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jasminedragoon · 2 days ago

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HOLY FUCKING SHIT DUDE!! I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THIS SERIES!!! AHHHHHH HOW HOW HOW DID YOU WRITE THE LONGING IN THE STORM OF AN ER?!.!?! THATS FANTASTIC WRITING! YOU WROTE THEM SO PERFECTLY! I WAS ON THE EXGE OF MY SEATTTTTT AHHHHHH

saturated (2)

dr!joel x resident!reader

inspired by the pitt on hbo | series | ao3 link

warnings: this chapter contains graphic depictions of medical trauma, emergency procedures, mass casualty events, and mentions of suicide. it also includes themes of burnout, grief, and ptsd in a high-stakes hospital environment.

reader discretion is advised. please take care while reading.

word count: 14.k

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When Joel got home—close to two in the goddamn morning—the whole house was dark.

The silence was thick. The kind that clung to your ribs.

He dropped his keys on the kitchen counter. The house smelled like soap and something vaguely floral—your shampoo, probably. The faint hum of the AC pressed against the windows. The kind of quiet you only got in those brief hours when Austin’s chaos had finally exhausted itself.

He didn’t call your name. Didn’t have to. He knew exactly where you’d be.

Joel stripped in the hallway—peeling off his shirt, the weight of the day sticking to his back like a second skin. His pants followed. Then the socks. By the time he stepped into the bedroom, he was just muscle and scars and the heaviness of too many years in too many trauma bays.

You were already there.

Curled on your side. One of his old shirts stretched over your frame. Face half-buried in his pillow, chest rising and falling with the deep, even rhythm of real sleep. Not a nap. Not collapse. Sleep.

Joel stopped in the doorway. Just stood there. And looked.

The sight of you hit him like a truck. Like adrenaline withdrawal. Like breathing in after hours of smoke.

His jaw twitched.

He didn’t say anything—just moved forward, slow and heavy, and collapsed onto the mattress. His arm slung across your waist automatically, hand spreading over your stomach. He pressed his face into the back of your neck, breathing you in like oxygen.

His other hand found the bandage on your collar. Still there.

His fingers flexed. Jaw locked. But he didn’t wake you. Not yet.

Instead, he held you. Tighter than he probably should’ve. Like if he let go, you’d evaporate. Like the ER might find a way to pull you back inside.

5 AM. That's when your alarm went off like a goddamn war crime.

Some soft piano chime you thought was “gentler” when you set it last week. Now it just sounded smug.

You blinked, groggy, warm, your face mashed into Joel’s shoulder. It took a full breath to realize where you were, what day it was, why you were so sore.

You groaned. Joel didn’t move.

“Alarm,” you croaked.

“Mmph.”

“Joel.”

His grip tightened around your waist. “No.”

“We have day shift.”

“I’ll kill it.”

“You can’t murder the clock.”

“Bet I fuckin’ could.”

You shifted, rolling onto your back. Joel growled low in his throat, dragging you with him, one knee wedging between your thighs, face nuzzled against your throat like you were a pillow made of Valium.

“I have to get up.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do.”

“Fucking hell.”

He exhaled against your skin, then rolled back, dragging himself upright like a bear waking from hibernation. His hair was a mess. His eyes were still half-closed. But he stood.

Wordlessly, he offered his hand. You took it.

The walk to the bathroom was slow, your bodies brushing with every step. Joel flipped the light on with a grunt, and both of you flinched.

“God, we look dead,” you muttered, staring at the mirror.

“You look good dead,” Joel grunted, already twisting the shower knob. “Like a real pretty corpse.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me.”

Joel climbed in first, pulling you in after him. The shower was hot. Scalding, almost.

You both stood under the stream for a long moment—silent, eyes closed, just breathing. Letting the water peel the last twenty-four hours off your skin.

Joel’s hands found your hips. Not to pull you close. Not to start anything. Just… to be there. To hold on.

His voice, low and gravel-warm, “That scratch still hurt?”

You touched the bandage near your collarbone. “A little.”

He turned you slowly, gently. Tilted your chin. His fingers traced the edge of the gauze, then peeled it away with surprising tenderness.

The scratch wasn’t deep, but it was angry. Red. A little raw.

Joel hissed through his teeth. “That son of a bitch.”

“Joel.”

He ignored you. Instead, he reached around, grabbed a washcloth, and began cleaning it. Soft. Meticulous. Like you were something fragile.

You stood there, heart knocking against your ribs, while Joel Miller—a man who’d cracked skulls open and stitched arteries in the middle of chaos—washed your fucking neck.

“I’ll put fresh gauze on it after,” he muttered.

“Okay.”

He rinsed the cloth. Pressed it to your shoulder again.

“Doesn’t look infected. But you need to stop fucking touching it.”

“I didn’t touch it.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, once. Maybe twice.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your temple. “Stop. Or I’ll tape your whole damn neck shut.”

“Hot.”

“Not a joke.”

You smiled. He kissed you once, slow and tired and deep, water trickling between your bodies. Then he turned off the shower and handed you a towel.

You did your skincare in the mirror while Joel dried off behind you. He didn’t rush. He never did in the mornings. Not with you.

Even when he was grumpy. Even when his shoulder ached or the weather made his knee act up. He always moved slow. Always stayed close.

You patted moisturizer into your face. Joel watched in the mirror.

“You really do all that shit every morning?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“What does that one do?” He pointed at your serum bottle.

“Makes me glow.”

“You already glow.”

You blinked. Joel pretended he didn’t say it. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

The kitchen smelled like coffee and eggs by the time you padded in barefoot, dressed in fresh scrubs, hair still damp.

Joel was at the stove. Mug in one hand. Spatula in the other. His back was bare—broad and solid and scar-laced, a roadmap of every trauma he’d ever lived through.

He flipped the eggs like a man who didn’t give a single fuck what Gordon Ramsay thought.

“Yours are over easy,” he muttered. “Mine broke. Don’t say shit about it.”

You slid into the chair at the counter and wrapped your hands around the coffee he’d already poured for you.

“You didn’t have to cook.”

“You didn’t have to work eighteen hours yesterday.”

He handed you a plate. Sat across from you. Forked into his eggs with quiet aggression.

The silence between you was comfortable. Not empty. Never empty. Just resting.

After a few minutes, Joel reached over, tugged your scrub collar down, and gently pressed a fresh bandage onto your scratch. His fingers were warm. Careful.

He didn’t say anything while he did it. Didn’t need to. You didn’t say thank you. He didn’t expect it.

By 6:30 a.m, you stood in front of the front door, bags slung over your shoulders, Joel double-checking for his badge like it might have betrayed him in the night.

“You ready?” you asked.

Joel didn’t answer. Just looked at you for a second. Really looked.

Then he opened the door.

“Come on,” he grunted. “Let’s go do some damage.”

And you followed him out into the already-waking heat of Austin, the sky pink and soft with the kind of hope that always, always dies by noon.

Another day. Another battlefield. But you weren’t going in alone.

Joel held the car keys like he held trauma shears—tight, deliberate, and like if anyone else touched them, they’d lose a finger.

His truck—gray, dented, stubborn—sat in the driveway like it had been through as much as he had.

You’d only driven in together a handful of times, mostly on mornings after holidays or hellish shifts, or when he’d muttered, “Don’t drive. Just come with me,” while already pulling on his boots.

Today was another one of those days. After everything that happened on the Fourth—an explosion, a thoracotomy, a sparkler in someone’s orbital socket—it made sense.

“You good?” he asked as you locked the front door behind you.

“I’m not bleeding,” you said. “That’s progress.”

Joel grunted. “Barely.”

He opened the passenger door for you—something he never acknowledged but always did—and waited until you were settled before circling around to the driver’s side. The truck rumbled to life with a grumble and a low groan, like even the engine had seen some shit.

The drive to Austin General was quiet. Not the tense kind. Not the I’m-thinking-of-ten-thousand-things kind either. Just comfortable. The kind of silence that only happens when two people have nothing to prove to each other.

Joel drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, thumb tapping once every few seconds. You drank coffee from the thermos he’d packed. It tasted like Joel—too strong, no sugar, with that bitter edge that clung to your teeth. You didn’t mind.

At a red light, he glanced over.

“You sure you’re up for this?”

You didn’t need to ask what he meant.

You met his gaze. “Are you?”

He exhaled through his nose. Looked back at the road. “Guess we’ll find out.”

By 6:47, you both pulled into the staff garage behind the ambulance bay entrance.

The hospital loomed above like a tired giant. Some of the windows still flickered from the backup generator cycle. Yesterday’s trauma team hadn’t even had time to hose down the exterior concrete where one of the blood trails had baked into the pavement under the sun.

You climbed out of the truck and walked beside Joel in silence.

At the security desk, Bill looked up from his paper cup of coffee and raised one brow. His face remained unreadable, but the faintest twitch of his beard might’ve been a smirk.

“Mornin’,” he said.

“Bill,” Joel grunted.

Bill looked at you. “Y’know, we should just assign you a cot somewhere in trauma. You basically live here.”

Joel’s jaw ticked. “She doesn’t sleep in trauma.”

Bill lifted both hands, innocent. “Didn’t say she did.”

You bit back a laugh. Joel walked a little faster after that.

Inside, the ER was already humming. Not screaming—yet—but definitely buzzing with the kind of low-level chaos that meant the night shift hadn’t completely imploded.

Maria stood at the nurse’s station, arms crossed, tablet in hand, her expression locked somewhere between impressed and murderous. She saw you both and didn’t even blink.

“You’re late,” she said to Joel.

“It’s 6:54,” you said.

“Exactly.”

Maria sipped from her mug. “We’ve had two walk-ins for lacerations, one minor burn from someone reheating their goddamn barbecue ribs, and a psych eval sitting in Bay 3 who thinks he’s Abraham Lincoln.”

“I’ll take Lincoln,” you muttered.

“Be my guest.”

Jesse slid past the station with a chart in one hand and a breakfast sandwich in the other. “Doc,” he said, nodding at you, “what are the odds I can bribe you into seeing my walk-in?”

“Negative a thousand.”

“Worth a shot.”

Ellie arrived next, a little too awake, a little too caffeinated, already bouncing on the balls of her feet. She spotted you and nearly tripped over herself.

“You’re here,” she said. “Didn’t you stay late last night? I thought Joel was gonna drag you out of here by the hair.”

Joel, behind you, muttered something indecipherable under his breath.

You smiled sweetly. “No hair-pulling necessary. I left voluntarily.”

“She was ordered,” Jesse added, grinning.

Ellie gasped. “You listen to him?”

“He's my boss.”

Joel coughed.

“Anyway,” you said quickly, “what did I miss?”

Riley poked her head out from the medication room. “We’re still trying to find where someone put all the tetanus shots. And Henry lost a patient.”

“What?” you and Joel said in unison.

“She walked out,” Riley clarified. “He said she was in Bed Nine, but turns out she got tired of waiting and stole someone’s vape on her way out.”

Joel exhaled sharply. “I swear to God.”

“Henry’s been in the bathroom since,” Riley added helpfully.

Joel growled something that sounded like "fucking hell" and walked toward the staff lounge like he needed to punch a wall.

Abby showed up right then, bag slung over her shoulder, hair still damp from the shower. She caught sight of Joel’s retreating form, then turned to you.

“Still alive?”

“Barely,” you said.

“Cool.” She paused. “Thanks again for yesterday.”

You nodded. “You okay?”

Abby looked down the hall, where Mel was just walking in, laughing at something Dina said.

“I’m working on it.”

You didn’t press. She didn’t offer more. But she stood there with you a moment longer before heading to the lockers.

The first trauma rolled in at 7:11 a.m.

A teenage girl, collapsed at a summer soccer camp from heat stroke. Vitals tanking. GCS of 9. Her skin was dry and hot, lips cracked, and by the time she hit Trauma Two, her body temp had climbed above 104.

You worked fast—Joel barking out orders from the head of the bed, Abby on fluids, Ellie on vitals, Jesse running labs, and you directing the cooling blankets like it was your second job.

Joel watched you the whole time, his jaw tight, but he didn’t correct you.

Didn’t override you. Just moved in sync. By 8:02 a.m., the girl was stable. Still groggy, but breathing on her own.

Joel peeled his gloves off and muttered, “She’ll be fine. Keep an eye on her sodium.”

“Already ordered a BMP,” you said.

He nodded. One of those short, gruff nods that meant good.

The morning passed in pulses. Nothing exploded. Nothing caught fire. It was all… controlled chaos. Predictable. Achievable.

But Joel never let you out of his sight for long. Every time he walked into a trauma bay and didn’t see you, his head would snap around like a predator searching for prey.

When you passed each other in the hallway, his fingers brushed your lower back—just a second, just a breath, always too brief to be obvious.

No one said anything. But they all saw. And no one dared fucking comment.

9:35 a.m. brought the day’s weirdest consult: a man who had somehow—somehow—fallen onto a pool noodle in a way that required a surgical extraction.

“Really?” Tess said, exasperated. “It’s always the pool toys.”

You snorted. “He said he thought it would float better with air pressure.”

Tess stared at you. “Did it?”

“No.”

Joel didn’t speak during the consult, just glared at the chart like it had personally insulted him.

“Can’t people just swim?” he muttered on his way out.

By 10:17 a.m., you had already diagnosed a kidney stone, popped a shoulder back in, and sedated a guy who thought his dog was a government spy.

And then Joel pulled you aside in the trauma hallway.

“You eaten?”

You blinked. “What?”

“It’s been four hours. You eaten?”

“No.”

He handed you a granola bar. “Sit down. Now.”

You didn’t argue. And he didn’t leave.

He sat next to you on the bench outside the medication room, arms crossed, eyes scanning the floor like it had wronged him. You ate in silence.

And then, after a beat, “You still hurtin’?”

You touched your collar. “No. It’s healing.”

