eyebrows with a slight tilt of his head and your eyes widened at your own words. “I, uh, I mean,” You used your other hand to point to the suitcase, “I should… I need to get ready so we can… yupp.”

Joel squeezed your hand then lifted it up off your chest to press a soft kiss against the palm of your hand. At the simple touch, your entire body relaxed and you thanked that same deity you prayed to moments before that the hand you settled on his chest hadn't been the one you pleasured yourself with.

A part of you wondered if you were going to melt into a puddle right here and now. He nodded his head toward the bathroom with a small smile and let go of your hand. Your first step away from him was more or less a stumble. Joel chuckled and you scrambled to grab a swimsuit and cover from the suitcase before rushing away to compose yourself behind closed doors and out of view of those tempting, hungry eyes.

When you stepped out of the bathroom twenty or so minutes later, dressed for a casual day by the pool, you were met with quite the sight. Joel was in the process of putting on his watch, but his outfit was what caught your eye. Joel was going golfing apparently. He had on a pair of khaki slacks with an olive collared, short sleeve shirt tucked into it. The shirt was just tight enough to stretch across his broad shoulders and the sleeves clung tightly to his thick arms. A pair of sunglasses were hanging from his open collar.

“Hello, Tiger Woods.” You said appreciatively. 

Joel glanced over briefly before doing a double take. His own eyes traced slowly down your form before confidently meeting your eyes once more. He chuckled, “Tiger Woods?”

“It’s the only golfer I know off the top of my head.” You replied and closed the space so you could reach out and run a hand down his arm. Joel’s eyes followed your hands' movements. “I like this look on you. Very preppy.” Joel’s gaze snapped to yours and he raised an eyebrow in question. You grinned impishly, “Golf Daddy.”

Joel laughed in amusement and shook his head. You looked around him to see his wallet was resting on the dresser by a black baseball cap. You frowned, “Are you gonna wear a hat?”

“Was gonna. Why?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen you in a hat before.” You shrugged. It just seemed a damn shame to hide Joel’s fluffy hair. Every time you saw him, you craved to drag your fingers through it. Not even in lust either. You just wanted to play with his wild slightly curled locks that seemed to have a mind of their own regardless of how Joel tried to shape it. Not to say you weren’t thirsty for this man. You also wanted to tug on his hair as he buried his tongue between your legs. The sudden and intrusive thought had a pang of desire cut through you. Jesus, at this rate you’d have to throw yourself into the pool head first just to cool off a bit. “Lemme see.”

Joel appeased your request and picked up the hat with an over exaggerated sigh⏤ as if you were asking him to carry the world. He pulled the cap on and tilted his head at you in question. Still doing whatever they seemed to want, his hair stuck out around the edges of the hat in half curls that you wanted to twist around your finger. “Well, sugar?”

“Okay. I guess I approve.” You grinned.

“Glad to hear it.” Joel reached out and set a hand on your waist to tug you a bit closer. “Ya know, I got a stetson at home. Does that meet your criteria or do I gotta get rid of it?”

You recognized the word and your eyes widened at the thought of Joel wearing an actual cowboy hat, “No, you don’t. You’re joking.”

“I’m from Texas.” He countered.

It was pathetic and sad the lengths you would go to see Joel Miller in a cowboy hat. The thought of Joel Miller in nothing but the cowboy hat flickered through your thoughts and you took in a slow breath. Fuck. Never mind throwing yourself in head first, you’d have to drown yourself in the pool to get these thoughts out of there. You cleared your throat, “I will allow it.”

“Really? Don't even gotta try it on for you or nothin'?” 

“Well,” You shrugged, “I wouldn’t be opposed to a… a viewing.”

Joel chuckled and tapped his hand against your waist a couple times before grabbing his wallet and sticking it in his back pocket. He motioned for you to follow him. “C'mon.” You grabbed your phone and hurried after him. “You’re usin' up all our breakfast time droolin' over me.”

“I am not drooling over you!” You gave him a light push.

“Don’t worry.” Joel paused as you both neared the door and before you knew it his arm was wrapped around your waist to tug you into his side. He leaned down to whisper in your ear, “You got me all hot an' bothered too, sugar.”

Flustered and giddy, Joel whisked you away for breakfast.

The two of you ended up at the same little cafe as yesterday, but this time they were serving breakfast dishes rather than the more broad brunch option. Joel had apologized profusely for taking you to the same place since he didn’t have time to take you out of the resort to eat somewhere else. You found the whole situation hilarious because never in a million years would you have even thought to complain or be bothered by it. Hell, you didn't pay it a single thought until Joel brought it up.

“Can I ask for a favor?” Joel suddenly asked as the two of you left the cafe. Your eyes widened to a degree that you were sure was comical. All the time you spent with him, and he never asked you for a favor of any kind. Joel never requested anything. You were actually happy to hear him ask because you wanted to give him more. 

“Anything, Joel.”

Joel chuckled but quickly cleared his throat. There was a look of anxiety written across his features, but when he spoke his voice still stayed strong and firm. “Stay in the Wynn today.” Despite broaching the topic as ‘asking for a favor’ there was a finality to his word that left no room for argument. “I’ll walk ya to the Wynn pool, I reserved a cabana there for you too, an' when you’re done just stay on campus.”

It wouldn’t be a difficulty. It wasn’t like you were being restricted to Guantanamo Bay⏤ this was the Wynn Resort in Vegas. There would be plenty to keep you occupied. You hesitated to respond to him though simply because you couldn’t puzzle out Joel’s expression. It wasn’t a difficult request, and yet Joel still had that nervous energy burning in his dark eyes. Almost as if he expected you to rebel against his request.

“Can I ask why?” Literally, there was nothing out of this building that interested you exploring as a solo errand, you came for Joel, but you were curious nonetheless.

“I hate the idea of leavin' you all alone.” Joel sighed. He readjusted the baseball cap on his head with a frown. “I really did try an' get outta this golf game, but Tess wouldn’ bite. Even Tommy was bitchin’ 'bout it.” He grumbled the last words with a tinge of annoyance.

You shook your head with a laugh and touched his arm. “Joel, it’s fine. I’m a big girl. I can find something to occupy my time until later today.”

“I know, but I brought you here to show you a good time, sugar.”

“You’re working. This is your job.” You tried to reassure him. Joel didn’t seem appeased, but he squeezed your hand and pulled you through the lobby. You leaned into his side with a smirk. “Besides, if you don’t go to work, how are you going to be able to afford to take care of me?” Joel’s face stretched out into a wide smile. His dimple was ever present and you couldn’t help but lift your free hand to poke him lightly in the cheek right over it making him chuckle. “I’m a needy girl.”

“You’re somethin' alright.”

“Something good?”

Joel rolled his eyes at your teasing smile and brought your hand up to kiss the back of it. “Somethin' absolutely incredible.” 

Your cheeks warmed pleasantly at his words. Joel was so charming and forthcoming with his compliments, yet every single time he spoke your heart would flutter. You never tired of his words of praise, and it was probably because they were always said with so much sincerity and warmth.

Joel was walking you to the pool, you knew that, but you were surprised when he walked out of the building with you and into the pool area. He scooped up a couple towels when you passed the stand and then he led you to a cute, little cabana. It was close to the water so you wouldn’t have to travel far, but it looked like it sat on a more secluded side of the pool.

“Tonight, we have the work dinner, but afterwards we can go out.” Joel reassured in a firm tone. He had already told you about the dinner. It’d be a collection of other heads of companies and Joel warned you it would be dry and boring. “I promise.”

“I’m looking forward to dinner tonight.” You said and it wasn’t even a lie. He gave you a dry look. You shook your head and cupped his hand with both of yours to squeeze his. “I am!” You shrugged a bit in mild embarrassment as you admitted the truth. “I always look forward to spending time with you, Joel. No matter what we end up doing.”

Joel’s gaze softened, and you pressed your lips together and shrugged again not knowing what else to do. He chuckled and leaned forward until his lips found the skin right under your hairline. Joel lingered there and your eyes fluttered close as you took in a deep breath of him. The second he pulled away you were already missing his touch. 

“I got my phone on me. You need anythin' at all, sugar, I’m one call away.”

You nodded and Joel lingered for a moment longer before making his leave. As you sat down on the chair outside the cabana, the towels he grabbed in your lap, you watched him go⏤ eyes raking up and down his frame unabashedly. When Joel reached the doors that would take him out of sight, he surprised you by turning around to give you one more glance. His gaze met yours and you spotted his smirk at the realization that you had been watching him go. You couldn't even find it in yourself to be embarrassed. Joel winked before slipping away and you flopped back onto the chair with a soft sigh.

God, you had it bad for that man.

You had come to Vegas for Joel, but you had to admit it was kind of nice to have some alone time. It had been a long time since you had sat by a pool and just soaked in the sun. Maybe a year ago now? Nathan and you had taken a trip to the beach one weekend. It wasn’t a bad trip. Hell, it was possibly one of the last times you were really happy with him. But, it was a far cry from where you were now. Sitting in one of the lounge chairs in the shallow end of the pool with a book in one hand and a drink in the other⏤ not a care in the world. That was the difference. Unlike the last time you sat by a pool, you weren’t thinking about work or rent or bills. You just enjoyed yourself.

“Hi, is this seat taken?”

You looked up from your book to see a woman pointing to the chair next to you. She was gorgeous with a white one piece that complimented her curves and her light brown skin tone. The woman wore a large sun hat with her black hair tied off in two braids. 

“Oh, no. Go ahead⏤”

“Oh my god!” She chirped suddenly and you jumped in surprise at the squeal. She settled on the lounge chair but sat on the side of it so she could face you. “You’re that woman!”

You nodded blankly, “I am a woman, yes.”

She laughed and waved her hand. “My bad. Guess I should’ve been more clear. You’re Joel Miller’s sugar baby!” Your eyes widened and you just stared at her in shock. She paused in thought then snapped her fingers and said your name. This time your jaw dropped as the shock doubled. “You are her, right?”

“That…is me.” You replied slowly. You set your book and drink down on the side table and turned on the chair with a shake of your head. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”

“I go by Yo-yo.”

You pressed your lips together and glanced back at your drink. You only had the one pina colada so far, but it sure as hell felt you were wasted. What was going on? While you tried to puzzle out if you were having a stroke or not, Yo-yo settled in her chair and pulled a bit of sunscreen out of the bag she had set on her own side table.

“Yo-yo?” You questioned skeptically.

She glanced your way and rolled her eyes, “It’s a ridiculous name, right? I wasn’t about to use my real name. Plus, my sugar daddy liked it. You do what you gotta to get that bank.” She winked at you. “Am I right, or am I right?”

“I have so many questions.” You mumbled.

“Hm?”

“How do you know my name?”

“You're with Joel Miller. It's always a big deal. I mean, handsome bachelor, filthy rich, and that sexy accent and voice? Ugh.” Yo-yo groaned. “I am so jealous. My daddy is CEO of Simmons Construction. Very rich, but he’s 62 and it shows.” She finished rubbing sunscreen on her front and held the bottle out towards you with a sheepish smile. “Can I bother you with getting my back?”

You took the sunscreen and stood to rub it into her back like she asked. While doing so, you asked, “I know there’s this supposed ‘sugar baby’ network, but I’m not seriously this infamous am I? For you to know my name?”

“Normally, no.” You finished her back and she turned back around. You handed her the bottle. “But, not only did you nab the sexiest Texan to ever exist, but you also pissed off Rosalind Turby.” She laughed and you winced. Yo-yo shook her hand at you. “No, no! I’m not criticizing. I’m honestly impressed. Rosalind is such a cunt.”

Your eyes widened. “That woman is becoming a bigger part of my life than I thought she would.”

“Oh, if you stay in this game, baby, she’s your new god.”

“She’s that important?”

“Rosalind is Queen Sugar Baby.” Yo-yo rolled her eyes and pulled on a pair of sunglasses. “She’s been running this game for ages, and she’s very serious about her girls being the perfect ‘baby’. And if you’re not then she makes your life hell.”

You scoffed, “So, I pissed her off by not being a ‘perfect’ sugar baby?”

“No,” Yo-yo held up a finger to you, “You pissed her off because you took what she wanted.”

“Joel?” You cried. The woman had come to your bakery for her shot of him, yes, but you didn’t think she’d hate you enough to make you infamous around the community. “Seriously?”

Yo-yo pulled her glasses down the bridge of your nose to shoot you a wide grin and wink, “Can you blame her? God, Joel Miller has a face that was made to be ridden.” The weather was close to 100 degrees, you were cooking, yet still her words brought a whole new level of heat to your face. She pulled her sunglasses back up and moaned. “Girl, you have to tell me how good he is. There is not way he's anything less than fucking fantastic.”

The memory of his devastatingly large cock pressed firmly against your ass this morning made your breath hitch. Yo-yo continued to stare at you, as if waiting for you to elaborate on the dick you had yet to see, and you steered the conversation away. “So, do I need to worry about Rosalind showing up at my house with a meat cleaver?”

Yo-yo laughed, “Don’t worry about it. You’re not the only one on her shit list. She hates me too, and I’m not dead yet.”

“You too?” You asked. “Did you steal Simmons’ CEO from her?”

“Ugh, nobody wants that man. He’s basically satan. I’m doing the world a favor by keeping him away from other women.” She laughed. “No, no, she hates me because I technically ‘scam’ my daddies. Fucking ridiculous if you ask me.” She put the word in air quotations. “But, why shouldn’t I trick them? You can’t trust these men. They’re all just old pervs looking to wet their dicks.”

“Not all of them.” You said firmly. That wasn’t Joel. Yes, he was technically a sugar daddy, but that wasn’t what your relationship with him was. 

Yo-yo held her hands up in mock surrender. She sat up and threw her legs over the side to face you once more. “Listen, you gotta look out for yourself. It’s easy to get lost in the relationship, especially if you’re actually attracted to the guy, but after a few daddies you realize they’re using you. So, why not use them? For example, Simmons buys me a lot of really nice things, but I don’t keep it all.” She smirked. “I sell it on the side. It’s barely even a scam considering he’s buying the stuff for me to have. That means I can do whatever I want with it. Daddies don’t like the idea of a baby saving up money for themselves though and Rosalind has a stick up her ass about it. But, hey, I got a nice little nest egg saved up for when Simmons decides 25 is too old for him and wants a younger girl.” She shrugged. “You should consider it. Purses and dresses and jewelry are all nice, but they won’t last.”

You twisted your lips at her words. Honestly, you thought what she was doing was smart. The situations between you were different though. Right? Joel cared about you. He wanted to take care of you. A sinking feeling filled your belly. Yo-yo suggested planning for the future, and realistically speaking… Did you even have a future with Joel? You were planning on initiating something, giving into the temptation that was Joel, but where would something like this go? You felt like there was real chemistry between the two of you, but that hardly meant he wanted you around forever.

“How…” You shook your head and hoped the negative thoughts would loosen and fall away. There was another question you had for her. “How were you so sure I was Joel’s sugar baby. He could've brought anyone with him.”

Yo-yo waved over a waitress. “Easy. We’re in Vegas for the same reason. To be shown off.” You furrowed your brow and she shot you a curious look. “You’re coming to the dinner tonight, right? With all the contracting bigwigs?”

“I…am.” You nodded.

“Good. I know the other two sugar babies that’ll be there and they take this ‘getting shown off by their daddy’ thing so seriously. It’ll be nice to have someone normal to talk to.” Yo-yo replied as the waitress reached you. “Yes, I’ll take a mai tai. You want anything? It’s on my daddy.” She smirked and wiggled a gold credit card in her hand. 

“Sure, I’ll… take the same.”

Yo-yo continued speaking to the waitress and you settled back in your lounge chair. You and Joel were different. He didn’t bring you to Vegas to show you off. He brought you here to spend time with you. Granted, there was no reason he couldn’t do both. You shook your head. No, Joel’s intentions were pure. He took care of you, defended you, and he never once pressured you into anything you were uncomfortable with. Joel had given you no reason to doubt him. 

“Joel didn’t bring me to show me off.” You said firmly once the waitress left. You wanted to defend him. Joel wasn’t like the guy she was with right now.

Yo-yo frowned and waved her hand at you. “I’m so sorry. I’m not trying to upset you, I swear. I don’t even know the man and obviously you do. Maybe he is the unicorn of sugar daddies. Caring and kind and genuine. Hell, I hope he is.”

“What we have is…” You almost said the word ‘real’, but you worried Yo-yo really would think you were just some doe-eyed, naive fool. “It’s different. I’ve never done this before, and neither has he, so we’re learning together. Just having fun and… What?” You noticed Yo-yo was giving you a look that could only be described as pity. “What? What is it?”

“Joel Miller has had a sugar baby before.”

You felt a chill run down your spine as you stared at her in dumbstruck shock. One of the things that put you at ease about this relationship was the fact that he was just as new to this as you were. The two of you sat in an awkward silence as the world continued on around you. 

“Did he tell you that you were his first?” Yo-yo asked.

“No. Rosalind did.”

She nodded. “That makes sense. Rumor says the girl with Joel Miller was like us. Rosalind didn’t consider her legit.” You opened your mouth, but Yo-yo seemed to read your mind. “I don’t know much else. The only reason I know she exists is because when I was talking to a friend of mine about Rosalind's temper tantrum over you she mentioned this wasn't the first time Queen B lost her shit over Joel Miller.”

“That’s okay.” You mumbled.

Yo-you gave you a sheepish smile, “Hey, at least it wasn’t him who lied to you. That’s a good sign, right?”

Right. Joel never lied to you. But, it bothered you that he never mentioned it to you. Both of you discussed past relationships and he never brought up the fact that he had a sugar baby before you. In fact, the way he talked about how he was ‘lovingly bullied’ into this, and went on dates with other babies that didn’t go well, almost implied to you that you were his first. Yo-yo changed the subject, trying to cheer you up, and eventually the waitress returned with your drinks. You smiled and nodded when necessary in the conversation, but a part of your focus was still stuck on this news.

A doubt had been planted, and like a weed it’s roots crept deeper and deeper until it was anchored in place.

Yo-yo was fun. You liked her. In fact, you wished she didn’t live in Seattle because you would love to introduce her to Nima. They’d get along well. To a degree that was arguably dangerous to the LA region, but fun nonetheless. 

You spent the entire afternoon with her and even got lunch with her when the sun became much too exhausting to bear for another second. She recommended a place on the strip that was renowned, but you stuck with your promise to Joel and asked if the two of you could stay in the Wynn. She wasn’t condescending or judgemental when you explained why. She actually agreed happily.

Overall, your day had been fun. The only issue being the lingering doubts about Joel. He texted you throughout the day. Little comments here and there either mocking the men he was with or asking how you were doing. Every sweet text reminded you of what Yo-yo said and then you felt sick with guilt over having anxiety about him to begin with. It was why you were dressed in your pajamas lying on your back in bed staring at the ceiling with your phone resting by your head.

“Listen,” Nima spoke through facetime, “You say the word, and I will use all my miles to fly out there right now and kick his ass for you.”

“Joel didn’t do anything wrong. He never lied to me. Rosalind did, technically.”

“He didn’t lie, but he also didn’t tell the truth.”