Joel’s hand rose, thumb brushing the edge of the gauze. His touch was careful. Calloused.

“You tell me if it doesn’t.”

You nodded. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t stop watching you.

And it hit you all over again...

You were in the middle of a storm, inside a building held together by caffeine, trauma tape, and anger issues—

And still, every time Joel Miller looked at you, it felt like home.

Even here.

Even now—on the worn-out bench outside the medication room, surrounded by the hum of flickering fluorescents and the antiseptic stink of blood crusted into the grout.

Even after eighteen straight hours yesterday, after breaking someone’s chest open with your own hands, after watching a child code and a Roman candle take off someone’s face, Joel still looked at you like you were something safe.

Of course, he wouldn’t say it.

He’d just toss you a granola bar and glare at the floor until you finished eating.

Which, for Joel, was basically a love poem.

You took the last bite, licked peanut butter off your thumb, and leaned back against the wall. He didn’t move. Just watched you quietly, like he was still trying to make sure all your parts were accounted for. You couldn’t help but glance down at the gauze still covering the scratch at the base of your neck.

“Still healing,” you said softly.

“Good,” Joel muttered. “Otherwise I’d have to fire every nurse in this place and start over.”

You rolled your eyes. “Including Marlene?”

“She gets a warning.”

You almost laughed—almost—but before the silence could turn warm, the trauma radio cracked overhead.

“Incoming minor burn trauma. Twelve-year-old male. Backyard explosion. ETA two minutes.”

Joel stiffened.

“Another fucking firework?”

You stood up. “The holiday was yesterday.”

“Yeah. And the idiots were born today.”

The boy came in with his dad, a frazzled man in mismatched socks who kept saying, “I told him not to touch it. I swear to God, I told him.”

You and Joel met the gurney just as it was wheeled into Exam 4, Ellie jogging at your heels with a tray of supplies and Henry clutching an ice pack and his iPad.

The kid was alert. Crying, but not screaming. His arms were mottled red, patches of blistering skin already forming down both forearms. His hair was singed at the front, and the smell—burnt hair and plastic—hit you like a slap.

“Name?” you asked gently.

“Derek,” the kid whimpered.

“How old are you, Derek?”

“T-Twelve.”

You nodded. “Okay. You’re doing really good. We’re going to clean this up and keep you from hurting more. Do you know what kind of firework it was?”

Joel glanced at the dad.

“Big one,” the man muttered. “From yesterday, I think. One of those leftover mortars.”

“You didn’t throw it out?” Joel snapped.

The man flinched. “I thought I did—he found it in the back corner of the yard. I didn’t think—”

“Clearly.”

“Joel,” you said quietly.

He bit back the rest of it and stepped aside, hands flexing at his hips. His jaw ticked.

You went to work. Saline flushes. Cool compresses. Henry handed you a burn dressing, and Ellie worked fast with the IV.

Joel hovered behind you—watching, but not stepping in. He only did that when he trusted you completely.

You caught his eye once, just for a second. He didn’t say a word. But that look? That was him saying: I’ve got your back. I always do.

Derek whimpered. You knelt beside him, brushed the hair back from his sticky forehead.

“Hey. You’re gonna be okay, alright? You scared the hell out of us, but you’re gonna be just fine.”

The kid nodded. Sniffled. “Okay.”

Joel’s voice, low and steady, “We’ll monitor for inhalation injury, but he’s stable. Admit for observation. Abby’ll help you with the burn sheet.”

You nodded, and Joel finally stepped back.

When the door swung shut behind him, Ellie whispered, “He’s so intense. I don’t know how you do it.”

You smiled faintly. “He means well.”

“Yeah. But he says it with, like, a knife.”

You didn’t get a break before the next call hit.

Marlene appeared, holding a file and a cup of hospital coffee so black it looked cursed.

“We’ve got a lady in Exam 2,” she said. “Still drunk from last night. Fell in the shower. Split her head wide open. She’s conscious, but loopy. Needs imaging for a concussion and a shit-ton of sutures.”

“Any chance she’s friendly?”

“She asked if I was her mailman.”

You sighed. “I’ll take it.”

“Atta girl.”

In Exam 2, the woman was sitting up on the gurney, a towel clutched to the side of her face, blood soaking through the edge. Her mascara was halfway down her cheek, and her smile was bleary.

“Hey,” she slurred. “You’re so pretty. Are you a nurse? Or a lifeguard? I fell in the tub and thought I was drowning.”

“I’m a doctor,” you said, pulling on gloves. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Dottie. Like the baseball girl.”

“Okay, Dottie. Can I look at your head?”

“Sure, baby. You can do whatever you want. You’re in charge.”

You stepped closer, peeled the towel back gently. The wound was bad. A long, curved laceration just behind her ear, splitting the skin open like a broken eggshell. Definitely needed imaging. Possibly staples. Definitely stitches.

“Jesus Christ,” Abby muttered, stepping in behind you.

“She fell on the soap dish,” you said.

“Oh God

Riley stuck her head in. “CT’s clear. No bleed.”

“Good,” you said. “Abby, grab the suture kit.”

Dottie blinked at you. “Hey, baby? You married?”

You glanced up. Joel was leaning in the doorway. You didn’t even hear him walk in.

“No,” you said, smiling sweetly. “But taken.”

Joel’s brow arched slightly. His gaze swept over Dottie, then the bloody towel, then your hands, and finally back to your face.

“She stable?”

“Yep.”

“Need anything?”

You shook your head.

Joel lingered just a second longer than necessary. Then he left.

Dottie blinked at the door. “He your boss?”

“Something like that.”

“He looks like he could bench press a firetruck.”

“Only on Mondays.”

By 11:42 a.m., the ER was once again, somehow, overflowing. Tess was yelling at imaging. Mel was arguing with a pharmacist. Jesse was holding two urine samples in one hand and his lunch in the other, looking very scared and conflicted.

You slipped into the breakroom for thirty seconds and collapsed into a chair.

Joel followed. Closed the door.

“You okay?”

You nodded.

“Liar.”

You looked at him. “You okay?”

He paused. Then said, “No.”

You both laughed. It wasn’t even funny.

Joel leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

“I’ve never seen you do a thoracotomy before,” he said. “You handled it better than half the staff.”

“Thanks.”

“I meant that.”

You swallowed. “You didn’t have to let me do it.”

“I didn’t ‘let’ you do shit. You earned it.”

Silence. Warm. Tense. Real.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Joel said quietly. “Yesterday. When he scratched you.”

“I know.”

“I thought if I looked away for a second, you’d be the one on the table.”

“I’m not.”

“I know.”

But his jaw was tight. His hands clenched.

You stood. Crossed the room. And laid your palm over his chest.

His heartbeat was steady. Heavy. A little too fast.

“I’m still here,” you said softly.

His hand covered yours.

“I see you, you know,” he murmured.

You blinked. “What?”

“Even when you think I’m not looking. I always see you.”

Your breath caught. But before anything else could happen—

“Trauma alert. Code yellow. Two incoming. One penetrating, one blunt-force. ETA three minutes.”

Joel’s eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Duty calls,” you whispered.

He nodded once. “Stay close.”

You didn’t need to be told. You always did. Because this was Austin General. And there was no such thing as peace.

Only the seconds between impact.

It was 12:00 p.m. when the ER exhaled again. Not the quiet kind. Not the peaceful kind. Just a different kind of pressure—like a room that had been holding its breath for too long and now didn’t know what to do with all the oxygen.

You glanced up at the wall clock in the trauma hallway. Still ticking like a metronome to madness. The second hand clicked forward and you didn’t even register it anymore.

You lived in 15-minute increments now. The rest of the world could burn as long as you made it to your next trauma bay.

Joel was still beside you, silent after the last code yellow. One penetrating trauma, one blunt-force. Both stable now, upstairs for imaging and consults. Joel hadn’t even taken off his gloves when the doors swung open again.

A wheelchair rolled in. Pushed by Bill.

The man in it had to be at least eighty-five. Skin loose, shoes untied, button-up shirt with the collar wrong on both sides. His face was red, sweat pooled in the lines of his cheeks, and he was gripping his chest like it had insulted him in public.

“Said it was just heartburn,” Bill muttered. “I told him he needed to get checked. He argued. Then he nearly passed out in the lobby next to the vending machine.”

“Probably the vending machine’s fault,” the man wheezed. “Those goddamn Funyuns.”

You stepped forward. “Sir, what’s your name?”

“Leonard.”

“Okay, Leonard. Can you describe the pain?”

Leonard waved you off with a wrinkled hand. “Been having it since last night. Ate my niece’s chili. Too many beans. Feels like somethin’ goin’ on in my chest, but it’s just gas. Happens all the time.”

You blinked. Joel didn’t.

“Put him in Trauma 5,” Joel barked. “Now. Get EKG, draw a troponin. Monitor vitals. Oxygen, nasal cannula. I want a chest X-ray on deck. Now.”

“Joel,” you said softly, “he says it’s just—”

“Silent MI,” Joel growled. “Seen it before. Pressure like gas, no radiating pain, no nausea. Happens all the goddamn time in older men. They die in recliners because no one took ‘heartburn’ seriously.”

Leonard blinked up at him. “You always this dramatic, son?”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “You want to live or not?”

“Suppose I do.”

“Then shut up and let us do our jobs.”

Joel turned on his heel and stalked into the trauma bay, already pulling a fresh pair of gloves on. You followed, heart thudding.

Jesse arrived two minutes later, dragging the portable EKG cart, out of breath and covered in something unidentifiable. “Sorry—somebody vomited in the hallway and I slipped in it. I’m okay. My ego may be injured. But okay.”

Ellie peeked around the curtain. “Did someone say heartburn?”

“Silent MI,” you corrected. “Joel wants labs now.”

She saluted and disappeared.

You stood on the left side of Leonard while Joel worked the right, laying leads, pressing his fingers into the man’s wrist to feel the pulse.

His touch looked rough, but you knew Joel. You knew how careful he actually was. How tightly he held control when something inside him screamed.

“BP’s dropping,” Joel said sharply. “Ninety over sixty. Jesse, get a second line. You—” He jerked his chin at Henry, who had wandered too close. “What do you do when your patient’s having an NSTEMI?”

Henry froze. “Uh—start oxygen, get nitro ready, prepare for aspirin?”

Joel’s face was stone. “Did you say ‘prepare for aspirin’?”

“I—I mean—give it?”

Joel stepped closer, towering over him. “You either know it or you don’t. There’s no ‘prepare’ when your patient’s dying, kid.”

You touched Joel’s arm gently. He glanced at you. His jaw unclenched—just barely—and he stepped back.

You looked at Henry. “Aspirin’s in the second drawer. Grab two, chewable. Go.”

Henry bolted. Joel didn’t say another word. He didn’t need to. The EKG machine began its infernal printing, and you read the strip.

“ST depressions,” you muttered. “It’s real.”

Joel nodded once.

Leonard blinked up at you. “Huh. Not just gas, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Well, fuck me sideways.”

You smiled despite yourself. Joel huffed something that might’ve been a laugh.

You stabilized Leonard. Got him a nitro drip, pain eased, vitals up. He was admitted upstairs to cardiology with a sarcastic goodbye and an invitation to his niece’s funeral chili cookout next Sunday.

Joel didn’t look at you for a few minutes after the bed rolled out, just stood in the trauma bay, eyes on the floor, fists still flexing.

He didn’t like being right when being right meant someone could’ve died.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Old men are stubborn.”

“You’re one of them.”

He looked at you. Finally. “And I’m still alive.”

You shrugged. “For now.”

He smirked. Just a little. You let that be enough.

It was barely 12:35 p.m. when the nurse’s station erupted again.

This time, it was Riley who flagged you down. “We’ve got a walk-in. Kid. Came in with her older brother—he looks like he’s barely older than her. Said she’s been scratching her head for weeks. No insurance. No PCP. No meds.”

“Lice?” you asked.

“Yeah. Like, bad. Real bad.”

Joel was standing next to you, reading a chart. You watched his spine stiffen. He didn’t say anything. But his jaw locked.

You followed Riley to Exam 9.

Inside, the girl was maybe eight. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Her hair was matted and greasy, dark streaks where she’d clearly tried to scratch herself bloody. Her little fingernails were dirty.

She sat on the edge of the bed like she was trying to take up as little space as possible.

Her brother—maybe fifteen—stood in the corner, arms crossed, eyes flicking everywhere but you. His hoodie was ripped. His sneakers had holes.

But he was standing between his sister and the door like he’d fight anyone who looked at her wrong.

You knelt beside the girl. “Hey. I’m one of the doctors. Can I take a look at your head?”

She didn’t speak. Just nodded. Barely.

Joel stood in the doorway. You felt him before you saw him. That dense kind of presence he carried like a loaded weapon.

You parted the girl’s hair. Winced.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Hundreds. Literal hundreds of nits. Clumped at the base of the scalp, crawling along the strands. Her ears were crusted with scabs from scratching. This wasn’t new. This was neglect.

“She’s had it for months,” the brother said. His voice cracked. “I tried. I bought shampoo. She cried. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not a—” His voice broke. “I’m not a mom.”

Joel still hadn’t said a word. But his knuckles were white around the file in his hands.

“She’s not in school?” you asked gently.

“Not since May,” the boy said. “I had to keep her home. They called CPS last time. I can’t—she’s all I have.”

Joel turned. Left the room.

You blinked.

Ten minutes later, he came back. Carrying two pharmacy bags.

He handed them to the brother.

“Shampoo,” he said flatly. “Good kind. Gloves. Shower caps. Combs. Clean pillowcases. Antibiotic cream for the scabs.”

The boy stared. “I—I don’t have—”

Joel stepped forward. Didn’t yell. Didn’t scowl.

Just said, “You’re gonna take her home. You’re gonna wash her hair. You’re gonna follow the instructions. She’s gonna stop scratching. She’s gonna sleep on clean sheets. You’re gonna do all that. And you’re not gonna thank me. You’re just gonna do it.”