You shook your head, “He didn’t owe me that truth.” This was oddly working for you. Nima defended you while you defended Joel. Unorthodox, but that was kind of your life right now anyways. “Joel said he’d never lie to me and he hasn’t. That’s what matters.”

“Do you know any more about this other sugar baby? The one before you?”

You frowned at the phrasing and reminded yourself of the same things you were telling Nima now. Joel never owed you anything. There was no need for him to bring up the information, and you had never asked. You just assumed Rosalind was telling the truth and that was your first mistake.

“No.” You said. “Just that there was one, and Roaslind didn’t like her.”

“Okay, but at this point, have we met anyone that Rosalind does like?”

You shrugged, “Joel?” Nima laughed through the phone and your lips curled up at the sound. “Thanks for this, Nima.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” She said. You rolled over and picked up the phone to look at her. She was still in her office at work, but since it was already after five you assumed she’d be going home soon. “You can thank me after I beat the man senseless with a baseball bat.”

You shook your head, “He’s literally the boss of your boss, and you think kicking his ass is a good idea? It’s gonna be hard to keep your job after that, and I’m sure the letter of recommendation they gave you wouldn’t be all that grand.”

“Are you kidding?” Nima smirked at you confidently. “When you’re as good as I am at what you do then kicking your boss’ ass is absolutely an option. I get job offers on a weekly basis.”

“You’re such a badass.” You chuckled.

“I know.” Nima beamed. The sound of her office door opening made you pause and Nima glanced up from her phone to answer the question of whoever poked their head in. You sighed and let your head fall forward to rest on the bed. Joel would be back any minute now, and you should be getting ready for dinner. Before coming, back when you had been shopping, you asked Joel what kind of settings you had to dress for and he mentioned the dinner. With his help you had picked out a dress specifically for the dinner. At the time it seemed the usual amount of cute, but now your plaguing thoughts wondered if he helped pick it out because the whole point was to just show you off. “Babe?”

You lifted your head to see Nima was staring at you in concern. You offered her a sad smile, “I just wish I could turn my dumb brain off for like two seconds.”

“Your brain is not dumb.” Nima replied. “It’s smart and beautiful and kind and loving. It’s one of my favorite brains”

Your smile turned sincere, and you shook your head at her, “What would I do without you?”

“Well, for one, you’d have to buy your own baseball bat to beat Joel with.”

“I’m not beating him with a bat.” Nima opened her mouth and you cut her off. “And I’m not letting you do it either.”

The sound of the door chiming and being opened made you say quick goodbyes to Nima who forced you to agree to text her an ‘SOS’ if you needed her skills with a blunt object. She also took the time to assure you that she had a friend in Vegas who could definitely help hide a body.

“Hey, you here?” Joel’s voice called out.

You tossed your phone back onto the bed before making your way out into the main room. Joel had showered and changed out of his golf clothes after the game. You had still been poolside at the time. Then his afternoon was filled with work. He wore a plain dark gray, bordering on black, suit with a white shirt and a pink tie of all things.

“Pink?” You motioned toward him. 

Joel readjusted the tie and gave a sheepish smile, “Fathers day gift from the girls. The color is a⏤ it’s an inside joke between us.” Joel nodded toward you with a furrowed brow. “Not that I’m complainin', 'cause I like the look, but pajamas aren’t really in the dress code tonight. Need some more time?”

“I uh…” You blurted with no prepared excuse in mind. 

Whatever look you wore on your face though was enough to fill Joel’s with concern. Joel closed the few feet between the two of you and cupped your face. “You feelin' alright, sugar?” One of his hands crawled up to feel your forehead. “Sick?”

“No, I’m okay.” You shook your head. “I think I was just in the sun too long today.”

“Did'ya drink 'nough water by the pool?”

“I thought so.” You gave him a tight lipped smile. “Now, I’m wondering if that last pina colada should've been an ice water.” Joel returned the smile, but there was still worry in his dark eyes. “I’m sorry, Joel. I don’t know if I can do the dinner tonight⏤”

Joel shook his head, “Hey, don’ worry yourself 'bout that. Dinner doesn’ matter.” He gently tugged you toward the couch so he could settle you on the cushions. “Do ya need me to take ya to a doctor? I’m sure I can find an urgent care 'round here that’s open, and if not the hospital is⏤”

“Joel, no.” You said firmly. “Seriously. I’m just…tired, I think. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizin'.”

You twisted your lips in guilt. Joel was paying you to keep him company and you were bailing on the main event. He was paying you. You didn’t often think those words because it left a bitter taste in your mouth. Joel brushed some hair from your face.

“Can I get ya anythin' while I’m out?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Alright.” Joel leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You got your phone?” When you told him it was in the bedroom, Joel fetched it and brought it back to you. “Call me if you start feelin' worse. I’ll be back later.”

You nodded, “Good luck at the dinner.”

Another wave of guilt washed over you as you watched the door shut behind Joel. In this kind of situation most people would probably be angry. Nima was angry. You were so conflicted that you couldn’t even be angry correctly. You flopped back on the couch and lifted your phone. A bullet point list had been made to keep your thoughts straight when you met with Joel for the first time. Maybe a pros and cons list would help you decide if you wanted to be angry, guilty, or just sad.

Pro: Joel made you happier than you’ve been in a long time.

Con: He was paying you which made you more of an employee than a friend or lover.

Pro: Not having to worry about your bills has taken such a weight off your shoulders. One you didn’t even know you were carrying.

Con: That was a lot of power to give him. If you quit your job like he wanted too then you’d really be reliant on him. 

Pro: You were beginning to feel real emotions for this man, emotions you thought your ex had destroyed.

Con: If Joel didn’t share those real emotions you were going to get really hurt.

Pro: You were beginning to believe he did truly care for you.

Con: You had no idea if you were mixing that up with a man just showing interest in his sugar baby.

Pro: A part of you was starting to be okay with the sugar baby status. Relationships sometimes had really weird starts. People had met in weirder ways.

Con: If you really weren’t his first sugar baby, then the question remained. What if you were just one of many? You were young and poor and willing to let him control your life. It could just be what gets him off?

You stared at the list in front of you for another beat before mumbling a string of curses. That had somehow confused you more. This would be easier if you could detangle your feelings from this. View Joel in the same way Yo-yo views her sugar daddy. A means to an end. This even allowed you to jump his bones. You had no qualms with the idea of casual sex. It was like Nima had pointed out though, your last relationship had been serious and monogamous. Despite that, you truly believed you could handle a casual relationship. The issue was you already had feelings for the man, and you were bad at ignoring that.

It was approaching close to an hour since Joel left and you were still agonizing over your pros and cons list while Netflix played in the background, and you were half tempted to call Nima again. You only resisted because you knew if you called her again she’d take that as an invitation to meet you in Vegas ready to go to war. The sound of the door chiming startled you and you were half off the couch in panic when Joel stepped through.

“Hey, how’re you feelin'?” He asked. You stared at him blankly. In one hand he had a large brown bag and in the other a small bouquet of sunflowers in the other. “Sugar?”

“Joel!” You blurted and rose off the couch to greet him. “What’re you… The dinner! It can’t possibly be over yet.”

“Never went.” Joel set the bag on the nearby table and held the flowers out to you. “I asked the lady what flowers meant ‘feel better soon’ 'nd she said tulips, yellow roses, or sunflowers. Choice was obvious 'nough.” You took the bouquet and held them to your chest⏤ still speechless in shock. “Then I went to pick us up some food. It only took me so long 'cause of Vegas traffic an' I had to go off the strip to find a place.”

“But… But dinner?”

Joel grinned boyishly with a glimmer of excitement in his eyes, “My options were go to a stuffy dinner with guys I got no interest in seein', or have a night in with you.” He began to loosen his tie. “C'mon, sugar.”

You blinked at him. “Tess?”

“Will probably kill me.” Joel pulled the tie off with a shrug and gruffly added. “But she wants to kill me most days anyways.” He nodded to the bedroom. “Gimme a minute. I’m dyin' to get out of this damn suit.”

Joel tapped under your jaw with the side of his fist before heading to the bedroom. Even after he disappeared from view you stood frozen for another few seconds. Finally, you snapped out of it and walked over to the table. You set the flowers down and peeked into the bag to see the to-go food he mentioned. Carefully, you unpacked the bag and after the second box you realized it was Korean food. You froze again and felt a lump form in your throat. A while back, during a late night phone call, you had mentioned to him that Nima introduced you to Korean food by taking you home to meet her mother, and it had easily become a comfort food to you too. There was a Korean place a few blocks down from you where you’d pick up food on your way home on particularly bad days.

“I tried to order the soup you were talkin' 'bout, but you used the Korean word for it an' I sure as hell wasn’ gonna pronounce that right.” Joel spoke up from behind you. You spun to see him leaning against the doorway in a plain t-shirt and pajama pants. “So, I just described it to the woman an' she gave me the closest thing. Seaweed soup?” You nodded dumbly. “Good. Just in case I ordered a bunch of other stuff too.”

Suddenly, the pros and cons list you made didn’t matter all that much to you. Because right now, in this moment right here, Joel cared louder than the anxiety yelling in your brain. You dated Nathan for two years and he outwardly told you that he loved you. But before the two of you moved into together, when you had separate apartments, you paid for his rent when he lost his job, yet when you needed help covering your water bill once he claimed he wasn’t comfortable giving you so much money that early in the relationship. So much money being $100. When you asked him about one of his exes not only did he blatantly lie to your face about the last time he had seen her and after you found out he forced the three of you to get dinner together to prove whatever stupid point he was trying to make. And, right before you broke up, when you had caught the flu and begged him to pick you up some food from the place down the road, he refused because he said he didn’t like the smell of kimchi and didn’t want to go into the restaurant.

Your eyes filled with tears and Joel’s face fell. He pushed off the door frame in a hurry and pulled you into his arms. You buried your face into his chest and tried to bite back a sob. Joel soothingly cupped the back of your head, “Hey, you okay? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” You murmured into his chest and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be crying.” 

Joel shushed you softly and pulled you back so he could meet your gaze, “None of that. It’s okay. You’re okay.” His hand cupped under your jaw as his thumb traced back and forth on the skin there. “Talk to me, sugar.”

You stared into his eyes and felt nothing by safety and warmth. “I’m just really thankful for this. For you. Just… Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this means to me, Joel.” 

Joel’s lips curled into a soft smile, “What have I said 'bout thankin' me for things I wanna do?”

Rather than answer, you just held his gaze. Joel did the same and the air between the two of you felt charged. There was always an energy bubbling anytime you were with Joel, but this was stronger⏤ more tangible. His eyes darted down to your lips then back up. Joel was going to kiss you. You were so sure of it. When his eyes darted down to your lips again you let them part. Anticipation electric on your skin. Joel sucked in a sharp breath. He leaned in, but his lips didn’t land where you thought they would. Joel set a kiss on your forehead, right above your eyebrows, and lingered there. 

He had kissed your forehead before, did so right before he left an hour ago, but this was more intimate somehow. Your eyes fluttered closed and you took in a slow breath before letting it out. Joel pulled his warm lips away from your skin and let his own forehead rest against yours.

Your eyes stayed closed as you soaked in the feel of his hot breath against your skin and a pang of disappointment shot through you. “Joel…”

“I know.” Joel’s voice was hoarse and rough. “I… I know.”

Slowly, you let your eyes open and found Joel with his eyes already on you. “It’s okay.”

“You are…” Joel locked his jaw and closed his eyes. 

There was something holding him back. You saw it written all over his face. Maybe you should worry that this had something to do with what Yo-yo had tried to tell you. Ten minutes earlier and you would’ve. Your anxiety would have grabbed hold of it, written it in bold on your cons list, and never left it alone. But, right now you felt at peace. That’s what Joel brought with him⏤ a sense of peace and calmness to your very soul. And that’s what you wanted to bring to him. You wanted to take care of him.

Your hands lifted to cup his face and when his eyes opened you gave him a bright smile. “If we don’t eat now the food’s gonna get cold.” His jaw relaxed and he murmured your name. Just as he did to you, you nodded, “I know.” 

Joel cleared his throat and caressed your face once more before nodding, “Come on. Let’s get some food in you, pretty girl.”

While Joel finished pulling out the food, you set the sunflowers in a vase that was probably only meant for decoration and filled it with water. A glance over your shoulder showed Joel setting the food up on the coffee table in front of the couch. 

“I put the wine from last night in the mini fridge if you wanna grab it.” 

“Yeah, sure.” You made your way over and grabbed two glasses while you were doing so. “I gotta see what bribe wine tastes like.”

Joel turned and shot you a skeptical look, “Bribe wine?”

“The Wynn gave you the expensive wine to bribe you into not telling all your rich friends that you and your guest got accosted in the casino.”

He shook his head, “That is not bribe wine.”

“Why are you so sure?” You set the wine glasses down on the table and began to look for the corkscrew. “Do you dabble in bribe wine often, Mr. Miller?”

Joel groaned, “Don’ you start with this Mr. Miller shit.”

“Why not?”

“Because last I checked,” Joel stepped closer as you used the corkscrew you found in a drawer to begin opening the wine, “You’re supposed to be callin' me somethin' else.”

You gave the cork a tug, but it didn’t budge. “Hm, I can’t possibly think of what.”

“Oh, you can’t?” Joel remarked. You shook your head and gave the cork another useless tug. He took the wine bottle from you and, without breaking eye contact, Joel popped the cork out with ease. You went to grab it from him, but he pulled it back with a tilt of his head. “Manners, sugar.”

The worst case scenario would’ve been an awkward air settling in the room around you after coming so close to kissing him only for it not to happen. That being said, Joel slipped right back into the familiar teasing and that made you sigh happily. You held your hands out, “Thank you, daddy.”

“Good girl.” Joel chuckled and let you take the bottle from him. As you poured into the two glasses, Joel scooped up the remote and sat down. You dropped down next to him and handed him his glass. He tapped it against yours. “Any requests?”

“I’m not picky. You can choose.” You took a sip of the wine then hummed. “Mmm, this bribe wine tastes amazing.”

Joel laughed but didn’t take his gaze away from the screen as he flipped through different options, “You’re impossible, ya know that?”

He picked a random Netflix original action movie titled ‘Triple Frontier’ and tossed the remote aside. The movie played in the background, but the two of you ended up talking through a lot of it as you pointed out different foods that Nima had introduced you to originally and he had picked up. When the meal had been finished, you were curled into his side still sipping wine half chatting and half watching the movie.

A moment of silence rose up between the two of you and after a second you filled it, “About the dinner I made you miss⏤”

“First off, you didn’ make me do anythin'.” Joel scoffed. “An' secondly, I swear to God, if you apologize again…”

You chuckled, “Okay, I won’t apologize, but we’re in Las Vegas, the city that never sleeps, and I have us sitting on the couch watching a Netflix movie.”

“This right here is literally my definition of a perfect night.” Joel shook his head at you.

You leaned against his shoulder and decided to mention your afternoon, “I, uh, I met one of the sugar babies that was gonna be at the dinner tonight.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. She goes by Yo-yo.”

“Doesn’ ring a bell…”

“I think she said her sugar daddy is Simmons? Of Simmons Construction?”

Joel groaned loudly and hung his head backward, “Jesus, Simmons? Girl gotta be a saint to put up with that bastard.”

“She did refer to the man as ‘satan’.”

Joel lifted his head and smirked at you, “See? You saved me from a night with satan.” You chuckled. “Zero reason to be apologizin’. I should be thankin' you.”

“I think it’s a shame I didn’t get to meet him.” You hummed. “It sounds like quite the experience.”

Joel sighed and took a long sip from his wine glass, “Yeah, well, there’s always next year, sugar.”

Your eyes widened at his words, but Joel didn’t even blink. It was like he hadn’t even realized what he just said⏤ what he inferred. That you’d be here next year. With him still. You shifted your gaze back to the TV and smiled to yourself. 

After another few quiet moments, you pointed toward the TV with your glass, “That guy looks like you.”

“Him?” Joel asked skeptically. You nodded in confirmation. “I’m better lookin' though right?”

“Of course, daddy! So much better looking.” You nodded. 

Joel chuckled and reached down to pinch your side making you squeal and nearly spill your wine, “Right answer, wrong tone, ya little brat.”

You settled back against him, and Joel didn’t hesitate to tuck you in under his arm.

When the movie ended, Joel clicked on whatever the first suggested movie was so something was still playing, but neither of you paid enough attention to even know the title. The hand behind your shoulder was drawing circles on your shoulder while telling you about how excited he was that his eldest daughter was coming to visit soon.

“Do you have something fun planned?”

“We gotta tradition where we go to the drive in theater. No matter what’s playin'. Just sit in the bed of the truck an' hang out.”

You grinned, “That sounds fun.”

“It is.” Joel nodded and grew silent in thought. You thought he’d follow his last statement up with something else about the girls, but he caught you off guard with something else. “I wanna kiss you so bad, sugar.”

It was a good thing you had already set down your glass of wine otherwise it would have slipped right out of your hands. You sat up so you could turn in place and face him on the couch. Joel’s eyes traced your features with a sigh. Slowly, you nodded, “Do you… Do you want to talk about why you haven’t?”

“I’m jus',” Joel lifted his hand and caressed your jawline with his thumb, “Tryin' real hard to be good.” You opened your mouth to argue that he didn't have to be, but Joel pressed the pad of his thumb against your bottom lip to stop you before a word even came out. “Nah, I gotta. I gotta be good.” He forcibly dragged his eyes up from your lips to your eyes. “I like what we got. I like this. If I do somethin' to fuck it up, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“And giving me just a little kiss is gonna do that?”

Joel’s lips curled into a melancholic smile, “I think you an' I both know if we start it ain’t gonna be just some little kiss, baby girl.”

It was the first time he had used that pet name towards you and you just melted. If he was trying to steer the both of you away from temptation, calling you ‘baby girl’ was not helping. “How do you know that this won’t just get better?” It kind of stung realizing the reason he stopped earlier was because he thought a physical relationship would ruin this. “Why do you assume that would fuck this up? I⏤”

“No.” Joel said firmly and he squeezed his hold on the side of your face at the same time for even more emphasis. “Not you. What I jus' said? I’m talkin' 'bout me. Me fuckin' it up. It comes from… from personal experience.”

You wanted more information. You wanted him to explain more. You wanted to ask him about the sugar baby that came before you. Was that the personal experience he was talking about? All those thoughts, and you somehow couldn’t get a single one out of your damn mouth. 

“I’m only bringin' this up 'cause I don’ want you confused.”

“Confused about what exactly?”

“'bout how much I want you.” Joel replied. You attempted to swallow the forming lump in your throat, but it didn’t help. “I jus' wanna do right by you, sugar. An' that…that’s just gonna take a little time, okay?” You gave him a small nod. “Can we jus' stay what we are in the meantime? If… If you don’t wanna wait for me to get my shit together, if you wanna walk, I understand.”

“No. I’ll wait.” You blurted. The thought of Joel leaving your life was too painful to even consider. The man had carved a slot in your life, and his absence would be noticed⏤ not just financially speaking either. If you walked away, you would miss him badly. Waiting was hardly a cost you had to think twice about. Especially, since you’d still have him in the meantime. Maybe not in the entire way you wanted him, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. “If it means being with you, then I’ll happily wait.”

Joel pressed a chaste kiss to your temple before pulling you into a tight hug that you returned without hesitation. This wouldn’t be easy, but it was worth the effort. You pulled back and suggested changing the movie from whatever was playing to something the two of you would actually pay attention to, best of your ability at least, and Joel agreed. He grabbed the remote and pulled you into his side. The two of you were only a few options into the discussion when someone knocked on the door⏤ loud enough that it could probably be referred to a ‘banging’ rather than simply knocking.

“Did you order something?” You asked.

“No.” Joel rose cautiously and held a hand out for you to stay on the couch. There was a tension in his shoulders that worried you.

He only took a step forward when a female voice drifted faintly through the shut door, “Miller, I swear to Christ if you don’t open this goddamn door…”

Joel muttered a curse but his entire frame visibly relaxed. He glanced over his shoulder while approaching the door. “Whatever she says, jus' know I’m sorry for it.” You furrowed your brow at his words, but he explained no further. Joel tugged the door open and a brunette haired woman stormed in. Her light shade of hair was pulled back into a low, loose bun. A style thrown together just to keep it out of her face more than likely. She was around Joel’s age, if you had to garner a guess, and she wore a black form fitting dress that looked incredible on her, but you could see she wasn’t entirely comfortable in it. “Tess⏤”

“You son of bitch.” Tess pointed at him threateningly. She was shorter than him by a head, but Joel still reeled back with his hands held in mock surrender. “See? Can’t even fight back because you know you’re in the fucking wrong.”

“I’m sorry⏤”

“You know who I spent my night with?”

“Tess⏤”

“Putting up with Simmons, Crew, Han, and their trio of bimbo sugar babies.” Tess snapped. You frowned. Yo-yo was hardly a bimbo, she confided in you the reason she was saving up all that money was because she wanted to go back to college and then on to Law School, but she also told you she played it dumb around Simmons so you couldn’t fault Tess’ words. “All so you could⏤”

As if suddenly remembering why Joel had bailed, her light hazel eyes snapped to you. You stiffened awkwardly and not knowing what else to do, you lifted a hand in a pathetic wave, “Uh, hi.”

Tess stared at you for another beat before letting her eyes drag back to Joel in a look you could only describe as irritably smug. “Well⏤”

“Tess.” Joel snapped with fire in his voice. You finally looked away from Tess to glance at Joel. He was stiff again and you recognized the look of anger on his features with ease. “Don’t.”

Tess crossed her arms and scoffed, “Go get dressed. You’re getting drinks with the pricks.”

“I’m what?”

“I spent the last three hours pretending like I didn’t want to stab Simmons in the neck with my dinner fork.” Tess warned. “The least you can do is get that pretty little ass in a suit and go get one drink with him so you can discuss the Golden Plains plans.”

Joel locked his jaw and didn’t reply. Tess didn’t say anything further either. The two just glared at one another. She was sharp and cool ice while he felt like a wild and burning fire, yet it felt like an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force. Finally, Joel huffed angrily and shook his head.

“C’mon.” He grunted at you. He held his hand out as he walked toward the bedroom.

You began to stand, despite not loving the rough, grumbled command, but Tess shook her head. “No sugar babies allowed, per Simmons. Just the big boys for cigars and drinks.”

“What makes you think I give two shits what Simmons wants??”

“Play fucking nice, you ass.” Tess snapped. “You owe me.”

“Because you did your job at one dinner? I⏤”

“San Antonio 2019.”

Joel paused and scoffed, “Never let me live that fucking down.”

He waved his hand at her in irritation before disappearing into the bedroom. You heard the bathroom door slam shut and you jumped in place. The sound had been enough to remind you that you were now alone in a room with Tess. Slowly, you turned toward her to see she was already staring at you with the cold look she had pierced Joel with.

“Hi.” You said sheepishly and offered her a nervous smile. You introduced yourself, “Joel has told me a lot about you. I⏤”

“You two fucking?” Tess blurted. Your face burned and you opened your mouth to splutter out the beginnings of the answer, but she shook her head. “Guess not considering I’m finding you both on the couch fully clothed.”

You set your hands on your hips and cleared your throat, “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“Don’t care if we did.” Tess replied. She marched closer and you had to resist the urge to scramble back from the incredibly intimidating woman. “Listen to me right now because I’m only giving you this warning once.” Tess crossed her arms. “The Miller brothers get these dumb fucking ideas in their head, but once they pick one they’re like a dog with a bone. Can’t get them to shake it.” She narrowed her eyes at you. “I told him I thought this was a stupid ass idea, but like I said⏤ dog with a fucking bone.”

“Look, I⏤”

“I’ve known Joel for twenty years.” Tess said firmly. “He’s family. Him, the girls, his idiot ass brother. I’ve been taking care of them from the start and I don’t do well with strangers stepping in to take advantage.”

Your eyes widened and you shook your head, “No, no. This is a misunderstanding. I am not taking advantage of Joel.”

“So you paid for half this trip to Vegas?”

“Uh, no, but⏤”

“And he’s not paying all your bills?”

“Well⏤”

“Footing the cost of every single⏤”

“Hey.” You snapped to interrupt her and Tess’ eyes widened marginally in surprise. You swallowed nervously. Nima knew a friend that could help you hide a body, but there was something about Tess that told you she could drag you out to the desert alone and figure it out herself. “Yes, he is taking care of me, but it’s not just… I care about him. A lot. Joel means so much to me. I’m not just here to make ends meet. I really like him.”

Tess hummed, “Right. You’re one of those rare sugar babies who like a guy for their personality and not their wallet?”

“Well,” You cracked the most friendly smile you could muster to try and break the tension, “It helps he’s gorgeous.” Tess continued to glare at you, and you were tempted to throw a chair through the suite window and leap out just to avoid her stare. Granted, she looked close to just throwing you out herself. “Bad joke. Very bad joke. That was⏤ I’m sorry. When I get nervous my mouth just says things without my permission.”

It was painfully silent in the room as she just stared at you. You cleared your throat and just stood there awkwardly. Finally, Tess spoke up, “You step one toe out of line, and you will regret it. Do I make myself clear?”

The sound of the bathroom door opened and you nodded. “Crystal.”

Joel stepped back out wearing the suit he had earlier, but without the tie. The top few buttons of his shirt were messily hanging open and he didn’t bother fixing his tousled hair. Tess rolled her eyes at him, “Finally. Let’s go.”

“Just hang on.” Joel walked toward you.

“Miller⏤”

“Give me two fuckin' seconds, Tess.” Joel snapped.

Tess scoffed and marched out of the room into the hall without a passing goodbye in your direction. Joel finally reached you and his warm hands cupped your arms. You focused back on him and the softness you had grown used to had returned in his gaze. “So, she hates me.”

“No.” Joel shakes his head. “She don't.”

“You weren’t in here with us a minute ago, I think she might try and kill me.”

Joel chuckled and dragged a hand up past your shoulder to cup the side of your neck. “Tess is just… protective. A bull dog.”

You furrowed your brow, “She compared you to a dog too a second ago.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

Joel kissed your forehead, “I don’ know when I’ll be back so don’ wait up for me, 'kay? Same deal as last time. You need anythin' an' you jus' shoot me a text. Do not leave this room or let anyone in while I’m gone.” You nodded, but Joel wanted more than that. “Understood?”

“Yeah, I got it.” You agreed.

Joel brushed his thumb against your cheek in a caress once more before wishing you a good night and leaving. With both of them out of the room, you felt like you were finally catching your breath. 

Vegas had been a whirlwind, but you supposed that was the appeal of the city to so many. Your hand was tangled with Joel’s as the two of you slowly walked through the lobby. Your bags had already been packed and brought down to the car by the staff. Now the two of you were just lingering for the sake of lingering. Joel told you more about the annoying time he had last night⏤ he hadn’t managed to get back until just past midnight.

You focused on the drag of his thumb against the back of your hand as he spoke. As much as you hated to admit it, you only half paid attention to the words he was saying. Your mind was playing through your meeting with Tess line by line. There was something nagging at you.

Joel squeezed your hand suddenly and you snapped your gaze to see him looking beyond you. He nodded, “She’s callin' you.”

“Huh?” You glanced over your shoulder to see Yo-yo waving to you as she hurried over. She wore a white cocktail dress that clung to her skin. Her hair was curled in pretty wave. “Oh, Yo-yo, hey.”

“I am so glad I caught you!” Yo-yo squealed and pulled you in a tight hug despite your hand still being connected to yours. “Ugh, I missed you so much last night. Can’t believe you bailed on me!” 

“Sorry, I wasn’t feeling good.” You motioned to Joel. “Yo-yo, this is Joel Miller. Joel, this is Yo-yo. She’s the one I met by the pool yesterday.”

“It’s super nice to meet you, Mr. Miller.” Yo-yo replied in a musical tone. 

Joel grunted in agreement with a curt nod. You gave him a curious glance, but he met your gaze. He nodded once, “Stay. I’ll get the car.”

“Oh, okay.” You replied. Joel pulled his hand from yours and wandered away. You furrowed your eyebrow in slight confusion.

Yo-yo chuckled and her tone lost the bubbly tone to return to her baseline normal one, “Wow. He is just as stoic and grumpy as everyone says.” You opened your mouth to argue. Technically, neither of those words described the man you spent your days with, but you couldn’t deny they fit him in the few seconds with Yo-yo here. “Also, he seriously is stupid hot. God. His jawline just makes me wanna gnaw on it. Shame he’s kind of a sleaze ball.”

“I don’t even know what that means⏤ wait, what?” You shook your head as the final part of her statement dawned on you. “What did you just say?”

Yo-yo twisted her lips in a frown, “I seriously am glad I caught you. I mean, I was gonna call you regardless, but this is probably better in person.”

“Yo-yo, spit it out.” You snapped. 

“I did some digging last night when Simmons was out. Called a few girls I actually trust.” She sighed. “Best I’ve gathered, the sugar baby he had before you? Her name is Heather. Granted, I have no idea if that’s her real name or not since a good bit of us lie about that.” Yo-yo reached out to hold your elbow. “Anyways, my friend Tammy says the last time Heather bragged about seeing him was around four months ago.”

You blinked in shock. Four months? That was even less time considering you and Joel had been hanging out for almost a month and a half now. Worse, if it were true that meant Joel lied to you. He said his last relationship had been a year ago.

“That’s not the worst part…” Yo-yo said slowly.

“That’s not…” You lifted a hand to your face. You didn’t mean to snap at her, but it came out in frustration and confusion. “How exactly does it get worse, Yo-yo!?”

She hesitated a beat before sighing. Yo-yo said the words, you saw her mouth move and the words entered your skull, but they rattled around in a way that left your ears ringing. Yo-yo was saying your name in concern, but you were still trying to register her previous statement.

“He married her. Joel is a married man.”

Yeah. Yo-yo was right.

That was worse.

taglist (closed):

@weddingfairy @bfences @fairntonorth @jasminedragon @biwitchy @huffle-punk @shelbyteller @anoverwhelmingdin @aheadfullofsteverogers @stagerightlauren @basicoccult @rinnfey @boofy1998 @farintonorth @thepascalofus @amatis-gray @casa-boiardi @northernbluess @jettia @sapphicsoie @spidey-3 @camiali25 @hrtsforpascal @gingersince97 @sentients17 @bigboiseason123 @lunxramour @ktheunready @heyheyheygaypay @keepingupwiththeskywalkers @adoringanakin @come-hell-or-eldren-fire @cherriebat @whitewolfstar01 @alyssa121611 @asreadbyaj @painfullyandprettypoetic @cantobightcafe @hellooseulgi @str84pedro

[previous][next]

✨J.M. Masterlist✨

[iammorethananame-library]

hello :-) just wanted to let you know that I absolutely love your writing and would like to know who are your favorite authors from here :) or what are some of your favorite works

sending u love 🫂🩷

Thank you so much! And I'm sorry its taken me so long to answer this ask. I have a fic rec tag so you can see my recs and what I've been reading recently.

So, here we go! A long ass list because all of these wonderful people deserve it!

I'm always shouting from the rooftops to anyone who will listen about Cinnamon and Honey (Joel Miller x selectively mute!Reader) by @batsingotham - There aren't words to describe how much I love Joel in this fic. It feels like being a part of the game. Joel and Ellie's relationship melts my heart and fixes so much and give me everything I ever wanted for them.

Quite literally anything by @sweetly-yours-and-mine but specifically:

The Dress (Marc Spector x Reader) - Perfect Marc, perfect characterization of Marc. Maria's prose and characterization is just perfect.

this untitled drabble (single dad!Marc Spector x Reader) - Marc as a single father healed me and broke me. Again, the most beautiful beautiful writing. I can only hope to write with this much talent some day.

Waters (Layla El-Faouly x Reader x Marc Spector) - Laylaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. She's so hot. That's all I have to say.

Everything @psychedelic-ink writes is a masterpiece but if I have to choose favorites that she's written its definitely:

Stay In Bed (Joel Miller x Reader, unrequited Tommy Miller x Reader) - which I desperately need to catch up but that is so well written and Tommy and Joel are both so fleshed out and interesting

Spitfire (Joel Miller x Tess Servopoulos) - the nuance and the backstory that Sil gives to Joel and Tess's relationship....unmatched.

Exile (Joel Miller x ofc June) - I think about this fic so often, it's the kind of beautiful brutal that really sticks with you. It's a favorite favorite, y'know.

Sooooo many by @cupofjoel but especially:

a sudden sense of liberty (Joel Miller x Reader) because nothing has ever broken my heart so completely before and,

living in a state of dreaming (Joel Miller x Reader) which also broke my heart but in a different way

I really should just link @ezrasbirdie's entire masterlist and call it a day, but again if I must choose:

Surrender (Joel Miller x ofc Daisy) - This series has my whole heart. I love everything about this series, its so well done and so fleshed out, and I don't want it to ever end so I've been savoring each chapter so slowly. Also, Daisy..........I'm in love with her. Daisy is actually my gf now, Joel can go somewhere else.

Going Slow (Javier Pena x Reader) - I adore Javi in this fic. It's so special to me and I go back to read it all the time.

Catalyst (Frankie Morales x Reader x Joel Miller) - This fic is a dream come true, that's all I have to say about it.

Cupcake (Jack "Whiskey" Daniels x Reader) by @ezrasbirdie and @haylzcyon - Car salesman Jack is something I never knew I needed but now I can't live without him.

More Than My Father's Son (Joel Miller x ofc Millie/Arrow) by @joels6string - Another series I desperately need to catch up on, but if you're looking for a fic that is specifically game!Joel Miller look no further than this fic. It's so special and it feels like you're right there in the middle of the game in Jackson. I love everything about Joel and Arrow, and the characterization of Joel is unmatched.

My foreverrrrr favorite Din series Beloved (Din Djarin x Reader) by @groguspicklejar Din is just so perfect in this series. I could go on forever about how much I love this story. Every single word is so loved by me.

I think everyone already knows about Homecoming (Santiago Garcia x Reader x Frankie Morales) by @astroboots but if you don't you need, need, to go give it a read.

In a Perfect World, You Love Me[i] and [ii] (Din Djarin x Reader) by @theidiotwhowritesthings - The pining? The angst? The love? The tiniest hint of jealousy? Chef's kiss from start to finish with such amazing payoff for a two parter.

room for three (Arthur Morgan x Reader x Joel Miller) by @morning-star-joy - this fic gave me everything. It made all my pixel cowboy dreams come true. If you love Joel but you haven't heard about the delight that is Arthur Morgan, this is the perfect introduction to him. And it's just....super hot. Who doesn't love smutty cowboys?

obsessed aka the dorm room au (Marc Spector x Reader) by @juneknight - It's just. So hot. Melts the brain and leaves you wanting more.

sunshine state (Benny Miller x Reader) by @brewsterispunkk - Benny is my dream boy in this. I love him and everything about this series.

My favorite Jake fic, that I still think about on the regular is dlz (Jake Lockley x Reader) by @ichorai - I love everything about the way Jake is portrayed here. He's so special to me.

[iammorethananame-library]

I just... It's perfect... It's everything...I love it... I'm in love... The characters are written with such depth and nuance and as Joel's reacting on the phone I just got this sinking feeling as I realized how the reader was going to interpret it and so many little details, the way his anxiety/worry had him touching her for his own comfort but it worsened her anxiety and how he reeled that impulse in as soon as he connected the dots!!!! I just... They're so careful with each other! I need to go back and reread this properly because I was so excited that I couldn't wait till I got home and read it line by line sneaking glances at my phone at work. This entire series deserves a dissertation. If I were to ever get a fic bound so I could hold it and put it on my shelf so I could gaze lovingly at it, it'd be this series.

Sage

Summary: Joel finished your tattoo but staying in each other lives is easier than he thinks. A late night phone call reminds him of how easy it is to lose something too.

Read the beginning: You put aside your touch aversion for a tattoo from Joel.

Pairing: tattoo artist!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~10.6k

Warnings: slow build, no outbreak tattoo!au, angst then comfort, the 'believes they're hard to love, loving them is like breathing' trope, reader has issues with touch and is mostly touch adverse (joel's workin' on that though), description of a past abusive relationship, undefined unresolved previous trauma, insecurity, anxiety, Joel gets to have both his daughters in this, you can decide if this is game joel or show joel

A/N: I can't tell you how happy the love for this series has made me. You’re all my heroes and this is dedicated to all of you.

Once again, we’re ignoring canon and pretending like Joel can draw for this fic, thank you. Editing this was a labor, so if there are any mistakes blame my tired eyes. Thank you for reading! As always, I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!

“Joel?” Your voice is staticky in the dark.

He’s used to answering the phone half awake in the middle of the night, shadows still strung between the wings of his window. Between bailing Tommy out of jail when he was younger and rescuing Sarah and Ellie from sleepovers they didn’t want to stay at, he’s answered the phone in the shy hours of the very early morning more times than he can count. 

In the few months he’s known you, though, you’ve never called him, not once, let alone in the middle of the night. 

“Joel?” The connection crackles and your voice wavers. “Can you hear me?”

It’s then that his mind catches up with him, digs its heels in and kicks to life. He hadn’t said anything beyond a cranky, irritated hello? after the shrill ring woke him and he blindly groped for the phone and pressed it to his ear. “Hey, yeah, I can hear ya.” 

Maybe he has the good sense to answer you, but he’s not awake enough to consider the why of the call yet. He’s glad to hear your voice, though.

It’s like a sweet little song in his ear when he hadn’t gotten to see you at all that day. 

And lately the days he doesn’t get to see you are a rarity. 

Most days, you stop by the studio but some days he meets you for coffee, or goes on a drive with you, or insists on teaching you to fish. You’ve been at a few Friday dinners with his girls, though not all of them because you fold yourself up tight and try not to intrude. Most Sundays find you arriving early at his door with pie and coffee from Flu’s, which you eat on his front porch in companionable silence before the heat of the day can settle in. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. Your voice trembles and Joel feels like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over him. 

He lurches up in bed so fast that spots dance in his vision and a spear of pain slices through his shoulder, raking iron hot nails into a years old injury. “Sweetheart?” A knot of protective worry forms in his chest, lights a fire in his belly. “What’s goin’ on?” 