The boy swallowed. Joel leaned in, voice low.

“And if your parent lets this happen again, I will call every agency in the goddamn state.”

The boy nodded.

Joel turned to you.

“Discharge her,” he said.

Then walked away.

You caught up with him three rooms down, grabbing his arm.

“Hey.”

He didn’t look at you. You touched the inside of his wrist, where the pulse still jumped.

“You’re not fooling anyone,” you whispered.

He grunted. “Wasn’t trying to.”

You smiled. He didn’t. But his shoulders loosened. And that was something.

It was still 12, but edging closer to 1 p.m.

The air inside Austin General’s emergency wing had shifted—not louder, not even busier, just…stranger. Like the rhythm of the day had slowed just enough to notice it was about to snap.

You were reviewing discharge paperwork for the lice girl when Riley stepped into the nurses' station, looking pale.

“We’ve got a walk-in,” she said. “Elderly. No ID. Found wandering outside the H-E-B on 7th.”

You blinked.

“She walk here?”

“Not sure,” Riley said. “Bill brought her in. She didn’t resist, but she’s confused. Doesn’t know where she is. Keeps repeating the same name.”

Joel, across the station, stiffened.

“Put her in Exam 7,” he ordered. “Monitor vitals. No restraints unless she tries to bolt.”

You followed Riley down the hall, into Exam 7, where the woman sat alone on the gurney. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. Wiry. Her blouse was stained, shoes on the wrong feet, and her white hair was frizzed into soft static. Her hands twisted in her lap like they were searching for something they’d lost decades ago.

You approached slowly. “Hi. I’m one of the doctors. Can I ask your name?”

She looked at you with watery blue eyes that didn’t quite see you.

Her voice came small, papery, “Angie. Angie. Angie.”

She said it again. Then again. Just one name. Over and over. Not in fear. Not in panic. Just…lost.

“She won’t stop saying it,” Riley whispered. “We tried the emergency contact on her bracelet—no answer. No address in the system.”

Joel arrived two minutes later. He didn’t speak at first. Just stood in the doorway. Watching. Like he was trying to remember someone. Then he moved forward. His whole frame tense, jaw tight.

“Ma’am,” he said gently. Gentle, for him. “Do you know where you are?”

“Angie.”

He crouched beside her, his voice lowering.

“Can you tell me who Angie is?”

She reached out. Clutched his forearm. Her grip was strong. Joel didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just sat there and let her hold on.

“She was my girl,” the woman whispered. “She was mine. And I lost her.”

Your throat went tight.

Joel nodded. Quiet. “We’ll find her, alright? We’ll look.”

You blinked hard, looked down at your tablet.

“Vitals stable,” you murmured, clearing your throat. “Labs ordered. Jesse’s on the phone with Adult Protective Services. Henry’s calling nearby care facilities.”

Joel stood slowly. His eyes flicked to you.

“She’s not goin’ anywhere,” he said. “Not ‘til someone claims her.”

You nodded. “And if no one does?”

He didn’t answer. But his hand stayed clenched at his side.

You left the room, heart heavy. And then the trauma doors opened again. Because of course they did.

“Room 3,” Mel said, moving fast beside you. “Sixteen. Football player. Came in with chest pain during summer conditioning drills. Dizzy, shortness of breath. Coach made him come in ‘just to be safe.’”

You blinked. “Vitals?”

“BP 110/72, HR 98. No fever. Clear lungs. Slight systolic murmur on auscultation. No known cardiac history.”

You looked at her sideways. “You said sixteen?”

Mel nodded. You pushed open the curtain.

The kid on the bed looked older than sixteen. Broad-shouldered, lean muscle, tan lines from Texas heat. His football jersey was wadded under his arm. Sweat plastered the front of his undershirt to his chest. His eyes were scared, but trying to play it cool.

“Name?” you asked.

“Cory.”

“Okay, Cory. You said this started during practice?”

“Yeah. We were doing sprints, and my chest felt weird. Like tight. I got dizzy. Coach said maybe it was the heat. But I’ve played through worse.”

You glanced at the monitor. “Has this happened before?”

He hesitated. “...Once. A few weeks ago. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t want them to pull me from reps.”

“Any family history of heart disease?”

He looked down. “My uncle died of a heart thing in his forties. I think.”

You exchanged a glance with Mel. She was already typing.

“Okay,” you said, keeping your tone light. “We’re gonna run some tests. Just to be safe. You’ll be outta here in no time.”

Cory nodded, trying to smile. You stepped outside with Mel.

“Order an ECG,” you said. “Echo, too. Let’s rule out structural causes. Maybe a stress test if cardiology doesn’t scream at us.”

Joel appeared beside you like a shadow. “You talking about the kid in 3?”

You nodded. “Systolic murmur. Episodic chest pain with exertion. Could be heat stroke. Could be anxiety. Could be nothing.”

“Could be HCM,” Joel said flatly.

“Yeah.”

Joel’s jaw tensed. “I’ll get Imaging. We’re not missing this one.”

It didn’t take long. The echo told the truth. Joel called you into the radiology reading room himself.

The image flickered on the screen—thickened ventricular septum, diastolic dysfunction, the unmistakable pattern of hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.

Your stomach dropped. Joel didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at the monitor, his arms crossed, tension rippling through every inch of his body.

He finally looked at you. “He doesn’t know, does he?”

“No.”

Joel exhaled, low and slow, “Want me to do it?”

You shook your head. “No. I’ve got it.”

He looked at you—really looked—then nodded. “I’ll be right outside.”

You sat beside Cory on the edge of his bed, the curtain pulled closed to block out the chaos of the ER.

He looked at you like you were about to hand him the keys to his future.

“Good news?” he asked.

You didn’t sugarcoat. You never did.

“We found something.”

He blinked. “Like, something bad?”

You swallowed. “It’s a condition called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. It means your heart muscle—specifically the wall between the two lower chambers—is abnormally thick. It makes it harder for your heart to pump blood effectively.”

Cory stared at you.

“No. No, I—I feel fine most days. I’ve always passed physicals.”

“It often doesn’t show up until something triggers it. You’re lucky it did. If you’d passed out without anyone around…”

You let it hang there. He didn’t move. His mouth opened, then closed again.

“So... what does this mean?”

You paused. “It means no more football.”

Silence.

Then, “No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. No, no, no. That’s not—” His voice broke. “I’ve been training for this since I was ten. I just got invited to the summer showcase at UT. I’ve got coacheslooking at me. I can’t—I can’t—”

You didn’t stop him. You let him feel it. You stayed right there as he buried his face in his hands.

And when he finally looked up, eyes red, lips trembling, you said, “You’re alive, Cory. You’re going to stay alive. But you have to change course. That’s what matters right now.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t throw anything either. So that was something.

Outside, Joel was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. When he saw your face, he didn’t ask.

Just said, “You did good.”

You shook your head. “I hate this part.”

Joel nodded slowly. “Means you still got a soul.”

You didn’t speak again until you were back at the nurse’s station.

Jesse handed you a chart, Abby appeared with a new tray of IV kits, Ellie was arguing with someone about a urinal, and Henry was missing again.

Just another moment. Another beat. Still 12:57 p.m. Still not screaming. But the wind had shifted. And everyone could feel it.

The shift in the ER—subtle but total. Like someone had cranked the volume of the world to one notch below unbearable. No screaming yet. Just the weight of everything pressing down.

That’s when she came in.

You didn’t catch her name at first. Only her voice—sharp, cracked, desperate—and the unmistakable phrase, already being said before the curtain was even closed,

“I need Dilaudid. Just give me the Dilaudid.”

You looked up from the trauma board.

Across the hall, Jesse stood outside Exam 11, arms crossed, face locked in that uneasy grimace he wore whenever he was trying to hide discomfort behind professionalism.

“She say Dilaudid?” you asked.

Jesse nodded once. “Yelled it. About four times. Then cried.”

Mel passed behind you, muttering under her breath. “This again. Jesus.”

“Vitals?” you asked.

“BP 132/89, HR slightly elevated. Says she’s a chronic pain patient. Fibromyalgia, lower back disc degeneration, migraines. Lists ten meds she’s ‘allergic’ to.”

You winced. That checklist. The impossible one. The one that throws the whole room off-balance.

You stood, snapping on gloves.

“I’ll take it.”

“Of course you will,” Jesse said, smiling faintly. “You’re the only one she hasn’t screamed at yet.”

She was in her late thirties, maybe forty. Hard to tell—her face was drawn, eyes sunken with fatigue. Not from lack of sleep, but from years of wear. Her hair was tied back, but uneven. Her nails were chewed raw. Her hands trembled with the kind of exhaustion that made your throat ache just watching it.

She looked up when you stepped in. Her first words weren’t a greeting.

“Please don’t tell me it’s Tylenol. Please don’t fucking tell me it’s Tylenol again.”

“I’m not telling you anything yet,” you said gently, pulling the curtain closed. “I’m just here to talk.”

Her eyes narrowed, waiting for judgment. You didn’t offer it.

“I’ve been through this a hundred times,” she said. “I get it. You think I’m a junkie. That I’m drug-seeking. That I’m trying to score. But I’m in pain. I’ve been in pain since I was twenty-one. My spine is a fucking mess. My doctor retired last year and I’ve been in withdrawal ever since. No one will touch my chart.”

“Okay,” you said. “Let’s talk about it.”

Joel arrived ten minutes later. You knew he would. He always did when the air got like this—tense, cracked like thunder waiting to fall.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stood outside the curtain, arms folded, listening to your voice as you walked the patient through the same set of questions you’d asked every chronic pain case before her...

When did the pain start?

What does it feel like?

What helps?

What’s made it worse?

She cried. Quietly. You stayed still. And Joel finally stepped in.

His eyes flicked from you to the patient and back again.

“What’s your name?” he asked flatly.

“Trina,” she whispered.

“You’ve been here before.”

“I have.”

“You’ve asked for Dilaudid every time.”

“Because it works.”

Joel’s gaze didn’t soften. “You know we’re not a refill station, right?”

“I’m not asking for a month’s supply. I’m asking for one dose. To stop my legs from feeling like they’re being set on fire.”

You saw it. The twitch in Joel’s jaw. That old scar that flared when he gritted his teeth too hard.

“She’s in pain,” you said softly, more for him than for her.

He didn’t look at you. Not yet. But his silence cracked.

“She allergic to morphine?” he asked.

“Yes,” Trina said, too fast.

“Hydrocodone?”

“Also yes.”

Joel exhaled. “What about Toradol?”

“Gives me hives.”

“Tylenol?”

“Do you really think I’d be here if Tylenol worked?”

Joel was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, low, sharp, “Jesse. Get me her chart from the last three visits. I want full tox screens. And a list of filled prescriptions.”

Jesse moved fast.

Trina shook her head. “You think I’m lying.”

“I think we have a system that doesn’t help people like you,” Joel said flatly. “And I think you’ve been burned so many times you stopped trying to prove you’re telling the truth.”

That shut her up.

Joel turned to you. “Walk with me.”

You followed him outside the trauma wing and into the hallway, where the walls weren’t bleeding pain.

He stopped. Looked at you hard.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered. “But I don’t like watching someone twitch like that either.”

“She’s not faking,” you said.

“I know.”

“She’s terrified of being labeled again.”

“She already is.”

He rubbed his hands down his face.

“This system is broken,” he growled. “We treat pain like it’s a negotiation. Like people should earn relief. Like we can guess who’s in agony by how polite they are.”

You blinked. “So…what do we do?”

Joel met your eyes. “We treat the fucking pain.”

When you walked back into Exam 11, Joel was already writing the order. Single dose of IV Dilaudid. Low dose. Under supervision.

Jesse came back with her history—no flagged behaviors, no record of prescription fraud. Just an endless trail of bounced-around providers, ERs, urgent cares, and desperate attempts to find anyone who would believe her.

You administered the dose yourself. Her eyes filled with tears the second it hit.

“I’m not high,” she said. “I’m just…I don’t hurt. For the first time in a week.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

Outside, Joel leaned against the wall, watching the floor. When you came out, he looked up at you. Just once. You nodded.

“She’ll be out in an hour,” you said. “Then Ellie will talk to her about follow-up care.”

Joel nodded. Said nothing. But when you reached for his wrist—quiet, unseen—he let you hold on.

His pulse was steady. But now the screaming had started. And you weren’t letting go.

But the hospital didn’t care about things like stillness, or intimacy, or the fragile moment where you could feel someone’s pulse through your fingertips.

The ER didn’t care that you’d just poured your soul into a woman who hadn’t known if she deserved relief. It was 1:00 p.m. now, and the shift had turned.

Afternoons always brought something. The morning was for predictable chaos—broken bones, missed meds, barbecue injuries, and complications from last night’s poor decisions. But one o’clock? That was when the weird showed up. That was when the city remembered you existed and decided to test your limits.

You were barely logging the Dilaudid patient’s chart when Riley jogged toward you, hands flailing like she was chasing a balloon.

“Influencer in triage,” she hissed.

You stared at her. “What?”

“She’s live-streaming.”

“What?”

“She said it’s very important for her community to see her medical journey in real time. Jesse’s with her. He’s trying not to lose it.”

You followed her back to triage. And there she was.

Hot-pink leggings. Some light thing attached to her phone. False lashes that looked heavy enough to injure someone.

She was sitting on the triage cot like it was her dressing room, iPhone held high in one hand, the other dramatically bandaged with a gauze square the size of a postage stamp.

You heard her before she saw you.

“Hey my babies! So, I was viciously attacked by a bee at Barton Springs—like, full-on survival moment—and now I’m in the ER because I have a severe, deadlyallergy and my throat literally almost closed.”

Jesse was standing beside her, trying to get a blood pressure reading without being captured in the livestream. He looked like he wanted the fluorescent lights to explode and bury him in debris.