The moon casts a thin, pale beam of light across the foot of his bed, growing brighter by the second as his eyes adjust to the darkness. But then you continue and the protective feeling only grows, and then goes hard with an icy ferocity. “Sorry for calling so late and bothering you with this but I don’t—I didn’t have anyone else I wanted to call.”

Your voice breaks on the last word, the creaking in your mouth splintering across the line. “Can you…I don’t—” There’s a little pause in which Joel can hear your footsteps as you pace and the quick sound of your breathing. “I just don’t know what to do.” 

Joel pulls himself out of bed and shucks on his jeans that had lain crumpled on the floor where he left them and then pulls on the first shirt his hand touches when he yanks open a dresser drawer. “What’s goin’ on?” He asks again. “Where are you?” 

“Ugh—” You swallow thickly, sounding inexplicably embarrassed. “It’s nothing, really. I’m-I’m being stupid. I shouldn’t have called.”

He can practically see you fidgeting, looking down, shaking your head. Can practically feel you thinking of hanging up the phone, nervous doe eyes darting around like you’ve done something wrong. 

“Don’t sound like nothin’,” he grits out, his voice coming out harsher than he means it to. “What happened?” 

You’d gone down to Austin to visit some friends for the day. It’s why he hadn’t gotten the chance to see you. 

Your ex slips suddenly to the forefront of his mind, who was the goddamn reason you’d moved out of Austin in the first place. Then all the myriad of other terrible things that could have prompted you to call him so late flash through his mind. 

It only serves to make his chest burn. 

“You still in Austin?” Again, his voice comes out angrier than he intends. He pulls open his bedroom door and moves down the hall, not bothering to flip on any lights. 

“No. I’m at—I’m at home,” you stutter. 

He pauses in the front entryway, wallet and keys dangling from his fingers, one foot halfway into a shoe. “Home?” 

“I’m—yeah, home. I just…I came home and the street door was open. I thought maybe the neighbors just forgot to close it when they were bringing groceries in or something, but then the security light wasn’t coming on and my apartment door is open too. It’s probably nothing, Joel, don’t bother with—look I’m sorry for—”

He’s frozen for a moment. The cavernous black hole of your front door looms, the teeth of the darkness sharp and wanting. 

The street door, despite his best efforts to augment it, is notoriously difficult to get open. If it was open when you got home— 

If your apartment door was open too—

“I’m sorry for calling,” you say again when he doesn’t answer, your voice small and anxious. “I think I might have been robbed or something. I just. . . I didn’t want to call anyone else,” you repeat. “I’m afraid.” 

Afraid. 

It’s a cold word. 

Stuffing his wallet into his back pocket and getting his boots all the way on, he tugs his own front door open. “Don’t you move a goddamn muscle. Do not go inside. Go back down to the street.”

“Joel—” 

“I’m serious,” he all but snarls. “Now.”  

“Okay,” you agree. Your voice is tight, choked. “Okay.”

“I’m gettin’ on the road now.” 

“Thank you.” 

He doesn’t answer for a minute, just listens to your breathing as he gets in his truck and turns the engine, phone squished between his shoulder and ear. The drive into town is only about ten minutes. You should be alright in that time.

“You there?” Your voice is breathy. You sound a little like you might have been crying and he wonders how long you waffled in front of your door, trying to decide whether to call him or just go inside by yourself. “Joel?”

“‘m here.” He turns off the long dirt road that leads to the ranch. “Yeah, I’m here, honey. Stay on the phone.” 

“Okay,” you murmur. “Thanks,” you say again.  

The word doesn’t register. His mind is already with you, imagining you standing alone on your street, or worse, with folks lurking around the corner waiting to do you harm. It’s an insidious image that he knows isn’t based entirely in reality. “You alone?” Despite his thoughts, he can’t imagine anyone out on the streets of the tiny town at this hour. 

“Mm. Just me.” 

“Good. Stay away from that door,” he grumbles. 

“Bossy,” you accuse lightly, the soft attempt at a joke.  

He doesn’t laugh. The drive feels like it's taking too long, longer than the ten minutes it normally takes. 

He steps on the accelerator and his mind wanders to all the other times he’s been called, into the dark or otherwise, because his people needed him. To the hospital once when Sarah had broken her ankle at a pool party, to the high school when Ellie’d gotten into a fight that ended with a blood spattered hallway and broken nose. 

Those were the worst calls, drives. That was when he felt most helpless, like he was stuck in quicksand. There were just things that he couldn’t protect them from. He couldn’t be there every second of the day, he couldn’t always be with them, and that had always grated. 

Most assured him the anxiety would fade as Sarah got older, but it never did. It hadn’t even begun with her. It was always there, that protective anxiousness. It had gotten exponentially worse with Sarah’s birth, a tiny life he was responsible for, a tiny life that was so delicate. 

And then—Ellie. At least with Sarah he’d had some piece of mind. But Ellie, like Tommy, had a knack for trouble. Too many times she swung in the back door with bleeding knees and twigs stuck in her hair and a scrape over her cheek. It wasn’t always a fight, sometimes it was just climbing a tree she had no business being in, racing her bike against kids twice her size, and unlike Sarah, she had no sense of preservation. 

“Are you hurt?” The question burns in his mouth. He doesn't mean to ask it.

“Hurt—” you start, sounding surprised. “No. No, of course not. I’m okay, Joel. It’s just the stupid door. I’m just—I told you I’m just being stupid. Listen, just—”

Joel knows what you’re going to say, and he should tell you that you aren’t being stupid, that it was good you called him; that he wants you to call him, all the time, but especially when you need him. 

Instead, he snaps, “Don’t move.”   

Your voice cuts off. 

His eyes strain past streetlights and empty, open fields, past the copse of trees that marked the start of a forest where he’d seen a trio of deer a few weeks before, like some kind of omen. 

In the distance, the town comes into view. You don’t say anything but he listens to the sound of your breathing, the calm in and out that reassures him that you’re okay, that you’re there patiently waiting. 

When he turns down your street, you come into view, standing beneath a streetlight in front of your building. The security light above your door flickers weakly, but otherwise remains dark. “You see me?” 

You turn and lift your hand. “I see you,” you say, voice crumbling and soft. The golden light pools around you, casts your shadow behind you like a ghost, or an angel. But you’re there, you’re safe, he can see you, and some of the tension melts off his shoulders. “Gonna hang up now,” you say.

“All right,” he agrees. 

The line goes dead. 

Joel is angry with you. 

It’s the only thought that sticks, barbed and fanged and catching, in your mind. It burrows into the top of your spine and makes your whole body go rigid with fear. 

Joel is angry with you. 

Joel, who’s always been sweet and kind. Who introduced you to his family with affection in his voice, took you fishing and always tossed the fish back when you looked so mournfully at them, who pointed out birds and deer to you quietly and with a practiced ease, who lets you read on the green leather couch in his shop and asks your opinions on the designs he’s working on that you often wish were for you. 

But you’ve never really fucked up before. You’ve never made him angry. 

This, calling him out of bed in the middle of the night, would give him plenty to be angry about. It would give him something to blame you for. 

The truck rolls to a stop, headlights flaring out, and dread forms a knot in the back of your throat. 

Before you can open your mouth, to head off his foul mood and explain, Joel is out of the truck and his hands are cupped around your shoulders, then the sides of your face. 

You flinch at the suddenness of it and then tense but Joel doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes darting over your body like he expects to find you gravely injured. He doesn’t normally touch you so abruptly and the feeling of his hands on your skin makes tears burn behind your eyes. 

He looks pretty in the moonlight. His eyes are cast dark and shaded as they search yours, his pupils so blown out the brown is consumed. You aren’t sure what he’s looking for. “You all right?” He asks, the comforting scent of him wrapping around you. He smells like rosemary and pine, like sawdust. You think distantly that he must have been working on some project earlier in the day. 

And sage. He smells like protection.

His thumb slides over your cheek slowly in a vaguely self soothing way. 

You resist the urge to twist out of grip, trying to remind yourself that now isn’t then, that he isn’t him. 

Your body remembers though, remembers what it’s like to taste fear. 

“Fine,” you reassure him again and pull back slightly. “I just—like I said, it’s nothing. It’s stupid. I just got spooked. I—Joel I’m sorry—”

Joel doesn’t seem to hear you as he releases your face, apparently satisfied with whatever he saw there. He grips your elbow instead and leads you to the passenger side of the truck. “You stay here,” he says. “‘M gonna take a look around. Give me your key.” 

There’s a protective violence around him, a current of energy that makes you wary, that you don’t want to be on the wrong side of. 

“You—Joel, please, listen—” You attempt to shake his hand off, panic clawing at your chest. You’re too tense to be touched, too anxious he’s about to snap at you.

Joel has never raised his voice at you. This fear isn’t one that should rest with him and that frustrates you even more. It makes you feel crazy and unbalanced and like you don’t know who’s really in front of you. 

Still, it’s your fault, after all. It’s your fault he’s here, and maybe that’s good enough for him to start. 

His eyes are like hard, dark flint, like chips of glittering amber, glinting in the pale moonlight that washes out his skin, highlights the circles beneath his eyes. 

“Just stay here,” he repeats. His voice is hard when his eyes flash up to yours. “I’ll only be a minute.” His hand still cradles your elbow as he pulls the truck’s door open, thumb sweeping over the ridge of bone there. 

His hand feels tight, even though it’s probably not. You tug your arm gently out of his grasp and take a step back. “I’m not going to stay here,” you try again, gathering your courage and tipping your chin up. “It’s my apartment. And I don’t want you to go alone.” 

Joel stares at you, brows lowering over his eyes. 

Anxiety beats a nervous, familiar pattern against your ribs, hollowing out the well of your lungs. You bite back the urge to apologize to him again, but he clearly doesn’t want to hear it since he hasn’t responded to it yet. 

He is angry with you, and you don’t like that. But you try to remind yourself again that Joel is not your ex, that in the months you’ve known him, he’s never made you feel unsafe, or like you couldn’t disagree with him. 

But it hadn’t been like that with your ex at first either, and your body is not listening to your mind. 

“Jesus Christ—” he grits out then stops, the words long and deeply accented in his mouth. You do your best to swallow down the squirming worry souring your belly. “Fine. Just—behind me.” 

You aren’t sure how to deal with Joel like this, he’s always so soft and kind and easy with you. 

And you suppose he’s being soft with you now, he’s just—

Angry. He sounds mad; he must be pissed off. Probably because you’ve called him out of bed in the middle of night for no good reason, really. You should have just plucked up the courage to go inside by yourself. It’s likely you’ve called him down for nothing. 

“Okay,” you relent. “Behind you.”  

He doesn’t answer and shuts the truck door. Instead, he moves toward your building without preamble, decidedly not looking at you. 

Seeing the street door wide open when you got home had scared you, the security light not blinking on had terrified you, and then Joel’s constant worries had drifted into the back of your mind, cloyingly poisonous. 

He hates that you leave your windows open and trust the town you live in. He hates anytime you mention that your neighbors leave their door unlocked, even as a joke. 

Ain’t safe, he always said, you don’t do that. 

It was never a question. 

He worries about you standing on the street and struggling with the door. He worries about you getting robbed or worse. You always rolled your eyes, because it was always fine and Joel was a serial worrier. 

But that had been all you were able to think of as you stood there on the street. 

Somehow, you’d convinced yourself to go inside after a few long minutes. You’d debated just going inside too, when you found your apartment door open but the fear had eventually won out. 

Joel’s broad shoulders disappear into the dark entryway before the stairwell light flares on. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and jeans. He looks rumpled and soft and painfully domestic. His jeans are pressed with creases, the laces of his boots undone. The t-shirt stretches across the plains of his back, tight against his shoulders. His hair, normally carefully brushed, is mussed. A lick of gray hair sticks up off his forehead. 

When he stops in front of your apartment door, you have to repress the urge to smooth it back, to press yourself into his side in silent askance for comfort you’re not sure you deserve. 

“I’m sorry,” you find yourself saying again. “Really,” you continue, trying to ignore the dread building colonies in your lungs. 

Nervous now, you realize, not because you might have been robbed, but because Joel is angry with you.

But, like all the other times, Joel doesn't acknowledge your apology. He pushes the door open and flips on the light just inside the door.

Your apartment looks the way it always does, homely and calm. You can’t see a single thing out of place, but that doesn’t stop Joel from searching through it anyway. 

For the next few minutes it's quiet as Joel moves slowly around your little apartment. It’s messy, messier than usual. And when he pushes your bedroom door open, you feel embarrassment crawl up the back of your throat. 

Because this is the first time he’s seeing your bedroom, also a mess, and you realize you wanted that to go differently. 

He’s only ever had cause to sit at your tiny kitchen table, your sofa, before.

The floor is strewn with clothes, your bed is unmade, half your jewelry is out of its box and strung across your dresser. Used glasses and mugs sit on your bedside table that you’ve yet to take to the kitchen, your desk is a mess of old receipts, record sleeves, discarded pens, and stacks of books. 

You wince when he pushes aside your curtains and slams your window shut, the one you always left open for Paprika, before he opens your closet door. 

When your throat tightens, you leave him to your room and sit on your couch instead to wait. 

Inexplicable shame and embarrassment melts around your heart. You try not to think of yourself as a bother to him, not exactly, anyway, and not anymore. But it's hard in this moment when he sounds so upset, so irritated with you. 

Over the last few months, being around Joel and being. . .kind of something, something indefinable and light, to each other, you’ve realized it wasn’t just the tattoo. The tattoo your ex gave you, branded you with, was just the final nail in the coffin. 

Now is a good reminder of that, that you’re sitting around waiting for Joel to tell you how useless you are, to break something, to snap at you. 

He won’t, you know that. Somewhere inside you, you know that’s the truth. 

But your body does not understand that. You’re coiled as tight as a spring, hands fisted in your lap as you wait for the other shoe to drop, for his concern to evaporate when he realizes there really is nothing wrong. 

Anxiety burns bright in your belly, echoes in the stiff cut of Joel’s shoulders, the way he stalks around your apartment, checking increasingly more absurd hiding places until he’s satisfied that you’re alone and the door is locked. 

Joel pushes aside the clothes hanging in your closet, gets on his hands and knees and looks under your bed, and finally peeks in your bathroom. 

He feels calmer, better, now that he knows you’re safe and unharmed, that you’re there in the living room with the front door locked and your bedroom window shut. 

Which reminds him of that damn cat you sometimes let into your apartment, and doesn’t seem to be around. 

Joel trails back to the main room, ignoring the details of your bedroom—the clothes in piles on the floor, the few books strewn across your bed and desk with pens sticking out of the pages, the soft cerulean and cream blankets draped over your bed and on the chair in the corner. He shouldn’t get to see those things, not like this at least. “Where’s your cat?” 

You blink and turn to look at him over the back of the sofa. You have one of the brightly colored, crocheted shawls over your shoulders and had been staring at his painting. The one he gifted you a few weeks before and that you don’t know is of you. The doe with bees dancing around her ears.

It’s an okay painting, but you adore it. 

“What?” 

“Your cat,” Joel grumbles. He’s yet to meet the cat, who always made himself scarce whenever he happened to find himself in your apartment. “Paprika, right? He’s not inside. He okay?” 

He doesn’t want to go searching alleyways in the dark for the orange tabby but he’ll do it. For you, he’d do it. 

“Oh,” you frown. “He’s not really mine,” you shake your head and shift your eyes from his. You look anxious and drawn. It’s like a lead weight in his stomach, to see fear and uncertainty spilled across your face. “He’s fine. I just feed him sometimes. He comes and goes when he likes.” 

Joel hesitates. “You sure?” 

“I—” Your eyes flicker over him before you look away again, your expression closing up. “Um,” you shift uncomfortably. Your shoulders are tense. “Yeah. He doesn’t—he doesn’t really need me.” 

Something about the way you say it breaks his heart. 

There are a lot of things you don’t see clearly about yourself, and your worth, your importance, is one of them. 

“Thanks for coming by,” you say eventually when he doesn’t reply and rounds the couch to sit next to you. “I really didn’t mean to bother you.” 

Joel reaches for you, carefully slots his hand in the crook of your elbow. You tense and he sweeps his thumb over the inside of your arm, soothing you the way he always does. His eyes drift down to your tattoo, the one he gave you. It looks beautiful on you. So beautiful he’s drawn up half a dozen other designs just for you. 

He’d draw forever, if it meant getting something just right for you again. 

It leaves something warm in him, that you like the tattoo so much. 

“I think everything is all right,” he admits. He expects you to relax with that reassurance but your arm goes impossibly tenser beneath his touch. “I don’t want you stayin’ here tonight.” 

The words fall out of his mouth. They’d been twisting circles around his mind since he picked up your phone call half an hour before, but now they spill out, desperate. Anxiety warps his voice into something hard, something tainted with acrid vulnerability that he hates. 

He doesn’t know if you hear it, but you go still and swallow thickly. You tug your arm away from his hand and rub the inside of your elbow. 

Your eyes meet his, wide and weighed down with something hurt. His pretty little doe, afraid. He suppresses the urge to tell you it’s all right, that he’s got you. 

“But it’s all fine, isn't it?” You ask, like that matters at all, like the night isn’t long. 

“Guess so,” he concedes. “But I ain’t leavin’ you here alone tonight. I can’t.” 

Your frown, lips parting gently as you stare down at your lap.

“I’d feel better if y’stayed with me,” he continues when you don’t answer, his voice still laced with irritation. He clears it, tries to make it softer but the worry lingers, infects, roots down in him like you have, bright as sunshine, sweet as tea and bumblebees on a summer evening. You make him sick with worry and he needs to know you’re safe. He needs to see you, real and right in front of him. “Tonight.” 

“Better?” You look up again, confusion tugging your brows up. “Why?”

Joel fists his hands on his knees. His knuckles strain against his skin, the flesh white with tension. It pulls hard until something starts to ache, and he has to wonder if that’s how you always feel. If your skin feels like a thousand tiny needles are prinkling at the underside of your skin.

“Yeah,” he says, his accent deepened, kinked and hard. “Better knownin’ you’re okay.” His voice doesn’t raise in volume, but you still flinch. You try to pass it off as a shiver but he sees it, finally sees what you see, what you’re so clearly waiting for. 

The thought alone makes him want to curl inward, crawl inside his own heart and shield you there. Makes him sick with unease. 

And his suspicions are only confirmed when you duck your head, tuck your hands beneath your thighs, and start again, “I’m sorry for bothering you. I really didn’t mean to drag you out of bed for nothing.”

Joel isn’t sure what to say to that as he realizes you’ve been apologizing repeatedly since he got there. 

It makes him hate himself, because you’re so clearly afraid of him. 

The silence stretches, moonlight pools on your thighs and around your calves from the kitchen window, competing with the low yellow of the floor lamp. You fidget with a loose thread on your jeans, fingers plucking nervously at it.

“It wasn’t—” He shakes his head. He can’t think of a way to reassure you. “You think it was nothin’?”

“Well,” you glance around your intruder-less apartment. Like it’s all the damning evidence you need. “It was. I shouldn’t have called.”

Joel curls a gentle finger beneath your chin and tips your face up, making an effort to have his voice as gentle as he possibly can. Like you’re that deer again, the one that’s familiar with him and yet still wary, still watchful. “You all right with that? Comin’ home with me?” You reluctantly lift your eyes to his and give a mute nod. “You don’t have to.” 

“I’m sorry,” you burst out again, soft eyes fringed with worry. “I—”

“Hey.” Joel doesn’t let you look away from him, smoothes his thumb against your chin. Your skin is soft there, and you don’t try to pull away again. “I always want you to call on me. For anythin’. It wasn’t nothin’. I’m glad you called me.”

You blink at the sincerity in his voice. Some of the tension around you fades. “I ain’t upset with you,” he says, just so you’re both clear. 

You pull your face away from his hand, and he knows your skin feels stretched too thin, tight and uncomfortable, because you scrub at it again with your hand. 

Joel lets his hand drop to the space between you. “Stay with me tonight, darlin’.” he pleads, not sure he’ll be able to make the drive home if you say no. “In the mornin’ we’ll come back here, see if anything is missin’, and I’ll change the locks.” 

You shake your head. “It’s fine, Joel,” you try again. “It’s okay. I’m safe here.” 

But that isn’t good enough. He needs to know you’re okay and he can’t do that if you’re in this damn apartment alone with locks he no longer has any kind of faith in. 

He doesn’t want to try touching you again, not when you’re fidgeting and anxious and pulling away. Guilt ties knots around his lungs when he thinks of you flinching, how often he’s touched you without thought tonight. “Look at me,” he says instead. “Look at me, baby.” 

You lift your eyes to his, your gaze hooking into his, desperation he can’t place lingering in your expression. “I’m proud of you, for callin’ on me. But I won’t rest knowin’ you’re here alone.”

You frown. “Proud?” This time, you reach for him. 

Your hand is warm and soft, the brush of your fingers against his palm like homecoming. “Yeah.” And then, again, “I’m not mad. You did good.” 

He can’t tell if you believe him, but you agree to stay with him anyway. 

You’ve been to Joel’s house more than a few times and each time, it’s more familiar than the last. 

Joel’s touch is on everything there. His girls’ lives are fingerprinted on every surface, his life and his family pressed into each fold of the house. The walls sigh with memories that have been collected and transported from Austin, wrapped in tissue paper and delicately given a place to live. Somehow, it always smells like sage has always just been burned.

There are a pair of sheep and a goat that command the acres of land around the ranch. “I’d like a couple horses,” he’d said the first time he brought you over and showed you around, months before. A couple weeks had passed since you’d had breakfast with him and his girls for the first time, and you were already dangerously attached to him. “But that’s money and time I don’t have.”  

“You should get chickens,” you’d said, petting one of the goats through the wooden fence, squinting at him through autumn sunshine. 

“Chickens?”

“Mhm. For eggs. Cost less money than horses and there’s nothing like fresh eggs.” 

Joel had only looked consideringly out over the field. “Chickens for horses,” he’d laughed a little, the sound dry and pleasant, like he found you a peculiar kind of amusing. “There’s an idea.”  

The driveway is long, the world far away. Late autumn air drifts in the truck’s open windows, warm with dry heat. The fingers of bare trees reach toward the sky, skeletal and thin, clenched around the outline of the moon. 

The ranch always feels like a home, like a refuge, and in the night it seems like a fortress. He parks the truck beneath a leafless oak and kills the engine. You listen to it pop as it cools in the darkness. 

Lightning bugs careen through the air, the low sounds of crickets and cicadas cascading on the breeze. “C’mon,” Joel’s voice is crinkled, washed in the gentle, pastel colored tones you know. “Let’s get you inside.” 

Joel takes your bag from your hands and meets you on your side of the truck before you even have the door fully open, his hand pressed to your spine. You fight the urge to lean away, an anxiousness thrumming under your skin that isn’t familiar when it comes to Joel’s touch. 

As you cross the driveway to his front porch you spot something through the dark, a new structure near the sheep’s fence. “Are you building something?”

He turns to where you’re looking. “Chicken coop,” he mumbles. 

“You’re getting chickens?” You ask, surprised. 

“Told me to, didn’t ya?”

You suppose you did, though you didn’t know he’d actually taken your suggestion to heart.

But he sounds annoyed again, so you let it go, let him push you ahead of him toward the house. Joel’s front door, unlike your own, opens without complaint. 

His keys rattle as he sits them on the table inside the door. The living room light blinks on, a warm yellow that contrasts against the lightening blue sky beyond the front windows. Guilt swirls in your belly again. It’s so late that it’s now early. 

If you weren’t so stupid, if you weren’t so useless—

The only thing you can be grateful for is that it’s a Sunday and Joel doesn’t have to rush to the studio after being awake all night. 

A new, shame laden thought blooms, infects—maybe he felt he had no choice but to heed your call. Because you’re useless. 

“This way,” Joel grumbles lowly in your ear, his hand on your hip, pushing you through the living room gently but forcefully, like he’s herding a particularly stubborn sheep. 

You step away from his hand, and this time Joel notices immediately and drops his hand. “That’s okay,” you assure him. “I remember where the bathroom is.”

“You all right?” He asks. “I know you’re probably—”

“I know you said you aren’t angry,” you interrupt, fidgeting with your fingers. “But I don’t want you to feel like you have to do things for me. You could have said no. You could have told me to figure it out.” 

He stares at you, confusion pulling at the lines in his face. You have to lock down the urge to reach up and trace the delicate pattern of crow’s feet beside his eyes. “I didn’t want to say no.” 

You blink, something warm worming its way into your heart, replacing the dread that had curled there like a snake, sharp with venom, waiting to strike. “You didn’t?” 

“Sweetheart,” he says, extending his hand to you but not touching you. “I’d do it every night if I had to, if it meant you were safe. You don’t have to figure it out. Not alone, anyhow.” 

“Well,” you say gently. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to every night.” Then, before you can help yourself, you continue, “I know you said you weren’t, but you just. . .you sounded angry.” You stop and think about leaving it at that but he would never understand you if you left him to guess. You want to be honest with him besides. You want him to trust you. “And I. . .my ex he—well, he would have been upset. He would have told me to figure it out.” 

You fold your hand into his, still outstretched to you. The pads of his fingers are rough and familiar beneath yours. “I ain’t him,” he reminds you. 

“I know. But it’s hard to remember, sometimes.” You take a long breath. “I always had to get ahead of it, y’know? Because I was always in the wrong. It was somehow always my fault.” 

Joel watches you, his eyes knowing in a way you can’t decipher. He nods and instead of answering, he holds out your bag. “C’mon,” he says, voice soft, like the brush of wings. “Been a long night.” 

When you’ve washed your face and changed your clothes and convinced yourself that Joel was telling the truth and that he would not mind seeing you in your pajamas—you trek back through the house to find him in the kitchen. 

He’s sitting at the dining table, covered in Sarah’s textbooks from the previous semester and photo albums and mail, a bowl of fruit and a jar of honey, art supplies and the tiniest carving of a deer you’ve ever seen. You pause and let your bag fall to the floor before slowly approaching. 

Joel’s shoulders are loose and soft, one hand relaxed and open on the table, the other curled around a pencil as he sketches in an open leather bound book. 

He turns and closes the book before you can peer over his shoulder and see what it is he’s working on. “Hey,” he says, the cut of his voice back to what you know. It alights on you in a warm glow, chases the fog of worry from your mind. “You all right?” 

It feels like the thousandth time he’s asked you. 

“I promise I’m fine, Joel,” you assure, pressing one hand to the space between his shoulder blades. He leans back into your touch almost immediately, the tendon in his neck loosening. You rub your thumb slowly against his skin. Thick muscle flexes and releases beneath your hand. “Really.” 

“It’s okay,” he says, glancing up at you. “If you’re shaken up.” 

You pause and tilt your head at him. “Do you want me to be?” You ask, finally pushing that errant lock of his hair back down and into place. 

“No,” he answers immediately. He stares up at you with big, sincere eyes. Your gaze flicks across his face, down to his mouth, and not for the first time, you find yourself wishing he’d kiss you. 

Just like each Sunday morning spent on his porch, just like all those times he pointed wildlife out to you, his shoulder pressed into yours, his face close to yours when you turned to smile at him. 

“Are you shaken up?” You ask, refocusing on the softness of his gaze. 

Joel shifts in his seat and then reaches out to draw the chair next to him out. You let your hand fall from his back and fold yourself into the space next to him, wishing he’d tuck you into his side. 

He doesn’t, because he’s Joel. Instead, he lays his hand on the table and lets you come to him, just like he always does, just like he always has. 

A few weeks before, when Joel was driving you back to town, you’d seen a deer on the side of the road. She was beautiful with big, dark eyes and a smooth tawny coat. You’d pointed her out, watched the flick and twitch of her alert ears. 

You weren’t sure you’d ever seen such a pretty animal before. And then, behind her, two spotted deer, smaller, clearly younger, but no longer fawns, had appeared.  

Joel, to your surprise, pulled over. He told you to stay put and then approached them slowly, so he could usher them back into the woods rather than spook them into the road. He hadn’t said anything to you about it and you hadn’t asked, but the act had stuck with you. 

Now, his hand there on the table, you’re reminded of that moment. You’re reminded of all the moments like this one, where he patiently waited for you to come closer. 

You reach out and fold your fingers through his. “Yeah, I was,” he admits and for a long while he doesn’t say anything else. You aren’t really expecting him to. 

The light in the kitchen is warm and muted, a cold blue morning light beginning to grow on the other side of the blinds. There are pictures of his girls all along the wall beside the door that leads to the back deck. 

Sarah and Ellie in high school graduation gowns and caps, Ellie bent over someone’s shoulder as she tattooed, hair obscuring her face and theirs, Sarah as a baby in Joel’s arms, Ellie as a gap-toothed child, tongue poking out of her mouth, Tommy and Joel with their arms around each other, fishing poles leaning against the truck behind them. 

Joel is only in a couple of the pictures, the space on the wall reserved for the people he loved and not himself. You squint closer. “Joel,” you say, a spike of laughter in your voice. “Is that you? Did Ellie tattoo you?” 

“Yep,” he says with a shrug. “Needed the practice.” 

“I didn’t know,” you turn back to him and tighten your grip on his hand. You smile. “How many tattoos do you have that I’ve never gotten to see?”

His mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile. “Guess,” he says, throwing your challenge from months ago back at you. 

You roll your eyes and don’t take the bait. Instead you say, “It’s okay, you know? That you were shaken up. That’s okay. I’m okay.”

He watches you for a long moment before his eyes drop, and he watches your hands instead. His voice is carefully casual and even when he asks, “How long did you stay with him? After the tattoo?” 

There’s nothing accusatory in his voice and it takes you a moment to realize Joel is asking about the tattoo on your shoulder, the one your ex permanently marked you with. 

He’s asking about the Pandora’s box of your body, the cavalcade of emotions and fears that lived inside you. 

You expected anger, to be screamed at for something out of your control, to be faulted for someone else compromising your safety, to be blamed for asking for help and wanting someone else to take care of you. 

“The tattoo. . .” you trail off and swallow back the uncomfortable feeling that lodges itself in the back of your throat. “It was the last straw.” You look away. “I just didn’t realize it at the time. I thought all the other stuff—I thought it was my fault. It doesn’t make sense while it’s happening to you, I guess. You pretend it’s normal because sometimes things are fine and good. I was just stupid enough to wait until after he left me with something permanent to realize things were so bad.” 

Joel doesn’t say anything for a minute but when he pulls his hand away from yours, your belly swoops painfully, a knot forming in your chest. 

It’s a lot. 

Your issues with touch, the relationship trauma you haven’t examined but locked away to burst to the surface while someone was trying to help you. The doubt that he even really wanted to help you, because who would?

But then he says, “It ain’t permanent. Look here.” He tips your chin up with a delicate tap. 

You turn and watch him leaf through the leather bound book. He pulls out a sketch and hands it to you. The paper is thick, the edges of it rough and torn. You don’t say anything, not really sure what you’re looking at. The design is beautiful, in the same style as the tattoo on your forearm. 

It’s so clearly for you specifically that it makes your heart cinch painfully tight. 

“It’s a—we can change it however y’want. It’s a design for a cover-up,” he plucks the page from your fingers and turns it. “See here, there underneath is the original, best as I could remember it anyway.” It’s a coverup of the ugly fucking tattoo on your shoulder, the reminder, the painful, itchy grossness. 

You stare at it, unable to form words, lips moving soundlessly as you take the page back, looking more closely at the details, at the clever ways he’d thought of incorporating the existing lines. He doesn’t say anything, not even when you turn and throw your arms around his neck, squeezing tight until his arms curl around your waist. “He doesn’t get to have you,” he says. 

One broad hand slides up your spine to cup the back of your neck. It makes you feel small. In a good way, in a way that makes you close your eyes to stave off the tide rising in your chest. 

He’d done that the last time he held you, too. When you’d melted into him in your kitchen and told him you were nothing but work. He’d whispered things like it’s okay and good girl in your ear then. 

His fingers are warm and firm against your skin, rough and soft in all the right places. An ache forms between your ribs, juts up into your heart and splits you open.

“Thank you,” you say against his shoulder. “For everything.” 

“Ain’t nothin’ to thank me for,” he says, his chest rising and falling with each word, like a symphony against your own body. 

You bury your nose against his neck, let the pins and needles of touch fade away, replaced with the safety that Joel carried around with him like it cost him nothing. “I mean it,” you say quietly. 

“I know you do,” he replies. 

The morning light is golden now, bleeding in through the curtains in thin shafts, bars that cross you and Joel, still settled in his arms. It doesn’t feel wrong to relax against him, to let him rub your back slowly. 

It doesn’t hurt, and you realize you don’t expect it to. 

“You wanna sleep?” 

“Maybe for a little while.” 

You move out of his grasp, and then let him pull you along to his bedroom. 

Joel’s room is darker than the kitchen, and it's easy not to think too hard about what’s happening as you slide beneath the sheets next to him. 

It’s quiet, the whole world still and silent aside from the fan rotating slowly overhead.

You reach for him in the dark, curl up tight against his side. His arm slides around your back, tugs you that much closer. He’s still in his jeans but you don’t point that out because you don’t want him to move. 

“One of my tattoos,” he says against your temple, when you relax into the safe circle of his arms. “Is over my heart.” 

You contemplate that for a long time, trying to imagine what it might be. “A nice one? Or an Ellie apprenticing one?” 

He chuckles. “A nice one.” You expect him to ask about your tattoos, and you’re prepared to answer, but he says instead, “It’s been a long time, since I’ve done this.” 

Joel doesn’t specify what he means by this, whatever little thing has been growing between you. “Have someone in your bed?” You tease. 

He doesn’t answer, the silence heavy, almost melancholy. His hand slides up your back again, the fabric of your shirt teasing up. You tense when his fingers brush against your bare skin, warm and gentle. 

His hand moves away and tugs your shirt back down for you. You consider, maybe for the first time, Joel’s position. He’s only ever touched you freely, so needfully, the first and second times you’d been tattooed by him, and every day you’ve seen him since. 

He plays by your rules and you have to wonder what he needs. 

It’s been a long time, he’d said. He’s inched closer to you over a period of months, patience in spades wrapped around you like a safety net. 

You trust Joel, you realize. Maybe you’d known it before but it sinks into your skin in that moment, folds itself tightly inside your soul. You want to let him take something he needs. “It’s okay,” you find yourself saying. “You can. . .it’s okay.” 

He hesitates and you push one of his hands back to your waist. “I like it,” you assure him. 

He presses both hands beneath your shirt so they rest against the small of your back. The span of his hands are broad, splayed across your spine, over the ridges of your vertebrae. “Sure?” He asks, but his nose is pressed against your temple, his body loose and molded to yours. “My girl,” you think he says, so quiet it’s almost inaudible, the words pressed right against your forehead in a kiss. “Good girl.” 

It feels so nice, the intimacy without expectation of anything more, without feeling like something was wrong with you. It feels like the envelope of your heart may burst. 

You tuck yourself tighter into the crook of his arm, nose buried against his shoulder. He smells so strongly of himself there, the natural scent of his skin and sweat undercut only slightly by the faded smell of his soap. 

He sounds close to sleep, exhausted after the worrisome, anxiety fueled night you had accidentally caused him. “Joel?” He grunts so you know he’s listening, still awake. “My antler tattoo is on my ribs.”

“What?” His hands drift a bit higher. “Really?” 

“Mm.” 

So when his fingers trace over your bare skin, you close your eyes. The sensation is so nice. The earlier acrid wave of fear has passed and no needles stab at your skin. It tickles, it feels like wings against your ribs. 

Want flutters alive, in your belly, between your legs. 

His bedroom is warm and cast in faded, milky light. He shifts and pushes up the sleeve of his t-shirt, until the curve of his opposite shoulder and the expanse of skin beneath is bared to your eyes. “One of Ellie’s first,” he says. It’s a needless explanation, though you find the tiny outline of the dinosaur a little funny. 

When you reach across his chest and touch it, Joel twitches, like he isn’t expecting you to. His skin is soft there. “It suits you,” you say as he digs both his hands into your waist again. 

You trace your fingers over his chest and throat. You trace the line by his eyes and rake your fingers through his hair. 

He leans into your touch and you feel like the world rests in your palm. 

When he says, “I think I can feel yours.” You close your eyes and smile. It almost feels like he’s tracing the outline of it. 

“You can’t.” 

“I can,” he disagrees. “It’s real pretty.” 

You want to offer to show him yours in return, but sleep and safety pull you under. 

Joel’s room is empty when he wakes, and if it weren’t for the clear imprint of your body in the nest of sheets next to him, he’d think the previous night was a dream. 

He’d think the comfortable way you curled into him was a dream. 

He lies there, jeans cutting into his waist painfully, thinking about how easily you’d curled up next to him, how velvet soft your skin was. It makes him smile and he groans and rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Just like a kid,” he huffs. You make him feel young, like this is the first time and he’s a better man than he is. 

But he’s starting to wonder if that’s what love is supposed to feel like. Off Balance and brand new and secure and like it had always been there and always would be, all at once. 

Joel gets up slowly, shoulder and knees and back smarting as he does. He feels the ghost of your head on his shoulder, an ache forming along his collarbone from the weight of it resting there. His fingers snag on the blanket you must have thrown over him in lieu of your body heat. 

He wonders where you’ve gotten to. Maybe you left, took an Uber back to town. 

Then, he hears it; commotion in his kitchen. 

And he remembers it’s a Sunday and that his girls have been visiting more often, ever since they figured you were around on most Sundays. That usually you stopped by with coffee and pie from Flu’s, and sat on the front porch with him. 

The noise is nice, better than waking to a silent house which he’d never gotten used to after Sarah and Ellie moved out.  

His girls and you, down the hallway, in the kitchen. There’s laughter, and then a shriek as something shatters on the floor, a flood of curses from Ellie that devolve into shushing and giggling. 

The smell of breakfast food cooking slips under the door as he changes. In the bathroom he slicks his hair back into place with wet fingers and thinks about your fingertips fluttering through his hair and tracing the crinkles by his eyes of their own accord. He brushes his teeth and thinks about how gently you’d laid your hand between his shoulder blades, how you let him sleep with his hands pressed inside your shirt, told him about your antler tattoo. . .