You cleared your throat.

The influencer whipped around. “Oh my God—are you my doctor? You look so young. She looks so young, right?” She gestured to the camera. “Everyone say hi!”

You didn’t say hi.

You turned to Jesse. “Vitals?”

“All normal. No swelling. No signs of anaphylaxis. She drove herself here. Took a Benadryl an hour ago.”

“Tongue? Throat?”

He shook his head. “Clear.”

You turned to her.

“You said you have a deadly allergy?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t use your EpiPen?”

She blinked. “I didn’t bring it.”

“You didn’t have someone drive you?”

“I didn’t want to wait.”

“You took Benadryl?”

“Yes.”

“And you can breathe?”

“Obviously.”

You stared at her. She smiled, perfectly white teeth catching the light of her phone. You stepped forward and gently tapped the screen of her phone, turning it off.

She blinked. “Um—what—?”

“You’re in a medical facility,” you said. “Not a film set.”

“Oh my God,” she whispered, scandalized. “You didn’t just touch my—”

“HIPAA,” Jesse muttered like it was a prayer. “HIPAA, HIPAA, HIPAA.”

You turned to Jesse. “Get her a discharge summary and a lollipop.”

The woman gasped. “I’m going to post about this—”

“I encourage it,” you said with a smile.

As you walked away, Jesse fell into step beside you.

“She tried to ask me to pose for a ‘we made it’ selfie.”

“Did you?”

“She said her brand is about healing through visibility. I think I disassociated.”

You reached up and patted his shoulder.

“You’re a soldier.”

He nodded solemnly. “Vietnam flashbacks. Except worse.”

At 1:18 p.m., you barely made it through three bites of a protein bar before Ellie appeared.

“There’s a new mom in 6. Fever. Pain. Baby’s here. She looks rough.”

“How rough?”

Ellie hesitated. “Like... I think she hasn’t slept in a week. She’s got that twitchy eye thing going on. And she’s reallytrying to hold it together.”

You finished the bite and followed her back.

Room 6 was darkened, the baby cradled in a bundle in a too-big hospital bassinet next to the bed.

The woman on the bed looked pale, blotchy, fevered. Her sweat-soaked tank top clung to her back, her breasts visibly swollen beneath it. One side red and inflamed. Her eyes flicked to you like she expected to be judged before you even opened your mouth.

You spoke softly, “Hi. I’m one of the doctors. What’s going on today?”

Her voice broke on the second word. “It hurts. My boob—it’s hot, and red, and he won’t—” she looked at the baby—“he won’t latch, and I’ve tried everything, and I haven’t slept in four days, and I think I’m dying.”

You pulled gloves on. “How old is he?”

“Thirteen days.”

You nodded. “This your first?”

“Yes.”

You glanced at Ellie. She stepped back, knowing this was yours.

You moved slowly. Sat beside the bed.

“You’re not dying,” you said gently. “You have mastitis. It’s a breast tissue infection. It happens, especially when a baby has trouble latching or feedings are inconsistent.”

The woman bit her lip.

“But I’ve been pumping. And massaging. I tried warm compresses. I even—God, this is so stupid—I googled something about cabbage leaves. I’ve been putting lettuce in my bra.”

“That’s not stupid,” you said. “That’s desperate. And you’re allowed to be desperate. You’re exhausted. You’re in pain. You’re feeding a human with your body and nobody told you it would feel like being hit by a truck and then asked to do calculus.”

She started to cry. Not loudly. Just the soft, hiccuping sobs of someone who finally got permission to fall apart. You stayed.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” you said gently. “We’re going to get you on antibiotics. We’re going to get you a lactation consult. We’re going to bring your fever down and manage your pain. And you’re going to sleep. Even if I have to sedate half the wing to give you peace, you are going to rest.”

Her hand gripped yours. Tight.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

You stayed a little longer. Then got up to start her orders. When you turned, Joel was there. Leaning in the hallway. Watching. He didn’t speak. Just met your eyes. And something in his gaze—soft but sharp—wrapped around your ribs like a wire pulled tight.

You walked out into the hallway, toward him.

“She’s gonna be okay,” you said.

Joel nodded.

“She was scared out of her mind.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how people do it. Alone.”

He looked at you. Really looked.

“They shouldn’t have to,” he said.

And he didn’t say more. Because it was the afternoon, high times. And Austin General was still full of screaming. But with him standing there, watching you like that? You weren’t screaming anymore. But the world outside your skin was.

The clock ticked past 1:17 p.m., and Austin General spun on without pause. The afternoon haze crept in through the automatic doors like breath through a cracked rib, uneven, persistent, fragile. The AC buzzed too loud in the nurse’s station. Someone spilled coffee near the crash cart. A fluorescent light in Room 12 flickered so fast it gave Mel a headache.

And the cases? They didn’t slow. They just changed shape.

A post-op patient arrived just after the new hour mark—transferred from another hospital across town.

He came in on a gurney soaked in sweat, with surgical dressing that reeked of necrotic tissue the second it hit air. His wound site—deep in the lower abdomen—was leaking pus that ran dark yellow, laced with streaks of green. Red, angry skin stretched outward from the edges of the incision like it was being peeled from the inside.

He didn’t even try to sit up. Didn’t have the strength.

You read the transfer note. Appendectomy. Four days ago. Complained of fever and worsening pain. Told to "monitor at home."

No antibiotics. No follow-up. Just “Tylenol and fluids,” according to the record.

Joel read it over your shoulder. Said nothing at first.

Then, very quietly, “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

You glanced at him. “He should’ve been here days ago.”

“He should’ve been in the OR again days ago.”

He turned and walked out. You followed. He didn’t go to Trauma or Radiology or even the consult rooms.

He went straight to the break room. Shut the door. Pulled out his phone. You heard him dial. Then tap the speakerphone.

“Dr. Kevner.”

Joel’s voice dropped into the register he only used when he was holding a scalpel or about to verbally eviscerate someone.

“Kevner. Miller from Austin General.”

“Joel, hey. You got the transfer?”

“Yeah. The one with the abscess the size of a grapefruit.”

“Right. We figured it was best he go to you guys since you’ve got more trauma coverage—”

“You let a post-op with signs of sepsis walk around for four days?”

“We were monitoring remotely. His vitals weren’t concerning—”

Joel’s fist slammed against the break room table. “You think a rotting gut smells like nothing, Kevner? You know what kind of post-op infection this is? The kind that eats people.”

“Joel—”

“You abandoned this kid. He came in tachycardic, hypotensive, oozing pus out of a dressing that looks like it was stuck on with duct tape. You didn’t even give him Augmentin?”

“We didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think at all. You dumped him on us ‘cause you didn’t want him crashing on your floor.”

“That’s not fair—”

Joel’s voice cut sharp and flat. “He could’ve died in a goddamn Uber, Kevner. So here’s what’s gonna happen, I’m writing a formal review. I’m calling the state board. And if this kid doesn’t walk out of here whole, I’m sending his mom your malpractice address directly.”

Silence on the other end. Then the line clicked dead. Joel stared at the phone. Then looked at you.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

He just shook his head. “I fucking hate this job sometimes.”

And then you heard it. The doors. Bursting open. You turned, gut coiling instinctively.

Frank was running. Covered in blood. Tommy was behind him, hauling the stretcher with a speed that made the wheels scream across tile.

On the gurney, a teen. Seventeen, maybe. Thin. Torn clothes. Blood on the chest. On the jaw. Across what was left of his right leg.

Your heart slammed in your chest.

“Hit by train,” Frank shouted. “Intentional. Jumped. Emergency stop missed. He was trying to die.”

The kid was missing skin. From his hips down. Left thigh torn open, right side fully degloved—flesh ripped back like a sheet, exposing red muscle and shattered bone. The meat of his body was visible. Raw. He looked like a person half-finished.

No pulse. No movement. Nothing.

“We can't give up on him!” Tommy barked. “He was crying when we got to him. He wanted help. He changed his mind!”

You threw your body into motion.

“Get him in Bay 1!” you screamed. “Now!”

Joel was already sprinting beside you, barking orders.

“Massive transfusion protocol! Jesse—run the O-neg. Mel, grab crash kit. Riley—intubation tray. Henry, get out unless you’re ready to bleed.”

Frank stayed. His knuckles were red from where he’d done compressions all the way here. Tommy stood against the wall, hands shaking. You didn’t flinch.

“You’re not dying here,” you whispered to the kid. “Not on my fucking table.”

It was chaos. The kind of chaos that strips the skin off your soul.

You intubated. Jesse missed the first line. You got it on the second. Ellie handed you a chest tube. Blood pooled beneath your shoes.

Joel’s hands were moving fast, precise. His voice was sharp, relentless. Every word from him cut through the noise.

“Three units, wide open.”

“Another 8.5 ET. He’s swelling.”

“Where’s ortho? We need vascular now.”

But you could see it. People were starting to doubt. You saw it in Abby’s eyes. In the silence from Henry. Even Riley flinched when she saw how much of the kid’s leg was just gone.

You stood over him. Chest compressions in progress. Bleeding not slowing. Vitals flatline.

“He’s D.O.A.,” someone whispered.

“No, he’s not,” you snapped. “We’ve got a window. He was alive ten minutes ago. He was crying. We are not letting him die because we’re tired.”

Joel’s voice barked, “You heard her. Move.”

You cracked ribs with your own hands. Pushed epinephrine. Tilted the table.

Blood pressure came back. Faint. But it came back. You felt it. A flutter. A whisper in the radial.

You stared.

“He’s perfusing,” you gasped.

Joel looked up at you. And in that moment, he didn’t look mean. He looked awed.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

But you weren’t done. Not yet.

Not until he was intubated. Not until you had tourniquets in place and trauma had arrived with the crash team. Not until his mother arrived—shaking, sobbing—and saw that her son was still breathing.

You walked out of Trauma 1 covered in blood. You peeled off your gloves in one motion. And Joel was waiting. Right outside the door. He said nothing. Just looked at you.

You wiped your arm on your scrub top. “He wanted help.”

Joel nodded.

“You saved him,” he said.

You stared. “We did.”

Joel stepped closer. There was blood on your cheek. He wiped it with his thumb. Then stepped back.

But his hand lingered a second longer than necessary. You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t need to.

It was still just past two. And you weren’t letting anyone die today. Not if you had anything to do with it. But eventually—because it had to—the adrenaline slowed.

Your body remembered that it was attached to muscles and bones and nerve endings that ached. Your stomach, neglected for the last six hours, growled loud enough to startle Jesse as he walked by with a chart.

And right then—like a miracle made of takeout foil and white plastic forks—the break room door opened to reveal something that almost felt like salvation...

Lunch. Real lunch. Catered. Paid for by the hospital’s owner—someone you’d never met, who apparently existed solely in Board meetings and vague references to lawsuits—but they’d bought food.

For you. For the chaos warriors who’d dragged themselves through yesterday’s Fourth of July madness, who’d patched gunshots and peeled melted plastic off children’s hands, who’d kept hearts beating, lungs breathing, and somehow still made it to work again today.

Jesse poked his head out of the break room. “Sandwiches. Tacos. Pasta. There’s even cold lemonade in one of those big-ass jugs.”

Abby trailed behind him, face flushed, ponytail crooked. “There’s salad too, but it’s Austin. Everything’s got quinoa.”

You finally exhaled.

Then you turned to find Joel—but of course, he wasn’t with the rest of the staff. Not in the hallway. Not near the triage desk. Not hovering beside the trauma bays like he usually was, scanning for errors in posture or medication orders.

Joel was gone.

In the break room, the noise was louder than it had been all day—but it was a different kind of loud.

This wasn’t the shriek of monitors or the scuff of gurney wheels or the metallic ring of dropped surgical tools.

This was laughter. Riley perched on the edge of a chair with her feet on a cooler, stuffing a taco into her mouth and trying to explain something about a failed Tinder date with a guy who claimed to be “emotionally polyamorous but spiritually monogamous.”

Mel snorted lemonade through her nose. Henry looked traumatized but impressed.

Ellie was cutting up her food into impossibly small bites and pretending she wasn’t listening to Maria’s story about a bachelorette party injury involving an ill-advised pole and three tequila shots.

Jesse was leaning back, both feet up on the table, eating pasta like he hadn’t seen carbs in weeks.

You saw Dina step in too—eyeliner smudged, hair pulled back, smiling in that sleepy, warm way she did after hours of difficult conversations with scared families. She grabbed two tacos, no plate, and stood beside the fridge with her hip against the counter, finally letting herself just be for a minute.

Even Tommy and Frank had stopped in—Tommy pulling Frank a chair like he was courting him all over again, both of them sweaty, still in EMS gear, still stained from the train call.

Everyone was here.

Except Joel.

You found a takeout container and began assembling a plate.

You knew what he liked—sliced brisket, no sauce, potato salad, not too much—one of the little cornbread muffins, the kind no one else touched because they looked dry but he liked them anyway.

You wrapped it tightly in foil. Wrote his initials on the top with a Sharpie you borrowed from Jesse, who gave you a knowing smirk and didn’t say a word.

You placed it in the staff fridge like it was sacred. It kind of was. Then, only after, did you sit down. Your feet ached. Your scrubs were stained.

There was dried blood beneath your fingernails and pressure still echoing in your chest from the compressions you'd done less than an hour ago—but for this one breath, this tiny sliver of a break room universe, everything felt normal.

Warm food. Smiling faces. The hum of microwaves and dumb inside jokes. It was the kind of peace that didn’t last long in an ER.

But god, it mattered. And when you finally stood, stretching your arms overhead, the quiet in your limbs was the only thing louder than the laughter.

You didn’t find Joel until almost an hour later, near the ambulance bay.

He was alone, as always, leaning against the edge of the wall like he belonged to the concrete.

You could tell he’d washed his hands—again—because they were still red. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows. His expression unreadable.

“You missed lunch,” you said softly.

He glanced at you. Then back at the parking lot.

“You eat?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

There was a beat.

Then you added, “I saved you a plate.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just nodded once.

Then, just barely audible, “Thanks.”

You stepped closer. Not too close. Not where anyone could see. But close enough that he could hear the difference in your breath. Feel the way you looked at him.

“You need to eat, Joel.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

He exhaled through his nose. “Didn’t think I’d survive another one of those cases.”

“But you did.”

He looked at you then. And for just one second, the mean lines in his face softened.

“Because you were there,” he said.

You didn’t smile. But you reached out, your fingers brushing against his wrist. That was enough. No one said anything else.

Not until the alarms blared again, and your pagers lit up, and someone in the nurse’s station called your name.

But in that quiet space between bites and blood, you’d built something. Something soft. And real. And his.

That word sat in the back of your throat for the next twenty minutes. Didn’t leave. Didn’t try to. It just lived there quietly, pressing against your pulse every time you remembered the way Joel had looked at you when he said it.

“Because you were there.”

Because you always were.

That moment might have lasted longer—maybe even slipped into something softer, something even riskier—but just then, the intercom crackled.

“Doctor Miller and third-year, please report to the nurses’ station. Family on line two.”

Joel sighed like it was a personal attack.

You followed him back in, glancing up at the board as you passed, everything still full. Every bed still filled. Every name glowing under fluorescent helllight.

Kathleen was manning the phones even though it was technically not her shift yet. She handed Joel the receiver like she was handing off a grenade.

“It’s the dementia patient’s family,” she said quietly. “Finally called back.”

Joel blinked. “They just now called back?”

“Yeah. Line was disconnected all morning.”

You leaned in, listening.

Joel pressed the receiver to his ear. “This is Dr. Miller.”

The voice that came through was young. Male. Rushed. Guilty.

“Oh my god—I’m so sorry. I just got this message. I—I lost my phone this morning at my son’s soccer practice, and I didn’t realize until after lunch that I’d missed like six calls from the hospital. I just— Is she okay? Is my mom okay?”

Joel’s mouth tightened.

“She’s stable. Came in around noon. No ID besides a bracelet. She’s been repeating the name Angie.”

“Yeah, that’s my daughter. Angie’s her granddaughter. They’re very close.”

Joel glanced at you. You nodded. It made sense now.

“I can be there in twenty minutes. I swear. I—I didn’t mean for her to be alone that long. My wife was watching her during the game and thought she was napping upstairs. But then...”

His voice broke.

Joel exhaled. “She’s safe. Come to the main ER entrance. We’ll walk you back.”

Twenty-five minutes later, a tired man in cleats and a youth league jersey stepped into the unit. One sock still grass-stained. His face drawn with guilt, worry, exhaustion.

You saw him before he saw her. When he did—when she turned toward the doorway, blinking like she was waking from a dream—his whole body just collapsed inward.

He rushed to her side. Kissed her head, “Mom. It’s okay. I’ve got you. Angie’s okay. You’re okay.”

She looked up at him, confused for a second. Then her face changed.

“I missed the game,” she said softly.

The son’s eyes welled. “I know. Its okay.”

“No,” she whispered. “I missed it.”

He crouched beside her, face pressed into her hand. And for a moment, you and Joel just stood there. Silent. Watching.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel murmured. “I’m not made for this part.”

You smiled. “Yes, you are.”

He didn’t argue. The spell didn’t last. It never did.

You were halfway through prepping a patient with an infected foot ulcer when Tess appeared beside you.

“Hey,” she said flatly. “Need your help with a situation.”

You looked up. “What kind of situation?”

“The yelling kind.”

You blinked. “Verbal or physical?”

“Unknown,” Tess said, already walking. “But if it turns physical, I get to hit first.”

Room 9. The door was shut but not sealed, and even from the hallway you could hear the argument happening inside.

You stepped in just behind Tess.

A man in his late forties sat on the edge of the bed, clearly agitated. His chart said “chronic shoulder dislocation,” but you could tell from the way he was gripping the call button that pain was only half the problem.

His eyes locked onto Tess immediately. “I said I wanted another doctor.”

“You got one,” Tess said, pointing at you. “She’s better than me anyway.”

He scoffed. “She’s a kid.”

You didn’t flinch. “I’m a third-year. You’re in a trauma facility. You came to us. So let’s work together.”

He bristled. “You’re gonna listen to me?”

“That depends. You planning on throwing anything at my face?”

“Not unless you treat me like a junkie.”

You met his stare. Dead on.

“Sir, I’m going to treat you like someone in pain. That’s it. You be mean to my staff, I will have you thrown out.”

Tess smirked behind you. The patient didn’t blink. But after a moment—he sighed.

“Fine.”

“Good,” you said. “Now take off your jacket so I can look at your shoulder.”

Twenty minutes later, his shoulder was relocated, the swelling addressed, and he’d even asked if you were “one of the good ones.”

You said, “Aren’t we all?”

He muttered something about you having a better bedside manner than Joel.

You grinned. “Don’t let him hear that.”

When you stepped out, Tess nudged your shoulder with her fist.

“You’re gonna be chief one day,” she muttered.

“I don’t want to be.”

“Yeah, well. That’s why you should be.”

You returned to the nurse’s station, found your coffee from earlier, now lukewarm and neglected.

Joel passed you a fresh cup. Didn’t say a word. Just handed it over. You took it. Sipped. Winced.

“No sugar?”

Joel shrugged. “You’re sweet enough.”

You blinked at him. “Did you hit your head today?”

“Shut up.”

And he walked off. But his hand brushed your back as he did. Just barely. Just enough.

And for now, that was enough. Until it wasn’t. Because the ER never let you be full for long.

Around 3 PM, you got the usual trickle—low-stakes, high-frustration patients who were always sprinkled like salt across your chart. A man who’d had a panic attack on the bus and insisted it was a heart attack. A toddler with a plastic bead up his nose. A woman who demanded stitches be done by a plastic surgeon only,as if this were Beverly Hills and not an Austin trauma bay where blood was still on the floor from a degloving.

At 4 PM, six more beds were filled.

A teenage girl who fainted after fasting for a fitness challenge—Joel had muttered something about the world being broken before ordering a bag of D5 and a banana.

Then a man who’d been trying to remove a mole on his own with a butter knife.

You didn’t ask.

By 5 PM, everyone was tired again. You could feel it. The tension in the staff’s collective shoulders. The quiet way Ellie was curled up in a corner chair with a bag of goldfish and her head against the wall. How Abby and Mel were both standing too still while they wrote up discharge summaries. How even Maria looked like she might consider caffeine an inadequate substitute for a coma.

You were standing at the crash cart, double-checking supplies with Riley, when your pager vibrated hard against your hip.

Trauma incoming. MCI. Multiple victims. Truck rollover I-35. ETA 7 min.

Seven minutes. You didn’t even have time to swear before Joel’s voice cut through the air like a bullet.

“Mass casualty protocol. Jesse, get on the loudspeaker. Ellie—triage out front. Tess, you’re with me. Everyone not actively coding a patient, suit up.”

The break room emptied like floodgates opening. People ran without asking where.

You’d trained for it. You’d run drills. But nothing prepared you for the noise. Nothing will ever prepare you for the noise.

The first ambulance came in like a screaming red siren of the apocalypse. Behind it, a second. Then two more. You heard the unmistakable wail of Tommy’s voice yelling from behind the gurney, “Four trapped under the rig, we got two with crush injuries and one flail chest!”

Frank shouted, “Driver ejected. Helmetless. Pulseless on scene. We brought him anyway!”

Jesse and Kathleen threw triage tags like confetti. Red. Yellow. Black. You watched Riley pale when she saw the black one—expectant. Not saveable.

“Don’t look at the tags,” you muttered to her. “Look at their eyes. Look at their breath.”

You were thrown into Trauma 2 before you could breathe again.

A girl. 22, maybe. Covered in gasoline. Glass embedded in her legs.

Abby was cutting through her jeans with trauma shears. You held pressure on her abdomen. Mel came in behind you with a crash cart and blood.

“She was in the back seat,” Henry said from the doorway. “Not belted. Hit the seat in front of her when the cab rolled.”

Her pulse was thready. Her pupils sluggish.

“She’s tamponading,” you said. “Prep for chest tube.”

Joel’s voice from across the hall, “Do it! Don’t wait for me!”

And so you did. By 6:10, the ER was a battlefield.

Three bays were full. Four more patients were lined against the wall on backboards, IVs taped to their arms like lifelines. Tess had gone through two pairs of gloves and one set of scrubs. Maria had yelled at the ortho resident and then Jesse.

Joel hadn’t stopped moving once.

He was yelling. Barking orders. Throwing himself into the middle of every collapsed airway, every exposed femur, every chest full of blood. He was mean, but he was brilliant. And everyone followed him because he didn’t let people die unless he had to.

You worked on a man who had glass lodged in both hands and a piece of rebar poking from his side.

When he screamed, you leaned into him and whispered, “We’re not going anywhere. You hear me?”

He nodded, tears leaking into the surgical drape.

Outside the trauma bay, Dina was trying to calm a young woman who’d just watched her boyfriend pulled from the wreckage with no face left to recognize. Kathleen held a clipboard like a weapon, ticking off names, counting bodies. Even Bill—the usually stoic, quiet security guard—was hauling gauze boxes and water bottles down the hall like his own life depended on it.

And Tommy?

Tommy had blood on his uniform, his hands, his face. He leaned in the hallway, catching his breath, but when he saw you stumble, he caught your elbow.

“You good?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He didn’t smile. Just nodded. “You’re doing good.”

And you moved on. Because more were coming. Always more.

Joel finally paused near the nurses’ station. Just for a second. Just to find you.

And you were there. Bloodied, sweating, but still standing. He looked at you. You looked back. And no words were spoken.

Because you didn’t need them. Because everything you were was in that moment—the carnage, the chaos, the calm between it.

And that look? It said, I’m not letting you go. Not here. Not ever.

The doors opened again. More sirens. More blood. And you went.

Because this didn’t end with quiet. It ended with screaming. And you were still listening. Still moving. Still breathing through blood-soaked gloves and adrenaline that wouldn’t leave your bloodstream even if you begged.

It wasn’t until you caught a glimpse of the clock above the medication room that it hit you...

7:48 p.m. The whole goddamn day had disappeared.

You blinked, chest rising, eyes burning. Your last actual sip of water had been sometime around noon. Your stomach was an empty cavity. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d sat for longer than twenty seconds. And still—you kept going.

Because the truck rollover had swallowed the hospital whole.

No one had noticed time moving. Not you, not Jesse, not Riley or Ellie or Maria or Kathleen, who still had her reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose even though she wasn’t reading a damn thing.

Even Joel, who usually noticed everything, had missed it.

The ER had never fully quieted—it just shifted pitch. And then you heard it...

That strange, bittersweet sound of relief.

Night shift was coming in.

You heard Dina first, talking to Gail, the night counterpart.

“Two still critical. Five stable. Four being observed. One transferred to ICU. One—” Dina’s voice dropped—“black tag.”

Gail nodded, already tapping her badge for access. She didn’t flinch. Just stepped into chaos with the deadpan precision of someone used to storms.

“Where’s Joel?” she asked.

“Still barking at the trauma bay,” Dina muttered. “Still bleeding brilliance all over the floor.”

You smiled without meaning to.

Then saw Ellie, shoulders slumped, yawning so hard her mouth cracked like a hinge.

“Go home,” you told her. “You’re done.”

“You sure?”

“Go. Before I sedate you.”

Ellie flashed a thumbs up and disappeared toward the locker rooms.

As the shift change solidified—chart updates being handed off, new meds prepped, triage re-opened—you paused. Just for a second. You leaned against the wall outside Trauma 2 and let your head fall back.

The hallway buzzed in waves. Squeaking shoes, IV pumps clicking, the murmur of names being handed over like heirlooms.

You felt something like satisfaction. And exhaustion. And something else you didn’t want to name yet.

You saw Joel before he saw you.

He was in the far corridor, talking to Tommy and Tess—gesturing with one hand, still wearing a drying bloodstain on his sleeve.

But his eyes shifted. And then, he was walking toward you.

The hallway fell quiet behind him. Just for you.

And when he got close—close enough to make the rest of the world vanish—he tilted his head and said,

“You alive?”

You nodded. “Barely.”

He sighed. “Let’s go.”

You were almost to the exit when you remembered.

You grabbed his plate from the fridge—the one you’d made hours ago with food that was probably tepid and a little sad by now, but it was still his.

Still a reminder that someone had thought of him.

You held it out wordlessly. He took it from you and didn’t say a word either. He didn’t need to.

The parking lot was a dreamscape—soft shadows under orange lights, buzzing insects echoing across the concrete. The world outside didn’t know the trauma that had happened just beyond those double doors.

Joel walked with you in silence.

He wasn’t limping, but he moved like something in him ached. You understood. Your own joints felt like chewed leather.

You reached his truck. He moved to the passenger side and opened the door for you. And just as you turned to climb in, you felt it.

His hand. On your hip.

And then...

His mouth. On yours.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow, intimate, full of all the things he hadn’t said today.

His hand slid up your spine, holding you flush to him, his chest still warm from the heat of the hospital. His other hand rested just above your hip, steadying you like he thought maybe you’d fall apart otherwise.

You gasped softly into him. Not because you were surprised.

But because it was the first time all day you’d felt something that wasn’t pain or duty or adrenaline.

You felt like his.

He pulled back just enough to speak against your lips.

“You were a fuckin’ force today,” he murmured. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

Your hand clutched the front of his scrub shirt.

“I didn’t want you to.”

He chuckled low. “I know.”

Then pressed his forehead against yours.

“You’re everything in there,” he said. “You know that?”

You nodded.

And whispered, “So are you.”