The antlers on your ribs, spearing up through the cage of your body. 

He wants to see it, trace it, wants to put his mouth against it. The urge to touch every inch of you siphons into his chest, the urge to curl you in close to him, to feel the plush curves of you against his side, in his hands. 

He wonders if you’d let him. He wants to earn it from you, coax you closer and closer, as slow as he has to. 

When he walks down the hall and passes into the living room and then the kitchen, he finds the three of you huddled around the breakfast table. Sarah’s head is lent against your shoulder and Ellie’s bicep presses into yours.

The three of you have your heads bent together, hungry eyes sliding over something on the table in front of you. 

“Mornin’,” he greets. 

You look up at him, doe eyes bright, crinkled at the corners, every doubt and fear from the night before washed away. “Morning, Joel.” 

“Girls,” he nods, passing by the table, beelining for the coffeepot. 

“We made breakfast,” Sarah says by way of a greeting. “How come you haven’t shown her all these designs?” 

He does a double take at the table, to find most of the contents of his notebook spread across the wood. 

Joel sighs hard through his nose and Ellie does have the grace to at least look sheepish, though it outs her as the instigator. “It’s not like you were ever gonna show her!” 

“Jesus,” he grumbles, not looking at you as he grabs a mug from the cabinet, a little embarrassed at the sheer amount of them. “Well, now I won’t get the chance to, will I?” 

As he pours coffee into his mug, Ellie gives a dramatic groan and Sarah says, “C’mon, dad, don’t be like that.” 

He turns to find all three of you staring at him, and he can’t really be all that upset when your mouth is twitching like you’re trying not to smile. “Come sit down,” you suggest, “and I’ll tell you which one my favorite is.” 

So, he gathers up a plate of eggs and bacon and toast and ignores the smirking of both his daughters, the knowingness in both their faces grating on him, and sits across from you.

He watches you page through design after design, months worth of work, all the way back to the beginning of summer when you’d first, finally, wandered into the studio. You push one across the table towards him, and then a couple more. 

“That’s just about all of ‘em,” he comments around a forkful of egg. 

Instead of responding to him, you turn to Sarah and say, “Maybe one day he’ll realize he’s a good artist.”

You insist on cleaning up after breakfast so Joel can have some time with his daughters. 

The light buzz of conversation seeps in from the living room. Occasionally Ellie’s voice rings out, more excitable and louder than Joel and Sarah’s. You can’t hear what they’re talking about and you don’t want to. 

A bit of guilt pools in your belly, a slight worry that Joel might be upset with you for letting his girls show you something they probably shouldn’t have. 

You hope he really had intended to eventually show them to you, to share with you the beautiful things he made, whether he thought of them like that or not. 

Joel’s home bursts with art, with craftsmanship and creativity, though he doesn’t believe you. He tells you the same things are true about your apartment and your silly little hobbies, and you suppose both of you have a little to learn in being as proud of yourselves as you are of each other. 

When you’re wiping down the counters, Ellie and Sarah pass through to gather their things and say goodbye. While Sarah gives you an unexpected hug that you make yourself hang on for, Ellie rifles through a cabinet, pilfering it for stray snacks.

“He isn’t mad you saw them,” Sarah says when she pulls back, mischievous glint in her eye.

Ellie and Sarah are the same kind of troublesome, you’ve come to realize. Sarah is just better at hiding it. “Oh yeah?” 

“He needs a little push sometimes,” she says delicately and with a shrug.  

“More like a huge kick in the ass,” Ellie says. “You should have heard him before he even met you! It was like you were some kind of ghost or something. But it was like that after he met you too.” Her voice pitches lower and gruffer in tone, “Ellie, you’re goin’ to spook her. Don’t say nothin’ —”

“Alright,” Joel says from the mouth of the kitchen. “That’s enough. Get your ass back to Austin.” 

You smile at Ellie, “You do a really good impression.” 

“Told you, dude!” She says as she slides past her dad, Sarah following right after. 

Joel just grunts and then calls after them, “Drive careful!” 

“Bye!” Twin voices call out before the front door slams closed. 

And then you’re alone with him, fingers still tangled in a dish towel. 

Joel’s eyes soften when he looks at you, and you’re reminded of his hands beneath your shirt, the iron hot touch of his body against yours. You’re reminded of the lancing burst of want that sparked inside you with him.

Only with him. 

Maybe because you knew he tried to understand, that he’d let you go when you needed it. 

You open your mouth, not sure what you’re going to say, when Joel steps forward and tugs the towel out of your hands. “Don’t suppose you’d come outside with me? I want to show you somethin’. See if you might help me with it.” 

“Sure,” you say.

Joel nods and when you brush your knuckles against his, he laces your fingers together. 

Outside the air is warm in a distinctly autumn way, with the scent of sun in the air muted, the swirling chatter of decaying leaves on the breeze, the earthy scent of hay and soil. 

You cross the porch with him and descend the steps to the yard. He leads you toward the chicken coop.

“When did you have time to build that? It’s new.” 

“Been workin’ on it for awhile now. Just had Tommy help me move it here from out back.”

“Oh?”

“Was supposed to be a surprise,” he grumbles. 

You lean into his arm, seeing your walk from the truck to the house in a different light. “Is that why you were cranky about me seeing it last night?” Joel starts to answer when you gasp and let go of him as two red-ish brown hens and a rooster round the corner of the coop. “Joel! You already got some?”

He mutters something about goddamn chickens showing me up behind you as you crouch to watch them on the other side of the fence. 

“I did,” he sighs. “Look here.” He opens the gate and ushers you through to the other side where a hatch opens in the coop. “Go on,” he says, gesturing for you to look. 

Two fuzz balls peer back at you from the depths when you peer into the hatch. “Chicks?” You say excitedly. 

“Chicks,” he agrees mildly. “You wanna hold one?” 

Without waiting for a response, he gently cups his hands around one of the yellow, fuzzed creatures and drags it out. 

And you get the very real pleasure of seeing Joel Miller standing there in the morning sunshine, holding a tiny chicken to his chest. You laugh, and he says, “What?” 

Nothing. 

Absolutely nothing. 

The chick is transferred to your hands from his, light and airy, like something incorporeal sitting in your palms, peeping softly. When you look at him, Joel’s face is relaxed. “What did you want me to help with?” 

He clears his throat and gestures to the coop. “Paintin’.” 

“Weren’t you a contractor?” You tease. “Shouldn’t you be able to paint it?” 

Joel rolls his eyes. “I mean somethin’ pretty. Like how you painted your table.” 

“Oh,” you murmur, something warm settling in your chest. “That’s nothing special.” 

“Mhm, just like how that painting of mine you like so much ain’t special either.”  

You roll your eyes and offer the baby chick back to him. “Okay, I get it. I’ll help you paint it.” Joel tucks the bird back into its home, the peeping fading when he closes the hatch. “Joel,” you reach for his wrist. “I’m sorry about seeing those sketches.” 

“You ever goin’ to stop apologizin’ to me for everything?” He asks, eyes alighting on you. 

“Well,” you continue. “I am. Especially if you never intended for me to see them.” 

He nods and squints into the sun. His boot scuffs against the ground. “I always intended you to see ‘em. They’re yours.” 

“They’re beautiful.” You step closer to him, the hens clucking around your ankles, and draw his fingers between yours. It’s quiet for a moment before you take another step. Being around Joel is like being safely shaded, like sleeping in a protected wood. “Thank you for coming when I called. You didn’t have to.”

“I did, honey,” he disagrees. “I’ll always come when you call. Even if you think it’s nothin’.” 

You nod and tip your chin up, watching his eyes. The sun makes the irises look honeyed. You glance away, swallowing down the words burgeoning behind your lips, all the things you want from him and want to say to him. 

He shifts. “I’m sure you got other things to get to. Let’s go take a look at your apartment—”

“Wait,” you tighten your hold on his hand. “Not everyone would do what you did. Not everyone would put up with me the way you have. My ex didn’t. He probably made me worse.” You’re so close to him you can feel the sink and rise of his chest, you can feel each deep breath like it's your own. “But you make me better, you make me safe. So just let me say thank you for once.” 

He shakes his head. “I won’t let you thank me for doin’ right by you,” he says, stubborn as a bull. “I know you need reminding. But you ain’t work to me. There’s nothin’ wrong with you. I haven’t been putting up with anything. I’d drive down there every damn night if I had to.” 

You tilt your cheek into his hand when he cups your jaw. Joel’s eyes are flicking over your face, his expression tense and needful, wanting. 

His eyes hook into you, intense and tawny, the breath is punched from your lungs. 

Never. 

You’ve never felt like this with anyone, like you could be stripped bear, like he could press his hands inside your chest and feel the slick beating of your heart in his palms and everything would still be okay. He’d catch you, he’d shield you, he’d figure out a way to mend you and help you, he’d look at your heart and put it back in your chest even if he wanted to keep it for himself. 

When he leans in and kisses you, it feels like fragments of your soul are being pieced back together. Shards of yourself you hadn’t even known were dust reform, shine brighter. 

He cradles you to him, the line of your body pressed against his. He’s muscled and soft and broad and so solid. He groans into your mouth, licks into you. There’s possession in the way he holds you, like your his and his and his and you always have been.

Joel tastes like coffee, because there’s nothing else he could have tasted like. 

He’s so familiar and safe, like sage burning against the night, like a soft place to land in all the ways a person could be. 

His other hand splays against your lower back, the tips of his fingers against the waist of your jeans. 

When you pull back, lungs aching for air, he presses his forehead against yours and closes his eyes. His jaw is clenched tight, a muscle jumps in his jaw, like he’s afraid. 

“I’m not that skittish,” you say. “I trust you, Joel.” 

He opens his eyes, swipes his thumb across your lips. He looks like a man who’s patient, steady hand has finally touched something delicate and rare. 

💞 Thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are so appreciated. 💞

[iammorethananame-library]

Me: *financially independent and uncomfortable accepting monetary help*

Also me: *fiercely anti-captalist and anti-rich people*

Still me: *staring wistfully at @theidiotwhowritesthings's sugar daddy!Joel Miller AU* I want one

[iammorethananame-library]

Decaf

Summary: After your first tattoo session with Joel, you can't stop thinking about him or, his touch. And it terrifies you.

Read Honeyed first where: You put aside your touch aversion for a tattoo from Joel.

Pairing: tattoo artist!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~10.1k

Warnings: a smidgen of angst for fun 😌 then comfort, slow build, no outbreak tattoo!au, the 'believes they're hard to love, loving them is like breathing' trope, reader has issues with touch and is mostly touch adverse (joel's workin' on that though), tattoos and getting tattooed (the process isn't really described), description of a past abusive relationship and a bad experience getting tattooed, undefined unresolved previous trauma, insecurity, anxiety, loneliness, Joel gets to have both his daughters in this, you can decide if this is game joel or show joel

A/N: This is dedicated to all of you who are also touch adverse. I hope you like this part as much as the first, and feel seen and heard. I love you and thank you for being so kind and open with your love and your own experiences. May you find the patience and love you deserve in your own Joel.

Once again, we’re ignoring canon and pretending like Joel can draw for this fic, thank you. Editing this was a labor, so if there are any mistakes blame my tired eyes. Thank you for reading! As always, I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!

Joel doesn’t want to walk you home, though he figures he should.

It’s the polite thing to do. The kind of thing his mother and grandmother raised him to do. 

And it's got nothing at all to do with prolonging this very long day with you. No, nothing so self serving and selfish as that.

His little doe he’d lured so close, still so out of reach with hidden tattoos not on her hip. It’s scary, the want that wells up in him, the desire to see you step that much closer to him, until you feel safe enough to nestle in his shadow. 

If you were the deer, he should be the tree, the shade, tha haven. 

Rage, incandescent and warm and comforting in its familiarity, wells up in his chest again when your earlier admission plays through his mind. 

Nothing brings his anger, quick and deadly, like those he cares for being harmed. Rarely did he see cause for it to break the surface—not since Sarah was born and he had a better example to set, not since Tommy calmed down and stopped getting in so many fights. 

This, though, with you—the thought of you being harmed, brings it all rushing back. He hopes to never lay eyes on your ex, for everyone’s sake. 

I had bruises for a couple weeks after, you’d said. It hurt. He wanted it to hurt.

Those words had stung on their own, but then you’d continued. 

I think he wanted to brand me. He wanted to leave a piece of himself on me, whether I wanted it or not.

It grates on him, that anyone could hurt you that way, that anyone would even think of it, and get away with it. 

You’re happily finishing the last bite of the quartet of tacos he’d gotten you, unaware of the turmoil that drags taunting claws into the fleshy parts of his chest. 

You nod along to the Cash song still playing over the outdoor speakers, though now at a much lower volume as the night wanes later, a content expression on your face. 

He likes watching you eat, likes it even better knowing you’re eating something he got you. It satisfies something weirdly primal in him. 

The side of your leg is still pressed to his, warm and pliant even through two layers of denim. The buzzing flaxen glow of the sting lights halo over your head; it casts your face in shadow, the long feathers of your lashes spiking down your cheeks.

You seem more relaxed now. The tension in your shoulders has loosened, the crease between your furrowed brows gone as you ball up the used napkins and toss them into the little paper boat the tacos had been on.

He refuses the last few sips of lemonade, and so you drink the rest instead. 

“Well,” you say, your voice a little sheepish and shy, that soft round look coming back into your eyes. He imagines you with the twitching, sensitive ears of a doe, poking through your hair, alert and suddenly wary of the extended hand you’d been so trusting of minutes before. “I should probably let you go. It’s late.” 

You say it like you think you’ve been keeping him there, taking up his time that he’s eager to get back. 

But you haven’t, and he isn’t ready to let you go. 

“I’ll walk ya home.” 

“It’s alright,” you say dismissively, gathering the trash and standing before he can do it for you. “I’m only a couple of blocks over,” you say over your shoulder as you walk away. 

“I’d feel better if you let me,” he admits, following close behind you. 

You toss the trash and then turn back to him, nervously running your palms along your thighs, eyes flicking over him. “This is a safe little town, you know,” you reassure him. “Like, I’m pretty sure my neighbors don’t even lock their door.” 

Joel blinks. “But you lock your door, don’t ya?” 

An inexplicable smile pulls your mouth up at the corners. “Yeah, Joel, I lock my door.” 

“Good,” he says gruffly, shoving down the protective feeling that had been rising in his chest. It’s an insane feeling, one that sets something he thought long dead on fire within him. 

You just watch him for a moment, knowing eyes sliding over him. “Well,” you relent and jerk your head toward one of the side streets. “I’m this way, if you’re sure you have time.” 

Like time had anything to do with it. 

He gestures you ahead of him, his eyes falling down the curve of your spine, the shape of your hips and thighs. He’s still trying hard not to think about the bumblebee and the antlers tattooed somewhere on your body, all the parts of you he hasn’t seen. 

He’s trying hard not to think about a lot of things. 

Like how your skin felt under his hand, dewy and warm. How he’d spent most of the day with his hand covering yours, the hummingbird beat of your pulse against his fingertips. 

He’s trying not to think about how good you smelled that close, raw and unfiltered, how irritated he had been when the sharp smell of disinfectant had chased it away. 

You carried the smell of summer with you wherever you went, like sunshine and coffee, iced sugar and coconut. 

He walks with you through the navy darkness in silence, the flash of amber street light the only thing illuminating your way. It feels nice. He feels like the rest of the world has turned its face away, that it's only you and him and the ghostly eyes of the white glow of the moon peeking through the quickly dissipating clouds.

The Texas dry heat would be back with a vengeance in the morning, but for now the street is pleasantly humid. The air still smells like petrichor, like damp concrete. He should savor it. Tomorrow, the blindingly hot smell of asphalt and dust will return and chase this moment in the dark with you away. 

You seem almost better suited to the dark, to the quiet smooth pleasantness of it, like your fear can’t reach you there if it can’t see you, if you can’t see it. Like a prey animal that only ventured into the safety of night. 

So he lets the silence last, because it's comfortable, and he’s never been one to fill silence with unnecessary chatter anyhow. 

He can’t remember the last time he did something like this, felt the brush of someone else’s fingers through the dark and the accompanying zing it sent up his arm. He forgot how amplified everything could feel, especially in the low light.

The walk to your apartment is short. 

You only live a few blocks from the center of town, and only a few streets over from the studio. He imagines you walking this path each day with the intention of coming to see him, with the intention to walk by the studio, even before you knew him—in the sun, all summer.  

You live above the town’s sole bookshop. It’s cute, like the rest of the town is. It’s unbelievable how idyllic the town is, like it’s cut straight from the pages of a romance novel, or one of those shitty Hallmark movies. 

He stands just outside the circle of the security light that blinks on over the door. You fiddle with the lock for a solid minute, jiggling the knob just so and then twisting the key in a pattern that you seem to know well, until it finally yields and opens. 

Joel clears his throat. “Y’need someone to look at that?” 

You don’t seem to hear the question mark tagged onto the end of the question, or to realize that he’s offering to fix it. “Yeah, I know,” you roll your eyes. “I’ve asked my landlord to look at it a couple of times already but they haven’t gotten around to it—”

“I can take a look for you sometime,” he clarifies. “It won’t take but a minute—” 

“That’s alright, Joel,” you interrupt quickly and dip your head, embarrassed suddenly. “I’ve let you do way too much for me today. Everyday.” Before he can contradict you—because he isn’t sure what the hell you feel he’s done for you, you step back through the door and hover there in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. 

The security light casts your face in harsh shadows, the dark stairwell behind you reaching black claws out to hook around your frame. 

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. You just linger there, fidgeting with your keys, looking for all the world like you have something you want to say to him, like you don’t want him to go either. 

Joel watches you, waiting for you to say something, to be the one to sever the connection between you and say goodnight. His chest feels tight as he waits for you to decide, waits for you to decide his shade was a place you could be safe. 

Besides, he’s still trying to figure how to say goodbye to you, still trying to figure how he’s supposed to pry apart the sticky want that thrums against his skin. Still trying to figure out what exactly had gotten into him, what had gotten into him in the weeks and months you’d started coming by.

He supposes it's just been a long time. He supposes he’s just out of practice at having feelings for someone. 

It’s been just him and his girls and his brother for so long. 

He must take too long trying to figure things out because you smile at him and glance away, your expression apprehensive and unsure. “You will let me get you back for the tacos someday,” you warn softly. “‘Night.” 

Then you shut the door. He hears you bang up the steps, your footfalls fading until he can’t hear them anymore. The security light flickers out and he’s plunged into semi-darkness, but he doesn’t move until a light finally comes on in one of the upstairs windows a few minutes later, the silhouette of your body outlined behind a sheer curtain. 

It’s only then that he turns away and walks back the way he’d come. He smiles to himself and then feels stupid about it. 

He’s too old, he thinks again, for his chest to be twinging the way it is, to be smiling in the dark, and missing someone he just left. 

He’d see you tomorrow, anyway. 

Just as he always did.

Just like you always do.

Joel is distracted the day after your appointment. 