He kissed you again. Slower this time. Not the kiss of survival. The kiss of belonging.

Then, finally, he helped you into the truck. Closed the door gently. Walked around the front. Climbed in beside you.

And pulled away from the curb—toward home. The hospital shrank behind you in the mirror.

But the blood on your shoes? The pulse in your throat? The memory of your hands holding someone back from the brink?

That stayed. And so did he.

Joel’s truck rumbled beneath you like an old, steady heartbeat. The sun had finally dipped below the skyline, casting Austin in a warm gold that faded fast into dusky blue. The windows were cracked, letting in a breeze that smelled faintly like asphalt and humidity. The AC was on low. One of Joel’s hands was wrapped around the steering wheel.

The other? Firm on your thigh.

His thumb rubbed slow, absentminded circles against your scrub pants, just above your knee. Like he was reminding himself you were real. That you were there, not a ghost of adrenaline or a fleeting high of some trauma-stained day.

Neither of you talked at first.

Not because you didn’t have things to say—God, you both did—but because the quiet between you was too good to break just yet.

You watched the trees pass by, each intersection blinking soft yellow as the city wound down. Joel looked ahead with that same furrow in his brow he always wore post-shift, like he was cataloging every life you’d both touched, every one you couldn’t save.

Eventually, you reached over, fingers brushing his wrist.

“Long day.”

Joel let out a dry breath. “Understatement of the fuckin’ year.”

You smiled, eyes still on the road. “You were incredible.”

He scoffed. “You saved that kid with no pulse. Don’t think I missed that.”

“We all saved him.”

“No,” Joel said, shaking his head once. “You did. You never backed down. I saw you. I always see you.”

The truck slowed at a red light. His hand squeezed your thigh gently.

“You’re the reason I’m still doin’ this,” he said, voice soft enough it barely made it over the hum of the engine.

You turned toward him, brows pulling in slightly.

“I thought you hated this job.”

“I do.”

“Then why stay?”

He finally looked at you. And his voice dropped, low and certain.

“‘Cause it brought me you.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment.

The red light turned green. And the truck rolled forward again.

But you reached for his hand this time—threaded your fingers through his, grounding both of you in something real, something steady.

Something yours.

His house smelled like a mix of you two.

That warm, familiar scent, something earthy, grounded, lived-in. The second you stepped through the door, you peeled off your shoes like they were made of concrete. Joel locked the door behind you, then watched silently as you reached up, untying your scrub top with tired fingers.

He followed suit, tugging his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. He toed off his boots with one heel, not even bothering to look where they landed. The soft thud of fabric on the hardwood floor was the only sound between you.

You met his eyes. No words needed.

Your hands found the hem of your scrub pants. His fingers were already at his waistband.

Every motion was slow. Heavy. Not sexual, not frantic.

Just… tired. Intimate.

A ceremony of shedding.

You padded quietly toward the bathroom together, your bare feet on the cold tile making you shiver slightly—until Joel stepped in behind you and turned the water on, checking it with his wrist before nodding toward the showerhead.

He pulled you into the warm steam with him.

And for a while, nothing existed but the water.

Joel’s hands found your hair first. You leaned forward, eyes closed, and he carefully lathered the shampoo through the strands, massaging slow and patient like he was reading scripture. His fingers were so gentle they almost tickled. You hummed under your breath, leaning into it.

Then he reached for the body wash, poured it into his palm, and rubbed slow circles into your shoulders, down your arms, across your back. Every touch deliberate. Caring.

He kissed your neck once, lingering there like he didn’t want to let go.

You turned and took your turn, washing him the same way.

You traced the scars on his chest like memories. Watched the muscles of his stomach flex under your touch. Washed his hair with care. Rinsed the dried sweat from his collarbones, the bloodstain from his wrist that hadn’t come out yet.

You both stood under the spray for a long time after that. Water pounding against your bodies. No talking. Just existing. Together.

The couch welcomed you both like an old friend.

Joel pulled on a pair of sweats and tossed you one of his ancient, threadbare t-shirts—the gray one with a faded Longhorns logo and a hole near the hem. You crawled beneath the blanket with your knees tucked beside you while Joel microwaved the plate you’d saved him.

The smell of brisket and cornbread filled the room.

He brought it over with a fork.

You both ate, passing the fork back and forth between bites, eating slow, savoring the quiet.

On the TV, some rerun from a cooking competition show played in the background. A judge was yelling about under-seasoned risotto. Neither of you really watched.

Joel looked so different out of the ER. His face a little softer. The worry lines across his forehead had faded just slightly in the warm lamplight. His arm was slung behind your shoulders, fingers occasionally grazing your upper arm like they were drawn there on instinct.

“Didn’t think I’d make it through today. After everything with yesterday...” you murmured, watching him chew.

He swallowed, then passed you the last bite of cornbread.

“But you did.”

“I did.”

“Because you’re tough as hell,” he said.

You looked at him. “Because you were there.”

Joel’s eyes met yours. He leaned forward, kissed your temple, and didn’t move away for a long time.

You didn’t walk to the bedroom. You were carried.

Joel scooped you up the way he had before—one arm under your knees, the other around your back, pressing you to his chest like something sacred.

You buried your face in his shoulder. His skin still smelled faintly like your soap.

He set you down gently on the bed, pulled the covers back, and slipped in behind you without a word.

His body curled around yours instinctively—the big spoon, always—and he dragged one arm over your waist until your back was snug against his chest, your legs tangled, your heartbeat steady.

The house was silent except for the hum of the fan.

His fingers splayed against your stomach. You reached back and rested your hand over his.

And just before you fell asleep, you heard him murmur into your hair...

“I love you.”

You didn’t need to say it back. He already knew.

And the hospital could wait. Because tonight, this was the only shift that mattered.

taglist: @secretlettersfromyourlove @areamir @hermionelove

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jasminedragoon · 5 days ago

Text

Banging my fist against a table bc that was so so so so good

His Favorite Girl

dbf!Joel x female reader

My first time writing for dbf!Joel, but I enjoyed this so much. Hope you're going to like it as well :)

Contains: smut, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, daddy kink, dirty talk, crying, praise, choking, needy and subby reader, softdom!Joel, fear of getting caught, implied age gap (Joel is reader's father's best friend), size difference, pet names (baby, babygirl, sweetheart), mentions of blow job, no aftercare, possessiveness

Wordcount: 2,287

Masterlist

"Jesus fuckin' christ…"

Your wide eyes stared up to him, glistening with tears again which caused Joel to frown, but he didn't slow down his punishing pace.

"Holy shit, babygirl, takin' it so well. But why you're cryin' for daddy? Is it too much for your 'lil pussy? Or 'cause you're scared?"

His voice was airy and low, his hot breath brushing over his ear while he coaxed another small whimper out of you.

"Daddy," you whined, clutching the fabric of his shirt between your fingers. "Daddy, please, I… I need you."

"I know, babygirl. And daddy's right 'ere. But we don't wanna summon your real daddy, isn't that right? We don't want 'im to hear you so we're gonna be all quiet. Can you do that?"

Joel reached down to spread your legs wider, pinning down your knees so you had no choice but to keep your pussy on display for him.

Holy shit.

Fucking you was always an out-of-body experience, but holding you down like this, your body tiny and helpless caged under his and a hand lingering at your neck like he was warning you not to make too much noise? His mind felt blank and he had to hold back not to empty himself inside of you on the spot.

"Y-yes," you whimpered, much too loud for Joel's liking, and he therefore suddenly placed a hand on your mouth, growling low in his chest and gritting his teeth.

"Look at you, mhmm?" he whispered so quietly that you struggled to understand him through your mushy brain. "Look at you gettin' that pussy fucked while your dad is in the other room… Just think of what he would do. What he would do if he saw his best friend wrecking his sweet 'lil princess. He doesn't know what a naughty girl you are. That you're creaming on his friends' dick right now and gettin' off on havin' that pussy torn apart... Look at me."

He slapped the side of your thigh, curling his lips as your eyes met with his again, and then slowly started to put pressure around your throat, squeezing gently while your pupils frantically flickered over his face. You moaned and whimpered, but it was muffled under his palm, your body flinching and arching while his dick showed no signs of slowing down any time soon.

"Sh sh sh…," Joel made, flexing his hand around your neck and pursing his lips as the first tear rolled down your cheek.

"Oh babygirl… No need to cry for daddy. He's treatin' you so well, isn't he? Or are you still scared that we're gonna get caught? Scared that your dad will throw you out of his house?"

You shook your head under the weight of his large hand sprawled out on top of your mouth, your lashes fluttering when Joel slightly moved up the bed to change the angle with which he repeatedly thrust into your cunt.

"Yeah babygirl… I know. Let daddy make ya feel good. I know what this 'lil pussy needs."

He tilted his head, flaring his nostrils as he squeezed your neck a little tighter only to loosen his hand after a while and relish the pink mark.

"So fuckin' pretty for me… Makin' daddy's dick twitch, you feel that? You feel my tip askin' for more?"

There was no way for you to answer, but the way your pinched your eyes shut was telling.

"Yeah baby… All you gotta do is take it. Look pretty for me and take it… And you're doin' it so goddamn well like someone taught ya. But no one did, right? Daddy had to do it all."

Joel suddenly loosened his grip around your neck, bringing his hand between your legs where he found your clit within seconds.

"I know, I know…," he hushed your gasps as his thumb came in contact with the sensitive nub, rubbing you in circles just the way he knew you liked it.

"I know, babygirl. Gonna make you fall apart 'round me. Gonna make you scream my name, but then I gotta shut you up 'cause if I don't we're gonna get caught and daddy can never touch this 'lil pussy again. And we wouldn't want that, would we?"

He rolled your clit between two fingers, wryly grinning at your blown pupils. He knew that the sensation for you was overwhelming and intense because not only were you always so responsive to his touch and the way his dick filled you, but a slut like you got off on doing it in the room right next to your father's. You got off on the thrill, the risk of getting caught only adding to the pleasure of it all and Joel, who could read you like a book, was happy to push you further until you couldn't bring out a coherent sentence.

"Answer me. Tell me who this pussy belongs to? Tell me who owns her."

Your eyes rolled back, Joel already preparing himself to ask again, when your lips moved.

"I – I…," you began, reaching for him with your hands, but you were unsuccessful due to the lifelessness in your limbs.

"Belongs to you, daddy. Only to you. Don't want anyone else to touch her."

"I know that's right… She's all... mine."

Joel brushed along the underside of your clit, his shallow breathing picking up in pace as you wriggled beneath him, your moans growing louder under his precise actions.

"Shhh, babygirl… Quiet now or daddy's gonna have to shut you up again."

He raised his chin, an affectionate hand reaching for your breasts where he trailed a line down to your stomach, gently pressing down to keep you still. He loved seeing you like that, all uncontrolled and messy, but at the same time it made it harder for him to fuck you steadily and he had to be quick after all.

"You're gonna cum for daddy? C'mon baby, I know you want to."

"Daddy," you whined, your voice high-pitched and new drops of tears collecting on your waterline.

"Yeah. I'm here, babygirl. Gonna make you cum all over my dick, but you gotta be quick, okay? We don't wanna get caught, do we?"

Joel took your clit between two fingers, rubbing it and making pleasure gush from your center through your whole body. You cried out, legs bending and your hands grasping the bedsheets to get rid of the tension that was prickling in your fingertips.

"I know, sweetheart," Joel soothed you, pressing a hand on your mouth because he feared that your whimpers were beginning to grow too loud again. He would have loved to hear them without any restrictions, making you scream his name until it rang in his ears, but he would have to save it for another day.

He chuckled as your body flinched, your lids twitching when Joel firmly pressed his thumb against your bundle of nerves.

"That's it, mhm? That's the spot? You like that, pretty girl?"

"F-Fuck… Yes, I… Oh – "

It was mindless stuttering that Joel was barely able to understand due to the way he was muffling your cries, but it aroused him nonetheless. Seeing you fall apart just from a flick of his fingers.

"I'm gonna cum soon, daddy," was the next thing you whined, your teeth sinking down hard on your bottom lip and your eyes wide and blown with pleasure and pleading.

"Yeah? My babygirl's gonna soak my dick? That's right...," Joel murmured, stroking a few strands of hair out of your face and running his fingers through your silky locks.

"You're so good to your daddy, aren't ya? Always doin' as you're told and lookin' so goddamn pretty trapped beneath me. And you're gonna take my cum like a good girl. Lemme fill that pussy and have it drippin' down your leg. And then you're gonna go downstairs to your dad and pretend his best friend hasn't just wrecked his sweet daughter's 'lil pussy."

You squealed, your body tensing and heating up under his obscene words and then one last circle of his finger was all it took for you to orgasm. Fortunately, Joel was prepared and pressed down hard on your mouth before the high-pitched noises could spill out of your mouth.

"There ya go…," Joel hushed you, keeping his hand firm on top of your mouth while rolling his hips against yours to chase his own high.

"Yeah I know, babygirl… I know. Daddy takes such good care of his favorite girl… Just let it happen, I'm gonna catch ya."

Your eyes were big and teary, dilated pupils staring up at him as though you had just seen Jesus in your bedroom and your broken cries almost quiet under his calloused palm.

"Yes, baby. Let it all out…"

Joel covered the side of your face with kisses, his beard stubbles tingling on your skin, but you almost didn't perceive the sting. Joel rubbed you through your orgasm, keeping his finger connected to your clit until he felt that the effects of your release started to fade and so he withdrew, solely focused on crossing the bridge himself now.

"Daddy," you whimpered, your half-lidded eyes on his lips as though you were begging for a kiss.

"Shhh," he made, slightly relaxing his hand on top of your mouth and his unoccupied hand reaching for your chest.

"Quiet, sweetheart. Don't forget, we don't want anyone to hear us. Daddy's gonna fill you up now. You want that? Want to feel daddy's cum in your tight pussy? Bet she loves to suck it in, mhm?"

Joel's hand roughly kneaded your breast, tracing the outline with his thumb before exhaling loudly.

"Jesus fuckin'… You feel so goddamn good. So tight 'n' warm…"

You felt his dick twitch inside of you, a clear sign that he was about to burst and so you consciously clenched around his length, rejoicing when you heard him groan.

"Fuck. Fuck, oh…"

And then Joel followed you over the bridge, his eyes closing shut and his hand on your breast squeezing once before loosening and coming to rest on top of your torso. The warm, sticky and very familiar feeling of Joel's seed filling you up gushed from your center, your walls deliciously tensing around him in order to keep his cum inside of you to the entirety.

"Good girl," Joel instantly purred, panting in your ear and his hand still covering your mouth because you simply were unable to stay silent.

"That's it… Took it all, you see? Took it so well she doesn't even want me to pull back," Joel chuckled lowly and glanced down to where he was still balls-deep inside of you.

"Don't pull out yet. Please," you demanded, staring up to him with wide-eyed panic.

"But I have to, babygirl. Your father's probably already wondering where you are. We don't want to explain this, do we?"

"But please. Hurts when you're not inside," you insisted, causing a grin to form on his lips.

"Oh yeah? It hurts when daddy's not inside of you? Then he shouldn't leave you empty for too long, right?"

You shook your head, but whimpered in frustration when Joel slipped his flaccid dick out of you and quickly tucked himself back in.

"Don't ya worry, baby. Gonna fill ya up again soon. But next time your mouth's gonna get my load. Just how we talked about it…"

Your eyes lit up, your body suddenly much more energetic and powerful than just a few seconds ago. The prospect of tasting him the next time he would come over to your house made your heart flutter and you even managed to give him a hint of a smile while Joel pulled your panties up your bare legs, adjusted your skirt and put your shirt back on.

"Thank you daddy," you murmured in the end, your head low and your mind elsewhere while Joel pulled you by your arm to make you sit up straight.

"Not daddy now. Make sure your pretty head won't forget that. It's Joel now and if you ever wanna have this pussy or mouth full of my dick ever again, you're gonna remember that. You're gonna behave yourself and not let anyone know about what I did to you. Have I made myself clear?"

You nodded with your head, allowing Joel to help you rise to your feet.

"Yes, Joel."

"Good. Now take this and clean your face and dry up your tears. And jesus stop cryin'."

He was referring to a single tear making its way down your face until it touched the curve of your upper lip. You reached for the tissue he offered you, but with a glimpse at your trembling hands, Joel sighed, shook his head and did the work himself. He carefully rubbed over your cheeks and chin, wiping away the remains of your tears with gentle hands. You had your eyes closed and your breathing was steady, almost like a cat's purr. And the view didn't make it possible for Joel to do anything about the soft smile growing on his face.

When he believed that he was done, he threw the wet paper tissue in the trash can and then leaned in to kiss your lips, making you open your eyes into his.

"So pretty. Always look so pretty..."

You sniffed and bashfully chewed on your bottom lip, but then blinked when Joel pulled you toward the door, which would lead you back to reality.

"You know what to do, little one?" Joel asked, taking a step aside so you could be the first one to leave the room.

"Yes," you replied briefly, your mind already prepared to treat Joel for what he was for the rest of the day. Your dad's best friend.

"Okay. Go on, then. And remember what I told you."

He kissed your forehead one last time before guiding your hand to the cold metal door handle, which you grabbed and then pushed down.

746 notes · View notes

jasminedragoon · 6 days ago

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I DIDNT REALIZE HOW MUCH I MISSED THEM!!! HOW DARE I! OH my god the scene with them in the home office? Im crying. HOW COULD ELLIE BE SO BRASH NOOOOOOOO MY BABY!! MY BABYYYYY 😭😭😭 what will Tess think of their relationship progressing? I wonder. Also I wonder if our girl will maybe persuade Joel to move to Washington? I am in love with this story.

✨Saving What Was Lost Part 9: Stay✨

Pre-Outbreak! Joel Miller x fem! reader

Series Masterlist

A/N: I’ve been a little busy the past few months focusing on my book, but I’m excited I finally had time to write a little for this series 🩵 I love these two so much, and I hope you enjoy! We’re getting into Joel’s angst in this chapter.

Chapter Summary: You get a glimpse into Joel’s past and realize he might be just as broken as you.

Rating: 18+ only MDNI

Word Count: 5.5k

Tags: Grief, flashbacks, soft! Joel, grieving Joel, angst, feelings, fluff, dual POV, age gap (reader late 20’s, Joel late 40’s), slow burn

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

January’s cold, with light snowflakes glistening on the ground outside. But today, it’s warm inside. The fire pops, shrouding the room in a blanket of heat, while the trees howl outside the windows.

It’s Friday. Nothing’s on Joel’s schedule. Not even Tommy’s blowing up his phone. It’s just peaceful, a bit silent, draped in muted tranquility. But also, there’s something in the air, tingling along your arm like electricity. Something new. Something untouched. Something… warm.

“C’mere. Wanna show you something,” Joel says from across the way, leaning against the fireplace. He’s all warm, like usual. A small smile curled across his lips. Brown eyes slipping over you. A green flannel pulled across his cords of muscle. Greying locks all tousled from his hands. It makes you almost breathless.

You tilt your head and lay the book flat on the couch, your eyes brimming with curiosity. “What is it?”

“A surprise,” he says, flashing you a white smile across the room.

Pressing your lips together, you frown, but only a little. “You know I don’t like—”

He interjects and looks at you, softening his crinkling eyes. “You trust me?”

There’s that question again. The one that makes your stomach flip. Makes you somersault all the way to his glittering brown eyes.

You swallow and nod slowly. “Yes.”

Tugging on a grin, he tilts his head and starts walking toward the long hallway. “C’mon, then. Got something you might like.”

Slowly, you trail after him, keeping a faint distance, but also following right on his heels like a cat, tiptoeing over solid wooden floors and flitting by framed photos.

He stops at the end of the hall, right in front of his office. The one he keeps shut all the time. Two solid mahogany doors polished and dusted, with golden doorknobs and invisible signs that must say to keep the door closed. But there he is, pushing them wide open, allowing you to step through into his space.

“Well, here we are,” he says as you pass through the doors, your eyes wide at the scene.

“This is… Wow. This is your office?” you ask, your jaw dropped as you map out his large office.

“Mhm,” he chuckles. “Figured you might wanna look through the bookshelves in here. Almost forget about them sometimes.”

Your eyes trail over the dark wood of the walls, framed pictures of lakes and deer in thick forests hanging high above. There’s a large mahogany desk in the back corner that’s littered with papers, an open laptop, ink pens, and a pair of glasses. A small reading area sits tucked away in the right hand side of the room, a couple pillows pressed against the clear window that overlooks the side of the house—trees and acres of land to map out Joel’s space. But what gets you the most are the large, expensive bookcases that line the back walls. All filled with various types. Some full of color, some old with a light coat of dust on the pages, some brand new with a film of shine.

It’s incredible. This is exactly somewhere you’d hang out. Maybe when Joel’s up late working a case. You could just curl up in the corner by the window seat, watch over the top of a book while he smooths his face with his hand, peels his eyes open with the sip of his black coffee. You think you’d like that. Staying up with him, keeping him company. Maybe he wouldn’t be so stressed then. Maybe he could finally just relax for a bit.

“These are all yours?” you ask as you trail your hand over the colorful spines, astounded at the texts he has sitting here, waiting to be read.

“All mine.” There’s a smile you hear in his light tone. It makes tingles run down your arms.

“Joel… this is incredible,” you breathe as you pull out a book on the history of Ireland, fingers brushing against the pristine pages of dark green land.

“Quite the collection, yeah?” he asks, amused as he slides in next to you, dragging his fingers over the polished shelves.

“Yeah…”

“Well, it’s yours now, too.”

Your mouth drops open as you snap your head to the side, almost dropping the book in surprise. “What did you say?”

He smiles, a saccharine expression framing his brown eyes. “Pick anything you like, sweetheart. They’re as much yours as they are mine.”

“Joel…”

Brushing it off, he tilts his head to the side, encouraging you to venture in his office. “Well, go on, sweetheart. They’re waitin’ for you.”

They’re waiting for you. He means the books, but it almost sounds like he’s waiting too, for you.

Swallowing, you pad across the room, eagerly slipping books from the shelves, till you have a stack against your chest. Joel chuckles when he turns and sees you carrying the large load. His eyes are all sparkling and soft, just like they always are when he looks at you. You can’t help but to smile back at him and blush. Has he always made you feel this warm? You guess he has. Even from that first night he saved you, he’s always been so fucking soft for you, you think.

When you turn, you still at the edge of his desk when a glint of a smile catches your eye. Setting the books on the edge, you tiptoe over to the shiny glass and pick up a picture that’s framed in a golden hue. The glass spotless, like he wipes it of dust every hour of each day.

You ghost your fingers over the untainted glass and swallow as your eyes peel over the picture. There’s Joel. A few years younger, wearing a soft white T-shirt and blue jeans, standing in front of a planetarium sign. He’s all smiles, his eyes glowing, hair all tousled. And there’s a little girl standing next to him, holding up a hand with one arm wrapped around his back. She’s got short brown hair tied up halfway, hazel eyes that favor mostly green, freckles dusted across her nose, and a rock and roll T-shirt donned against black shorts.

“Who’s this?”

Joel turns his head, his eyes falling to the picture you’re holding like it’s fragile and delicate. “Oh. That’s umm, Ellie,” he says carefully as he pads up beside you, his eyes flicking to the picture that’s in your hands.

“Is she yours?” you ask cautiously.

“She… was mine.” He takes the picture from your grasp and runs his thumb along the outer glass, tracing her face like she was the most important light in his life, besides Sarah.

“Was?” You tilt your head and look up to find his eyes glistening with held back tears.

“Was…” he whispers faintly, like he’s afraid to speak it into existence.

You continue staring at him, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for the pin to drop. But you think it might’ve already hit the floor.

His mouth forms into a tight line as he speaks. “I found her in a shipping container when I was on a job. She was all alone and scared. Twelve-years-old. Only three years younger than Sarah. Found out she was in foster care, and I jus’ didn’t have the heart to take her back to that. So, I adopted her.”

You move a little closer and lean into the mahogany desk, right where he’s at, still staring into the glass like it’ll come to life.

“God, that girl was a troublemaker,” he chuckles, shaking his tousled hair out. “Always getting into stuff, always so fascinated by everything. Couldn’t get that girl to be still for a second.”

“Sounds like you were fond of her,” you smile as your eyes flick up to his.

He glances over at you and nods. “Yeah. She got on my nerves, but I really loved that girl.”

I really loved that girl. The words stick to your skin like summer sweat. You blink up at him and wait. Waiting for you’re not sure what. For him to continue explaining, you guess.

His attention falls back on the picture frame. “She was always so excited for college. Paleontology. That’s what she wanted to do. Couldn’t get that girl to stop talkin’ ‘bout dinosaurs for even a second. She was so eager to get back to campus, even though it was the middle of Christmas break. Crazy girl.” He laughs under his breath, shakes his head again at the memory.

Curling your fingers against the edge of the desk, you reach for more. “What happened to her?”

He tenses at the question. His lips press together, and he clenches his jaw. Then, he whispers, quietly. “She died.”

The air pierces in a deafening silence, almost like the trees froze outside and the world stopped spinning. Oxygen ceases to exist for a second in your lungs as you gasp for air.

She died.

“She… oh, Joel.” You stumble over words, almost afraid to say anything.

He shifts his weight and leans deeper against the desk, like he’s trying to melt into nonexistence. Just so he won’t have to talk about it. “A few days after Christmas. She was so eager to get back to campus. Even though it was dark outside. She couldn’t wait till the mornin’. Said she had to get back to an important project. But I told her to wait ‘cause it was freezin’ out. And it was drizzling rain, a little sleet building on her car.”

You blink, trying to gather everything he just said to you. “She left?”

He nods. “I tried to pry the keys from her hand. Told her if it was so urgent to let me drive, but she refused. Said she was fine, and I’d jus’ slow her down. So I let her go, jus’ like that…”

There’s a dark cloud hanging over his greying locks, a deep melancholy feeling burrowing into your chest. And there’s static around the room, depleting Joel’s oxygen, making his brain ache with a migraine between his blurry eyes. You want to reach and take it from him, replace the pain with something good, but all you can seem to do is just stand there, hoping someone can come and save him.

“What happened?” you ask, cautious as the void blooms in his dark eyes.

He opens his mouth once and snaps it shut, swallows something down and pushes the drawbridge open again, before he shuts down. “A truck lost control on the slick road,” he states, looking down at the picture in his hand, thumb grazing over her smiling face. “There was ice, and he was going too fast. And he… he hit Ellie and knocked her car off the side of the road.” He stops a beat, swallows a tear and continues with shaky hands. “The fire department gave me a call, and I raced there as fast as I could. Almost lost control myself, but nothing seemed to matter in the moment. I jus’ had to get to her, to know she was okay. But by the time I got there, she was just… gone.”

The last word makes your ears ring, makes you want to pull him into your arms to soothe the pain, but you don’t move. You just freeze, aching to say something that’ll make him feel better, but what can you say?

“Joel…” you plead, desperate to crawl into his lap and hug him tight. But again, you do nothing. You’re just here, existing next to his space. Invisible strings that should be cut and pulled apart.

“She was just starting out. Still had a lifetime ahead of her. If I would’ve pushed harder for her to stay, would’ve taken the keys from her hand and drove her myself then maybe… maybe she’d be here. Maybe I would’ve taken her place. Maybe… I’d still have my little girl.” His voice cracks at the end of the sentence, a desperate cry to get his little girl back, but she’s gone. And he sounds so broken, so angry, yet pawing for some relief to his ache. You want to give him that, if only you knew how.