Your scent lingers in the air of the studio. He mistakes every shadow that passes the front window for you. The image of you under the soft light in the center of town is imprinted behind his eyes. The way you’d smiled, the feel of your skin under his fingers—soft and damp in the humid air that had ballooned after the day’s rain, consumes his every thought, has his eyes shifting to the front window every few seconds. His back gives an unpleasant spasm from how quickly he turns at even the slightest noise, always thinking it's you finally pushing the door open. 

But he sees more than your shadow and the ghost of your silhouette in the window. 

Joel sees all the imagined, soft skin under your clothes where an antler tattoo is hidden. Untouched, unexplored skin that he would very much like the chance to explore and touch, if ever you gave him the chance, if you ever wandered that close. 

It’s a fine idea. 

That you’d come into the studio and lean against the counter and watch him work on a design for someone that isn’t nearly as important as you are. 

But, the day wears on, and you never show up. 

The day after Joel tattooed you and bought you sugary lemonade and tacos under golden light that you etched divine, you don’t stop in. 

You don’t even walk by. 

It isn’t unusual for you to go a few days between visits to the studio. He tells himself that it’s normal, fine, that you have a job and a life and that sometimes you don’t get the chance to come by. He tries not to worry about it. 

On the second day, with your image still fluttering behind his eyes, the weight of your gaze still heavy on his skin, he starts sketching another design for you. It distracts him, at least, because you don’t come in on the second day, either. 

You don’t come in the day after that either, or the day after that. His girls stop by for dinner on Friday evening, and Ellie crashes on his couch for the night to help out in the shop the next day. All that Saturday, all he can think about is you, pushing the door open slowly, pausing in the entryway like you always do with watchful eyes, skin shimmering with sweat from the sun and heat, cups of coffee in hand, one for you and one for him, just like always. 

He imagines you smiling at him, your shoulders loosening when your doe eyes land on him, the uncertainty and trepidation melting away because it’s him. Because it’s just him. It’s just the two of you. 

But the image, the fantasy, never comes to fruition. 

Ellie snaps at him around noon to stop being so fucking weird, dude.

Sundays—the shop is closed, so he doesn’t see you then.  

By Monday, five days after he tattooed you and walked you home in the dark, as the sun sets on a ragingly warm evening, Joel is convinced that you aren’t going to come by the studio anymore. 

He keeps working on your new design.  

Then, a whole week goes by, and then another, and you still don’t drop by, you don’t even walk by, though he catches a few glimpses of you down the road—in front of the boutique, the coffee shop, the record store a few doors down. He sees you at the farmer’s market that pops up every Saturday in the town’s center.

He dreams of you, dreams of the willowy, softly plush curves of your body. Joel dreams of you at home with him, in his bed. He dreams of pushing your shirt up, palming every delicate part of you, tracing his fingers over your hidden tattoos. 

He always jolts awake when the dream version of you pushes him back and kisses him hard, his hands cupped around you, your thighs, your breasts, the dip of your waist and belly. 

It’s distracting, the ghost of you everywhere he looks. He can’t even bring himself to take your painting down from the front window. The doe you don’t see yourself in. 

Adjusting to your absence is hard. He hadn’t realized you’d wormed your way into his daily life so firmly, like an invasive species the environment grows around, and turns when it's taken away. 

In one particularly low moment two weeks on, he takes a stroll a few blocks over, worried that something might have happened to you, that something might be keeping you away. He sees you inside the bookstore you live above, newly purchased novel in hand, feet curled beneath you on a sofa in the window. 

You seem fine, though an inexplicable twinge of jealousy plucks at his heart. He never thought that you might hang around the other shops like you did with his. 

And you never come by.

You don’t owe him anything, certainly not your company. 

He resigns himself to not seeing you until your second session, when he’ll finish your tattoo and probably never see you again. 

Joel scares you. 

His hand lying over yours all day; his offer to fix your door; the way he looked at you intense and heavy and waiting, wanting—it all terrifies you. 

The words to invite him up for something to drink had sat heavy in your mouth before you changed your mind and left him where he stood. You’d bothered him enough, taken up enough of his time. 

You aren’t sure what southern manners had led him to take you to get tacos and lemonade but surely he’s had enough of you. 

I’ve let you do way too much for me, you’d said. And he hadn’t disagreed.

Instead, you lurch up the stairs, let yourself into your apartment and stand breathing hard in the dark entryway, back against the door. Your forearm aches just a little, but in the pleasant way it always does after getting tattooed, instead of in the painful, raw way the one from your ex had. 

The familiar itch below your skin that had started with Joel’s art is now overwhelming, because you know what the shape of his hand feels like. You know the precise weight of his palm over the back of your hand, and against the column of your spine. You can’t forget how his jean clad thigh felt against yours, how nice the brush of his fingers had been through the dark. 

His voice was so low and graveled when it brushed against your skin, it tingled through your whole body, down to your toes, to the pit of your belly. It was low and intimate and felt like everything he said was just for you, like it had brushed against every tiny hair on your body. 

I’m not markin’ you, because it's not mine. It’s yours. It’s for you.

They were words for you, special for you, reassuring to you, spoken so kindly and in defense of you against someone he would never meet, over something that was not his fault and that he hadn’t been around yet to prevent. 

There’s a kinetic energy under your skin that burns, like pages of your story with him are already set aflame. Don’t burn this bridge, you think and lean hard back into the door. You close your eyes and tangle your fingers together, squeezing so tight it hurts, until you pinch your skin. Please don’t let me burn this bridge. 

You like Joel, more than you have any right to. He feels safe and sure and solid; he’s kind. He scares you, but in a way that makes you want to claw your way through the dark back to him, to see if he’ll touch you again, speak low and kind just for you, work on art made just for you. 

When you finally catch your breath, you flip on the lights and toss your keys down as you cross your small apartment. You scrub a hand over your face and take a deep breath from between your fingers.

A moment later, you pluck up the courage to glance out the window, just in time to catch Joel’s broad shoulders turn the corner in the distance back onto Main Street. 

Something in your chest pangs, the strings of your heart pull tight and hard up against your lungs until your throat closes. 

The feelings he planted in your chest, nestled among your ribs and wove between your veins, seem unfair. It seems horribly unfair, harsh even, that you should be left with the tips of your fingers smoldering, hesitantly reaching out for more. 

He’s left a sea inside you, a lonely dark hole. You knew it was there, that black, open emptiness. You’d felt it all your life, but now you know what it feels like when someone sees it, shrugs, and asks to be a part of it. You know what it's like, now, to have someone stand, patient and still on the shore. 

He’s left you wanting, craving something that you’ve feared for so long, that always felt wrong. And when your skin started to go tight and your muscles contracted and pulled, he’d somehow known, heard the pain buried away, and released you.  

You can still feel the ghost of his knuckles brushing against your wrist on the dark walk to your apartment. You can feel his thigh against yours while you ate tacos together and listened to the folks of your small town laugh and dance to old country music. You can feel his palm cupped around your wrist, dwarfing your hand beneath his.

You can still feel his calloused fingertips, catching at your palm and the inside of your wrist. 

He makes you feel safe and seen, like it’s okay that you lingered in his studio for weeks, bothered him endlessly, without any guarantee that you might one day schedule an appointment and actually get tattooed.

You thought the wantneedpull would subside after finally starting the tattoo but its only gown. The pain you waited for, the urge to flee from your own body never came with him. You want him closer, want the warm rough press of his palm against yours. You just want—you’ve never really wanted anyone closer but you want him closer. 

You want Joel so close that nothing else bleeds through. You want to melt into the palms that cupped you so gently, so carefully. 

You want to become carefully molded wax in his capable hands. 

Inexplicably, for the first time in so long, you want someone to touch you. You want to feel Joel’s hands everywhere, anywhere he could reach and even all the places he couldn’t. 

And it terrifies you. 

You mean to go back to your normal routine, but the first morning you try to stop by the studio, you can’t make your feet carry you there. You pause halfway between the coffeeshop and the studio, Joel’s usual order clutched in your hand. 

The gnawing, empty, raw hole inside you has only grown. You look at your pretty tattoo and think of the gently rough hands that had created it, the furrow between his brows while he worked, the scar over his nose, the strong, broad slope of his shoulders, and you feel anxious. 

You want it so badly, and yet—

He’s just your tattoo artist. He probably only put up with you hanging around his shop everyday, bringing him coffee, talking his ear off, because there was the promise of money, the promise of work. 

You’d just done the stupid thing and gotten attached to him, to the studio, to your fucking tattoo artist. You are just a client and you long to melt into him. You long to press yourself against him, feel the crush of his body against yours.

That want makes you wary, phantom pain, phantom aversion crawling beneath your skin right after.

It makes your head spin, it makes you feel crazy, that you can’t even decide what you feel, what you want. 

It’s better if you stay away, give yourself time to forget the itch, forget the feel of his hands, so you turn away and circle the block, back to your apartment where you set the cups on your kitchen counter and take a deep breath. 

Your chest is tight, your mind a snarl of half formed thoughts. 

Tomorrow, you think, will be better. 

But it’s not. 

Each day you think about going over, and you don’t. You feel wound tight, like clockwork left to rust. You dream of Joel, his hands everywhere and nowhere, the warmth of him like a ghost you can’t shake off. 

The feelings you try to avoid, the desert dryness of need and emptiness that the loss of his touch inspired, doesn’t go away. It gets worse; it outweighs the fear, the aversion. 

You only dare to go as close as the record store, checking he was still there, like the whole place would suddenly disappear if you stopped going by, like a witch’s cottage after a botched, half-worked spell. 

You feel cursed, like soot, like a monster waiting to steal the soul of the light. 

You’re burning your bridge and you don’t know how to stop. 

Joel is still there, where he’s always been. His art is still there, though you’re so far away now, you can’t see it clearly anymore. 

But you notice among the still ever rotating collection of art and pictures in the window, one always remains.

You know without seeing it that it's the painting of the doe looking over her shoulder, bees flocking like long forgotten gods around her ears. 

Ellie and Sarah ask about you on the third Friday that goes by without you stopping in. 

The temperature has cooled off a little, the warmth of summer receding just the tiniest bit. The kitchen table is laden with chinese takeout boxes, rice already spilled across one of the placemats. 

“You haven’t been talkin’ about her so much,” Sarah notes curiously. 

“Yeah, and you’ve been way more cranky than usual,” Ellie adds.  

“Ain’t had cause to see her,” he deflects, reaching for the yet un-spilled carton of rice. “Hasn’t been in the studio since her first session.” 

The kitchen suddenly falls silent, the clatter of cutlery deadened as it’s set on the table. “What do you mean?” Sarah, he thinks, sounds mildly offended on his behalf. 

“Just what I said,” he grumbles. 

He doesn’t need to look up from his plate to know Sarah and Ellie are exchanging a look. “Why not?” Sarah ventures to ask, her tone calmer. 

Joel shrugs and finally looks up at his kids. Sarah’s head is tilted to the side ever so slightly and Ellie’s brow is furrowed. “Busy, maybe,” he explains. “Got better things to do.”  

“Bullshit!” Ellie explodes suddenly. “What happened? Did you do something stupid?”

He sighs hard through his nose and shovels orange chicken onto his plate with more force than necessary. “No.” Then he reconsiders, goes over every moment of that day again in his mind. How much he touched you, selfishly, when he knew you were adverse to it. “I don’t know. Could be she was only around this summer to see if we’d make a good fit.” 

There’s another beat of silence before both girls are arguing with him. He lets them go on protesting it for a few minutes before he waves them down. “She’s got a lot goin’ on that you two don’t know. Somethin’ might’ve spooked her that I didn’t realize.” 

“Like what?” 

Your ex-boyfriend and your badly healed tattoo flashes through his mind. The bruises you said you’d had for weeks afterward, how badly it had hurt. The way he’d held onto you all that day.

Guilt pools in his chest, floods his lungs. 

He doesn’t know what might have spooked you. 

Just hopes it wasn’t him. 

“Well, have you tried to talk to her?” 

Sarah peers at him with wide eyes, fingers delicately folded around a pair of chopsticks. “No,” he admits.  

Ellie makes a discontent noise. “Just fucking talk to her, man,” she says. 

“You always do this, dad,” Sarah says suddenly, shaking her head.

“I do not—I don’t—” he stammers. When was the last time he’d had the opportunity to fuck something up? “What are you talkin’ about?” 

They both shrug. “It’s like you don’t ever wanna be happy sometimes. She makes you happy and you always think of everybody else, it's okay to think of yourself sometimes. Maybe whatever’s going on with her doesn’t have anything to do with you. Not everything is your fault.”

He can’t figure a way it's not about him, though, that it might not be his fault. 

Joel clears his throat and looks down at his plate. “All right, tell me what you two’ve been up to this week.” 

“Hey Joel.” 

Joel glances up, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. You’re distorted in his vision for a moment before he reaches up to take them off.

Your shape comes into sharp relief, a balm after not seeing you for so many days. You look cheerful, happy to see him. 

Excited, even. 

He hasn’t seen you in a month.

You’d messaged back and forth with his kid about your appointment, about today.

He hasn’t heard your voice in a month.

Seeing you now, despite thinking about you, dreaming about you everyday, makes some part of him close off, go cold and hard. “Howdy,” he says, his voice toeing the edge of polite and flat. The smile on your face fades a little. 

Though the sunshine is bright as always, the air outside is chilly for Texas. You’re wrapped in a sweatshirt. For the first time since he’s known you, all of your tattoos are hidden, most of your skin is covered. 

You blink owlishly, your fingers flexing nervously around the cups in your hands. “I brought you coffee,” you offer.  

He makes a noncommittal noise and jerks his chin towards the door behind the counter. “C’mon, I’m already set up.” Joel turns. 

“Oh,” you say, your voice following him to the back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think I was late.” 

“You aren’t,” he grumbles softly. “Had another client this mornin’,” he says, needlessly adjusting and straightening the supplies he had set out, keeping his back to you. 

He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to get through this with you—ain’t sure how he’s supposed to make sense of how much it hurt that you’d stopped hanging around. There’s a feeble little thread of hope in his heart that you’ll explain it away, that you even noticed you’d changed your routine. A tiny, weak little thing that makes him hope you thought about him too. 

Stupid. 

That painful tug of hope makes him feel like a teenager, like an idiot kid who read into every little thing like it was a sign until reality started to distort.

He’s always been that way, hopeful and goddamn stupid. It’s why he hasn’t really been with anyone since Sarah’s mother left. It’s how he got tangled up with Sarah’s mom in the first place. He gets stupid when he thinks he feels something, and he’s never been good at figuring how to hold onto something like that, something so delicate. 

He always ends up loving too hard, too much. He always crushes the thing before it has a chance to bloom. His girls, they were his only exception, the one thing he was mostly good at taking care of. 

“Guess the coffee was a stupid move, huh?” 

Joel turns at the sound of your voice, pulled away from the half self-deprecating thoughts floating through his mind, and finds you hovering awkwardly in the doorway, fingers fidgeting anxiously around the cups. You look like you did the first time you came into the shop, stiff and unsure, wide eyes peering at him like you’re waiting for him to give you a reason to run. 

 The doe waiting for the snap of the twig beneath a hunter’s boot once again. 

Something twinges in his chest, the sharp pain slicing through bone and tendon. 

He doesn’t want to be the hunter to your doe. 

“No,” he straightens, making an effort to soften his voice. “‘Course not.” 

You step cautiously closer, extending one of the cups toward him. “Well, it kinda is.” You smile a little. “You won’t be able to drink it while you work, contamination and all. I just—I was on autopilot again, I guess.”

He takes it from you, the paper cup warm in his hand, and tries not to think about how autopilot for you meant unthinkingly buying a cup of coffee for him. 

Again, you’d said. Have you done it before? Accidentally bought coffee he never received? 

“Well, thank you, sweetheart.” 

You swallow and glance away, nodding at the ground instead. 

A long silence stretches between you, and unlike all the times you came into the studio before—it's awkward and heavy. He takes a sip of the coffee and finds it sours instantly in his stomach, mixing unpleasantly with the nerves. 

Yeah, he’s exactly like a damn kid. 

And he’s not good at this. He’s never been good about bridging silent gaps. 

Not with words, anyway.

It doesn’t help that you seem to take up the whole room, the smell of sun and coffee and leaves curling on the air. 

He sets the cup aside and goes about washing his hands instead. “Go on and get comfortable,” he directs over his shoulder. “Just like before.” 

When he’s done scrubbing his hands in the sink and putting on gloves and fighting the urge to inhale the scent of you penetrating every cubic inch of air in the room, he turns to find you sitting and stripping out of your sweatshirt. 

He inhales sharply when the shirt beneath lifts with the material, exposing him to a strip of your skin. You tug it back down, hiding skin that he’s dreamed of in the last three weeks, that he’d like to tease his fingertips along, if you let him, if he could lure you that close, convince you to trust him that much. 

It seems like a fucking pipe dream now. 

You look soft and rumpled as you fold the sweatshirt, fisting your hands anxiously around the edges of it in your lap. 

The tendons in the back of your hands flex, bone straining against the flesh. You’re tense, nervous. 

“You’re alright,” he drawls, despite himself. The words come out soft, and your shoulders loosen and slump as you release a breath. Whether you stopped coming around or not, he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable. “C’mere and lemme see it.” 

You offer your arm to him and Joel takes your wrist in his hand, just like he had the last time he’d seen you. He’d touched you a lot that day, and you had let him. You’d let him touch you even after you left the studio and he hadn’t had a good excuse to keep doing it anymore. 

Now, he relishes the feel of your delicate skin against his again. 

“Looks good,” he says, stepping unconsciously closer to you. “Healin’ good anyway.” 

You glance up, the side of your knee brushing against his thigh. Warmth radiates from your body, and settles into him in the invariably cold studio. A smile tugs at your lips and the tension disappears from your forehead. “You’re allowed to compliment your own work, you know. It’s beautiful. Probably my favorite.” 

He doesn’t answer, fighting the clawing ache in his chest. “I do okay, I guess,” he concedes, turning your arm. “Just glad I didn’t hurt ya.” 

You frown but don’t say anything as he goes through the motions of cleaning your skin and settling in on the stool next to you. You settle back in the chair, a cloud of your scent caccooning both of you, undercut by the annoyingly sharp smell of the disinfectant. 

He covers your hand and squeezes the tight fist your hand curled into until you release the tension and relax. “Good,” he murmurs. “Good job.”

You chest hitches and you glance over at him, the movement sharp, but he doesn’t look back at you and you don’t say anything. 

It’s quiet for a long time, just the buzz of the tattoo gun to keep him company. 

He wonders what it is you’re thinking about. Though your body remains loose, the furrow between your brows is pinched tight in thought. 

Joel doesn’t bother you, focused instead on his work, on monitoring the flex of your hand beneath his. He doesn’t strictly need to touch you like this, but he wants to, and it seems like you don’t mind.

At least, you hadn’t minded a couple weeks ago. 

Maybe that’s what has your forehead so scrunched up. Maybe—

“I didn’t think you would.” 

He glances up, those big eyes he sees in his dreams staring down at him. “What’s that?” 

“I didn’t think you would hurt me. I mean—really, I’ve only had one bad tattoo experience,” you say with a roll of your eyes, dismissive of your own pain, like that’s not one too many times. “The rest of my—the rest of my issues are mine. Even from before that happened.” You don’t look away from him. “Besides, Ellie assured me beforehand that you have a light touch.” 

Yeah, he thought he’d heard her saying that. He’d been both embarrassed about it and warmed.

“Well, I guess she’s right. Never had any complaints.” He leans back and takes his hand off of yours, flexing his fingers and stretching out the pinch in his spine. 

One thing he did not relish about tattooing was the way he had to be hunched over. It makes him feel achy and old even if he knows it’d be much worse if he was still working with Tommy. 

You nod and fidget with the hem of your shirt with your free hand. He watches you for a long moment, still not saying anything. 

Even though things are a little awkward, he feels better, having you there again; knowing for sure that you’re okay because he’s seeing you with his own eyes. His kids might be right, that it’s all right to think of himself for once. Or, as Ellie put it, to just fucking talk to you instead of making assumptions. 

“You ain’t been around much lately,” he offers, extending that metaphorically slow hand to you as he always has, asking for the nugget of whatever truth you held onto so tightly. 

Maybe it was never about him, just as Sarah had said. 

He looks away from your eyes, goes back to tattooing your arm, filling in your piece, the design he’d worked on for a whole summer. Just for you. 

The tattoo suits you. He feels an odd kind of pride that you liked his art enough to trust him with designing something, with putting it onto your skin, and your trust is something he never could have hoped for. 

“No,” you start, your voice a bit hoarse. “I guess not. I—I just figured that I didn’t have an excuse to stop by anymore.” You pause and swallow. Your voice is clearer when you speak again. “And you’d already been so nice about me taking up your time.” 

Joel has to pause again and glance up, just to judge your expression. To see if you’re serious. 

You aren’t looking at him, but staring at the far wall as though the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen is etched there. Your features are tense, like you’re trying not to show what you’re feeling. “Taking up my time?” 

You shrug, the easily startled anxiety threading back into your eyes. “And,” your voice is shaky as you continue. “I was a little—I don’t know. Afraid. I guess.” Something must show on his face, the swoop of his gut visible on his features because you hurry to explain. “I just…I’ve never trusted someone the way I think I trust you. So. That’s scary.” 

There’s a lot of things he could say, a lot of things he should say, but Joel isn’t exactly good at that kind of thing. He just knows he hates when you look at him with trepidation and weariness. 

So instead, he covers your hand again and squeezes tight. He refocuses on your tattoo, on the transformation of your skin. He isn’t sure what to make of what you’d said about trust, or your honesty about it, so he pushes down the feeling that wells up into his gut at that admission. “Well, it ain’t no trouble. Havin’ you here. It was mighty quiet without you around.” 

It’s hard to say, somehow, the words sticky and catching in his mouth. A quiet descends in the wake of his words, the low buzz of the tattoo gun driving him crazy. He wishes you’d say something, anything, but he doesn’t have the heart to look up and see if you’re looking at him with big, startled eyes. 

“Oh,” you say eventually, softly.

And then—“It was quiet for me too. I missed coming by. Why didn’t you ask after me? Ellie could have gotten to me.” 

Joel had considered it. He’d figured you’d had good reason to stay away. And he guesses you had, just not the ones he thought. 

It hadn’t been about him, really. 

“You’re real skittish,” he settles on telling you the truth. “Didn’t want to push you further than you’d already gone.”

He nods, wipes your skin gently with a damp paper towel. “I looked out for ya. Kept thinkin’ y’da come by.”

“Oh,” you say again and this time the word is laced with surprise. “I…didn’t know that. I looked for you too.” 

Joel shrugs in what he hopes is an offhand manner. He cares more than he wants to admit, more than he can admit. 

“It’s just because you missed having someone bring you coffee,” you tease gently when he doesn’t respond. 

He snorts and the lingering tension dissolves. “Don’t do that again,” he says, still not looking up at you. “Coffee or not.” 

Joel shrugs on a dark red flannel before he shuffles you out the shop’s front door. 

The air is chilly but dry, and it burns the inside of your nose. In truth, the temperature is mild, not worthy of shivers or flannels, but compared to the unending heat of summer it's practically cold outside.  

The skin of your forearm feels warm beneath your opposite hand clutched over the fresh ink, safely and carefully wrapped. You can’t stop looking at your now completed tattoo, still smiling to yourself about the way Joel seemed irritated that you not only paid him for his work but tipped him too. You told him to think of it as repayment for the tacos and lemonade but that had only made him frown harder. 

“You don’t have to walk me home,” you say, even though the last thing in the world you want is for him to let you go on alone. 

“Sure I do,” he says, turning away from the door. 

Arguing wouldn’t change his mind, and you don’t really want to anyway. 

Joel urges you down the sidewalk, his gait jilted and slow. 

There’s an inch of space between you as you walk down the lamplit street. The horizon is a haze of orange, casting the wide open sky in shades of lavender and periwinkle as it darkens and evening sets in. You can feel the heat of Joel’s body, so close by. 

It’s nothing compared to his hand over yours, the warmth and all consuming size of it. You don’t know if you’ll ever have cause to feel his hand again, now that he was done tattooing you. 

Joel shifts so his hand hovers at your lower back, guiding you lightly. The gesture makes your skin prickle pleasantly, itchy with heat and that strange want that never went away. You wish he’d put his hand against your spine like he had when he’d gotten you tacos, so you could lean back into it, so you could feel the pressure of his hand. 

He doesn't. Joel walks you along the street quietly, his hand painfully close to you and yet not close enough.

That alone makes you ache. 

You don’t expect him to say anything as you walk along, mainly because you’re the one that’s always nervously chattering at him, half waiting to be snapped at. He tells you about Sarah’s course load for the upcoming fall semester and how Ellie’s nearly done at her apprenticeship. He talks quickly, like he’s trying to catch you up on a month worth of things you’d missed, like it mattered to him that you had. 

He tells you about the clients he’d tattooed, and the designs he’s still working on. He wavers when he mentions the designs and you hope maybe he’ll ask you to look at some of them but he quickly moves on.

When you get close to your apartment he abruptly goes quiet and pulls his hand away from your back. Just like the last time he hovers just outside the halo of the security light over the door.  

You struggle with the door like you always do until it finally pops open with a groan. This time when you hover in the doorway, you pluck up the courage to ask what you hadn’t been able to the last time. 

“Would you like to come up for some coffee?” 

“Late for that, ain’t it?” 

Your heart sinks, breaks somewhere along your ribs. “Guess so,” you admit, gripping the edge of the door. “Thanks for walking with me, I’ll, uh—”

“But I would like that,” he cuts you off. It's so unlike him that you just stare for a moment. “If you’re offerin’, that is.”

You smile. “I am.” 

He gestures you forward, reaching out to catch the door in his hand.  

You slide into the dark entryway and Joel bolts the door shut behind you before following you up the stairs to the landing where you unlock your apartment door without so much struggle. “I can look at that other door,” he offers again, sounding sheepish this time, like he’s sorry for bothering you about it again.

“I’d like that,” you say, and let him in ahead of you. 

You flip on the lights as you move past him to the kitchen, tiny and cluttered and too warm. You sweep your mail off the breakfast table and point Joel into one of the chairs when he starts to shrug out of the flannel. 

Both chairs have jackets hanging from the back but he just drapes his over what’s already there. His shoulders strain at the material of his shirt, bunching around his biceps and under his arms, across the incredibly broad plains of his chest. 

You yank your eyes away from him when you start to follow the vein in his arm, thinking you’d like to know what his skin tasted like there. 

Heat floods your chest at the thought. It’s unlike you, makes you feel shaky in a good way. It’s been years since you’ve thought that about someone, and try as you might you can’t remember if you’d ever looked at your ex and thought something like that. 

You wonder what that bit of skin feels like, how soft and firm the inside of his bicep must be. 

He looks comfortable and domestic in the warm glow of your overhead kitchen light when he sits down. 

You can’t look at him for too long without something in your pulse jumping, a raw little needy nerve that demanded attention. You want him to touch you again, to reach out and hold your hand so delicately in his. 

Instead of dwelling on that thought, you turn to your coffee pot, deftly fixing it to brew before you turn to rummage through your fridge. “I have something stronger, if you want it. I don’t like drinking after getting a tattoo.” 

“You shouldn’t,” he advises. “Ain’t good for healin’. You should eat somethin’, though.”

“I figured you’d have something to say about that,” you roll your eyes and turn to put the blackberry pie in your hands onto the table. “I won’t complain this time as long as you have some with me.” 

He stares up at you, an odd look in his eyes. If you didn’t know better, you’d say it was affectionate. “All right, dear.” 

Dear. That’s new. It makes you feel light, like bubbles are popping in your veins. 

You nod at him, warmth spreading beneath your skin, before pointing to the pie. “From Flu’s. You been to Flu’s? She has the best pie. It’s blackberry.” 

“Sure, me and the girls have been a few times. Coffee’s good there. Blackberry’s one of my favorites,” he rumbles, and you can’t tell if he’s lying or not. You have a feeling that even if Joel hated pie and was allergic to blackberries, you’d never hear a word about it. 

Joel doesn’t look away from you. His gaze slowly shifts from your eyes, to your hand planted on your hip. He slowly reaches out and curls his hand around your wrist. The slow way he does it stills your heart and all the worries shelved inside it. All the room he gives you, to be skittish, as he called it, and afraid, makes your throat go tight and hot. He handles it like it’s not something to fix, just something to accommodate, figure out with you. “Thank you, sweetheart. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get the coffee?” 

“It’s my house,” you gripe softly, no bite behind your words. His skin is fever hot against yours, like an ember pressed against your jumping pulse.  

But just like the last time he tattooed you and insisted on something to eat, he scoffs at you. His thumb slides across the inside of your wrist. “And you were the one that lost blood today. Sit, and tell me where your mugs are.” 

You slowly sit across from him, your wrist still in his hand. “Good,” he releases you and stands. The little bit of praise goes straight to your belly, just like it had at the shop. It settles warm inside you, a good kind of tense. “Cups?” 

You point him to the correct cabinet, exhaustion overcoming you all at once now that you’ve sat down. You watch him pour the coffee, offer to get you cream or sugar even though he doesn’t know where those are either. You have to point him to where the plates, and then the cutlery, are kept. 

It's an odd little hope that flits through your mind, one that wishes for a day when he would be familiar enough with your things that he wouldn’t need to ask. 

He returns to the table and cuts two even slices of pie and plates them before returning to his chair. 

You’re just about to dig your fork into the pie when his hand curls around yours again. He isn’t looking at you when you glance up, glad that he still wants anything to do with you, that he so carefully touches you, gives you the thing you crave and fear and are too afraid to ask for.

“Don’t do that again.” He squeezes your wrist gently, voice that quiet, low drawl, an echo of what he’d said earlier.  

It’s the same thing he’d said at the shop and you don’t have to ask what he means. You wouldn’t anyway, not when the vulnerability in his voice seems to cost him. 

He’s not sure how it happens, how he spends all night at your kitchen table with your trembling pulse beneath his hand. 

He’s too old to be doing this type of shit.

He’s got an ache in his neck now that’s going to get him teased by just about everyone. His girls and Tommy already get on him about being a crotchety old man—between the glasses he refuses to wear besides anytime he needs to read something small and the landline phone and his attitude generally.

Yeah, his neck and back issues are going to be next on the docket. 

But he can’t really bring himself to care, not when he’s gotten to sit with you through the night and listen to your voice, not when your hand is still securely within his and you haven’t given a single indication you’d like him to let go, not when your calves are crossed with his beneath the table. 

He lets himself imagine it better, imagine it more. 

You curled in his lap, head on his shoulder, fingers tangled up in the fabric of his shirt or knotted into his hair. In this stupid little dream of his, you’ve just woken up instead of staying awake through the night. You say good morning and he pours you coffee. 

He thinks, too, of pressing you back into the table, finding what lay hidden on your skin. He’d go to his knees for you, he’d worship at your feet, if you asked him to. 

He wants it so bad he can taste it, but he settles for what he has here with you, the limit you’ve guided him to, hands tangled and legs crossed.

The sun dawns a white gold through the sheer curtains over your kitchen windows. You’d never pulled the heavier drapes closed and the street light had cast your face in shadow when you flipped out the harsh overhead light. 

You watch the sunrise, and Joel watches honeyed light shift over your face. 

He likes your little apartment. It’s cluttered and homey and reminds him of his parent’s kitchen when he’d been growing up. You have art and photos stuck to every inch of bare wall. The blanket over the back of your couch and the shaw over one of the chairs is crocheted. There’s evidence of all kinds of little projects scattered around your apartment. 

Even the little breakfast table he sits at is hand painted.

“You never said you were an artist,” he’d said early on in the night. 

“I’m not,” you’d ducked your head and deflected. “Not like you at least. It’s not like I’m any good.” 

You’re plenty good. “Right,” he agreed. “Not like me. It's better than mine. You could do your own sketchin’ for a tattoo.” 

Even though you’d been embarrassed he could tell you were delighted he thought so. 

Now you turn your face toward him in the comfortable silence that’s descended, half your features in shadow. You smile and your teeth shine. “Good thing today’s a Sunday, right? You don’t have to worry after rushing to open the studio.”

You tug your hand back from his and stand, gathering both mugs before you cross your tiny kitchen to set about starting a new pot of coffee. 

He watches you, absently stacking the plates crusted with blackberry filling. 

Your shirt rides up a little when you reach for the coffee canister, a thin strip of skin showing between your rumpled shirt and your jeans. He’s reminded again of all the places he wants to touch you, to touch the soft curves of your body, trace that line of skin and seek out each of your hidden tattoos. 

Not on your hip, you’d said. 

So where? Where hasn’t he seen?

The velvet of your thighs, the silken skin of your ribs and back, between your breasts, your sternum.  

The kitchen fills slowly with light, orange and red on the far wall, undulating lines of light slicing apart the worn wooden floor. He picks apart the place with his eyes while your back is turned—the paintings and photos you don’t think anything of, the postcards stuck to the fridge, the hand painted, hand knitted-ness of everything, the mismatched mugs and glasses, chipped at the corners, the tiny dish of kibble on the floor—

“You got a cat?” He figures he would have seen a dog by now. 

You turn and follow his eyes before you smile. “Sometimes. He comes and goes whenever he likes. He’s not really mine.”

“How’s that?” 

“How’s what?”

“That he comes and goes?” Joel stands, meanders a couple steps toward you, trying to discreetly stretch out the throbbing nerve in his back. 

“I leave the window cracked in my bedroom.” 

And he hates that, just like he hates the thought of you leaving your door unlocked and he just like he hates the thought of you struggling with the door in the middle of the night when he hasn’t walked you home. “Shouldn’t be doin’ things like that.” 

“Knew you wouldn’t like it,” you smile, repeating your earlier sentiment and he has a feeling it’s going to become a common refrain. “He’s probably sleeping just now.”  

He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’ll drive me crazy.”

“This town is the safest place I’ve ever been.” 

“Hate to see where you’ve been before.” 

You laugh and ask him if he wants to get breakfast when—

“Shit,” he slides a hand over his face. “I told my girls we’d have breakfast. Start of the school year tradition, Sarah's first day back is Monday. I gotta drive down to Austin.” 

“It’s still early,” you reassure him without turning, but he can see the way your cheek curves with a smile he can’t see. “I’ll put your coffee in a thermos to go.” 

Joel takes the last few steps toward you and leans against the counter. Your breath hitches and your eyes flick up to his, big and shining bright as they always are. A slash of sun falls over them, lighting up your irises. The coffee pot bubbles and hisses, percolating slowly and you don’t look away. 

Your lips part softly and your breath fans across his chin. “Don’t gotta leave this minute. I got some time,” he says, watching those doe eyes of yours flick across his face, to the corner of his mouth. 

You move a bit closer, your foot slotting between his, and he feels like you’ve finally drifted close enough. Finally come close enough to feel safe, to rest. 

You lean into him first, eyes fluttering closed, shoulders relaxing  against the line of his body. Joel presses one arm around you, slides his fingers along the column of your spine, and for a moment you stiffen in the cage of his arms. 

“You’re all right,” he murmurs and loosens his hold a fraction, but your body suddenly goes lax against him. Your nose slots against his throat, fingers curling gently into his t-shirt. You release a long, slow breath against his throat. “You’re okay.” 

He isn’t sure what he’s trying to reassure you of, but it doesn’t much matter because you seem to know, to get his meaning. 

“I know I am,” you sigh. 

He can feel you breathing, the rise and fall of your lungs, the press of your breasts against his chest. You’re soft in his arms. “Good,” he says, nose against your temple as he slides his hand to the back of your neck, keeping you pressed there. “Good girl.” He feels you shiver and holds you closer, tighter than should be possible. 

Your hand is hot when it slips beneath his shirt, pressed against his lower back for the briefest moment before it disappears and roots down into his shirt again, your breath shaky. 

When he rubs the tense muscle of your neck you make a noise that forces him to stifle a groan and pull back just slightly. 

“You okay?” He asks, ignoring the fire burning low in his belly, trying to temper himself. 

Your eyes are damp, the corners wet. “Sorry, sorry. Yeah, I’m—”

He cups your cheek, tilts your face up, sweeps his thumb over your cheek. 

“I’m just a fucking mess, Joel. I always have been. For a long time, I have been. And I don’t know why.” 

“Why what?” His eyes are on your mouth, then your eyes, the image of the divot in the bottom of your lip lingering in his mind. “Sweetheart?” 

The big, scared, doe-eyed look you send him breaks his heart. “Why it’s so hard. To touch people and be touched.” 

“You’re doin’ okay,” he strokes your cheek again, slides his other hand to your hip. “Seems to me anyway.” 

“For now. I’m work. I always have been. And I’m more trouble than I’m worth.” 

He thinks of your pretty little apartment decorated with your own arts and crafts that you dismiss with a wave of your hand, the way you think you bother him, your insistence of paying him back for his time. You make yourself small, and he thinks you have more scars and worries from the past than you realize. 

“Trouble? You’re the least troublesome person I know,” he says. “My idiot brother, Tommy, now he’s trouble. Still gotta bail him outta trouble sometimes. You? Nothin’ about you is trouble.” You lean into his hand, watching him closely. 

He can’t believe his silent extended hand, his patient hand, has been rewarded with this. “And I don’t mind hard work.” 

You search his eyes for a long time, not blinking, not looking away, as you reach up and hook one hand around his wrist. He can see you trying to convince yourself to believe him. You swallow and place your trust in him again, if not necessarily your belief. “Okay.”

“All right. You wanna get breakfast with me and my girls? I’ve been wantin’ you to meet Sarah.” 

“She won’t mind?” you ask, gently pulling yourself out of his hands, tugging his hand away from your face. 

He lets you go, recognizes the trapped, pained, fearful wanting on your face. You need space. “They think I don’t know it’s more for me than them. They stopping carin’ about it sometime in middle school. Hell, Ellie ain’t even in school anymore. I’m holdin’ on to them bein’ kids, I guess.” 

You nod. “Okay.” 

He stands aside and lets you fix the coffees. He pulls his flannel off the back of your chair when he passes it on the way out and drapes it around your shoulders. 

When you’re in his truck, fiddling with his radio, he catches you clutching it closer, your nose dipped into the collar. 

💞 Thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are so appreciated. 💞