Slowly looking up, you carefully reach out and brush the side of your knuckles against his wrist, where his watch sits idle. “It’s not your fault,” you say, trying to soothe the ache away.

“It feels like my fault,” he growls a little, hanging his head a little lower as his bottom lip trembles. “Some days are so fuckin’ hard to get through. Some days I can’t stand to look in the mirror because all I see is that shattered glass on her broken windshield. All I see is my Ellie staring back at me with glassy eyes. And it… it… fuckin’ hurts.” He cracks as a tear slips free, landing on the glass of that perfect picture of his whole world in his hands.

Another minute goes by, and his eyes are all coated in a thick shine as tears gather and spill one by one, pressing on his heartstrings with each drop that lands on the glass.

You need to do something. What, you’re not sure. But you think maybe if he had someone to hold then maybe it’d sting a bit less. Maybe, just maybe, you could take his gloomy day and turn it into spots of sunlight.

Blinking again, you slowly turn your body around and stop when your legs are pressed against his knees. He’s still lost in the past, trying to hold on to Ellie, but she’s slipped from his grasp. And before the picture falls from his open hand, you catch it and set it back down on the desk, waiting for him to look up.

“Joel?” you say, calling his name softly, but he doesn’t look up, doesn’t even move. So you try a new tactic. One that will take a little courage to muster up.

Slowly, hesitantly, you wrap your fingers around the soft material of his blue flannel and take a step closer, till you’re right in his space.

He swallows another tear and blinks up, his eyes all misty with tears, dark brown and coated in sorrow. And he just stares at you, like you’re some kind of saving grace. Like maybe you could steal his hurt and lock it away in a safe, somewhere he couldn’t find it again.

You just stand there, breathing each other’s air, locking eyes until you’re brave enough to move again. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even stutter once you take one step closer, till you’re almost chest to chest with him. And with one more look at his molten eyes, you’re falling.

You wrap your arms around his back and lean into him, smelling his woodsy scent, molding yourself to his broad body as your fingers grasp at his flannel. He sits there for a minute, his arms locked at his sides, like he can’t believe what’s happening. And then slowly but surely, he’s folding his arms around you like a blanket and pulling you in, till he’s wrapped himself completely in you and blended his pain into the seams of your sweater.

“I’m right here, Joel. I’m here. It’s okay. Just let it out,” you whisper against his warm chest. “You stole some of my pain, now I’m going to steal some of yours.”

Joel buries himself in you. Resting his chin on the crown of your head, he lets the tears fall, but you never minded the rain, so you let him pour himself all over you.

“I miss her all the fuckin’ time,” he whimpers out, like someone just staked him in the heart. “And sometimes it feels like she’s still here, waiting for me to take her to her favorite dinosaur museum, but she’s gone…”

You feel the pain knotted in your chest, like you just took a bullet in his place. And maybe you would. If you could keep the silver from piercing his skin, you would.

“I know,” you coo, trying your best to quell the sorrow. “It’s okay, Joel. I’m here now.”

He grips you tighter and hauls you against him, like a brick wall that won’t crumble. Human touch makes you shiver, but Joel keeps the chill from your bones. He’s always just so… warm. He’s a safe space and now, you’re his.

“Jus’ don’t… don’t leave, okay?” he begs as another tear slips down his lashes. “Jus’ stay.”

Stay. The word presses on your heartstrings, somersaults through your stomach. You want to stay. And even though part of you misses Washington, Washington doesn’t have Joel. Joel is where you belong, you think. So maybe you will stay.

You squeeze him tighter and nuzzle your nose into his winter scent. “I’m not going anywhere. Promise.”

His lips brush over the top of your head, just the slightest so he can whisper, “I don’t want to lose you, too.”

And it’s in that moment that you shatter, like all the million parts of you when you were taken. But he puts the pieces back together one by one.

“You won’t…” you whisper back as you close your ears and sink against him.

You stay like that. For seconds, minutes, maybe an hour. But you lose track of time because time doesn’t exist right now. There’s just you and Joel, and you don’t plan on letting go anytime soon. Not unless he does.

Stay. His words ricochet off the walls, till they blend into everything around you like paint.

Stay….

—

It’s after eleven now. The rest of the house is asleep. Lights dim, floors creaking as you chew on your bottom lip. You’re standing outside his closed bedroom door in your pajamas—pink silk shorts and a cotton T-shirt as you hug your arms across your body. You debate turning back around, slipping under the safety of your own covers, but you’re torn.

After Joel told you about Ellie, he barely said a word the rest of the night. Dinner was eaten in silence, only the clinking of silverware against glass cut through the white noise. And then there was the static of the tv, his far-off gaze glued to the screen, even if he wasn’t really paying attention. He said he was tired about nine and retired to his room, leaving you alone in the living room with the weight of his sadness swimming through the air.

You stared at your reflection for a solid ten minutes before you got the nerve to crack the door open. Paced circles around your room till you were able to pad across the floorboards outside your room. And now, you’re here, standing in front of his bedroom, waiting for something to happen.

Leaving him alone in the state he’s in isn’t an option. You saw how wrecked he was when he dragged his feet up the steps, saw how worn the wrinkles around his misty eyes were. And when you went to bed, all you could feel were his arms latching around you like a teddy bear, hanging on for dear life.

He needs you, you think. And even though you’re scared to death of taking a step into his room, you need to try. For him, you’ll try anything.

Taking a deep breath, you swallow down some courage and lift your hand, till you’re leaving small knocks across his solid door. Slowly, you crack it open and call his name through the darkness. “Joel?”

You hear him toss in his sheets, until he’s sitting up and rubbing his eyes of sleep. “Sweetheart?” he asks as he reaches for the lamp at the side of his bed. “What’s wrong?”

Chewing your bottom lip, you take a hesitant step inside and leave the door cracked, slowly making your way into the middle of his room. “Nothing’s wrong,” you say, shaking your head.

Nothing’s wrong, but you need him, just like he needs you.

He blinks at you, body lax but also stiff, like he might jump up at any second. “Did you have another nightmare?” he asks as the lamp shines next to him.

“No,” you say quietly, shaking your head.

He tilts his head and does a once-over, trying to figure out why you’re standing here. “Then why did you—”

You interject and let the words slip. “Can I stay with you?”

He blinks again, his eyes wider than they were seconds ago, like he doesn’t understand the muffling of your words. “Can you…”

“Stay with you,” you repeat, so he’s sure he heard you right.

He parts his lips and breathes, just staring for a beat. Then, he nods as he curls his lips into an easy smile. “‘Course you can stay, sweetheart.”

“Okay…” You quietly pad across the carpet, your heart beating out of your chest as you take a steady breath and blow it out through your nose. Your heart’s thundering as you carefully slip against the cool sheets, your hand resting on the soft brown comforter.

You can feel Joel staring at you from over your shoulder, can feel the heat his body blankets in the vicinity. And while you’re scared for more, for this—sleeping in his bed—it’s not like this is the first time you’ve been in his arms.

Joel doesn’t move as you slide beneath the sheets, careful to stay on the left side of the bed while he stays on his side. And when you finally settle, he flips off the lamp and sinks back into the mattress once the room is filled with darkness. Only the moonlight spills through the window, making starry patterns on the pristine walls.

You hear him breathing, like you are. Slow breaths with pounding hooves across your chest. There’s an ache tugging at your core. A slip of something pulling you closer. Like the way your hand automatically grazes the back of his—skin hot like the blazing sun rays.

Slowly, you turn your head toward him and find him staring back at you, dark eyes that seem so soft, yet filled with turmoil from the afternoon. And you want to soothe him, want to make him feel better. Like maybe you could hug away the aftermath of Ellie’s absence in his life.

With a few words of encouragement to yourself and muted affirmations that you can do this, you roll onto your side and crawl over to him, till you’re blanketed on top of him with your body.

Sighing, Joel weaves a hand through your hair and strokes lightly down your back while his other arm wraps around you. “Sweetheart,” he coos into the shell of your ear. You melt into the raspy sound of his voice and look up, till you’re face to face with those syrupy brown eyes.

“Joel?”

“Hmm?” he hums, seeming to be enraptured by your eyes.

“You remember that day in the truck that you told me I didn’t have to be alone?”

“Yeah, I remember.“ He tilts his head to the side and asks, “How come?”

Swallowing, you take a deep breath and quietly say, “Well, you don’t have to be alone either.”

He stares at you a beat—mouth parted and eyes so soft that you could melt into them. And they’re all coated in held back tears, all starry just for you. “C’mere, sweet girl.” Joel tugs you against his chest and wraps his arms tight around you, like he may never let go. You hope he doesn’t. His lips brush lightly over the crown of your head, and you revel in the feel of it, of the hunger that stirs in your chest to be needed.

He needs you.

And with that Southern drawl of his, he whispers the words you’ve been waiting to hear. “You’re exactly what I needed…”

You sink into the feel of his white T-shirt and thread your fingers around him as you nuzzle your nose into the crook of his neck, inhaling his woodsy scent that encompasses you.

“I needed you, too,” you whisper. And as he hugs you tighter, you drift off into a blissful sleep, wrapped in Joel like a cocoon.

Maybe you’ve always needed him, just like he needs you…

—

Sunlight filters through the window as you blink your eyes open, rubbing the sleep away while a yawn falls from your lips. You take a second to fully open your eyes, to register you’re in Joel’s bed, still curled into the side of his warm body.

Smiling to yourself, you see he’s still fast asleep. His chest rises and falls in cadence as slow breaths pass his lips. He looks so beautiful sleeping. Messy curls against his pillow, eyelids fluttering like he’s dreaming, his arm still tucked snugly around your hip. And it feels right. This feels right. Even if you’re scared of getting close to someone after the trauma you’ve endured, you think you’d like to stay right here, tucked into Joel’s side.

You outline the curves of his face with the trace of your fingers, mapping every wrinkle and tilt of his mouth like they’re stars lining the night skies. When you lightly dance over his salt-and-pepper scruff, he rolls a little to the left side and falls back into stillness, letting you scratch along his jawline.

You could brush along his lips with yours. That’s how close he is. Close enough to taste. You almost want to graze your lips across his, but you don’t. Instead, you take one more good look at him bleached in sunlight and slip out of his arms, careful not to wake him. After he’s had so many restless nights, you just want to let him sleep. He needs it.

Suddenly, you get this bright idea in your head to do something nice for him. You’re sure he’d love to wake up to a fresh cup of coffee and some pancakes. He’s been doing most of that lately, so now it’s your turn to show him how much you appreciate him. This is something you think he’ll love.

Slipping one of his blue flannels on, you tiptoe out of his room and hurry to your bathroom. When you flip on the light, you run the brush through your hair, scrub your face clean, and take the toothbrush across your teeth. When you think you’re good enough, you grab your phone and make your way down the hallway, to the kitchen.

Once you’ve flipped the kitchen lights on and pulled back the curtains, you get to work. With an old 80’s pop song on, you bop your way through starting the coffee and turn on the stove as you mix batter and blueberries together. You talk yourself through mixing the ingredients and accidentally get a little flour on your cheek, but you brush it off because you’re having fun. For once in your life, you’re learning to enjoy little bits of your morning routine. Even if you’re still learning step by step how to do life again, you think Joel’s teaching you, with his hand in yours. And Tess, she’s helping you swim your way through therapy. You think maybe, just maybe, this is all working as it should.

—

Joel rolls on his back and throws his arms over his head, stretching as he rubs his tired eyes awake. Sunlight fills the room in a bright glow, but when he turns his head to the left, he sees empty sheets. There’s just an imprint of you still curled to his side.

He sighs and falls to his back again, ghosting his hand over the slept-in sheets where your body laid just minutes ago. There’s an ache in his chest, something like maybe he misses you. But also, he feels so full because he had you wrapped in his arms all night long. You took the sting away, pulled on his heartstrings just enough for him to see the sun again.

You did that. You showed him the light. He saw it in the way you looked at him—all doe-eyed while you nuzzled against his chest. You saw him for what he is—a lonely wolf that lost one of his own. But now, he thinks you might’ve filled that hole. The one he’s had speared open since Ellie died. But now, you’re giving him something to hold onto. You’ve given him hope…

With a low groan, he hauls himself up and makes his way toward the door, dragging his feet with a smile on his face. “Now, where did you go?” he asks himself, chuckling when he slips through the door and sees that your room is empty.

A clink of pots from the kitchen makes him turn his head toward the staircase. And when he hears soft humming coming from that direction, he can’t help the smile that pulls across his lips.

Found you.

Slipping into a stool unnoticed, he leans against the kitchen island and watches you flit around the kitchen like a dancer. Sunlight coats your skin in a golden hue. Your hair bounces with every step as you pour powdered sugar into a bowl. Your head bops to the beat of an old pop hit as you grab for a spoon, whisking eggs together in a bowl.

Joel can’t help but to feel a warmth burning in his chest, heating his cheeks when he watches you glide like a fairy through the kitchen. You’re absolutely breathtaking, he thinks. The most free he’s ever seen you. And he likes this. Likes seeing you so alive after months of nightmares he couldn’t quite tame. But look at you now, spreading your wings, taking a leap of faith across lakes of water, all while wearing his flannel. He kinda likes that. Seeing you wear his clothes. Makes him feel like he’s got a crush, and maybe he does.

When the song ends and another begins, he clears his throat and watches you about drop the bowl you’re holding. Your eyes go wide, and you gasp. “Oh, Joel! I didn’t know you were there.”

He chuckles under his breath and shakes his head. “Figured I’d just watch you for a minute. You seemed in your element.”

You set the mixing bowl on the edge of the counter and smile shyly his way, pulling on the flannel that’s wrapped around your body. “Could’ve said something,” you say, shyly fluttering your pretty eyelashes up at him.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he smiles, watching you play absentmindedly with some fringe at the bottom of your sleeper shorts.

“Morning,” you say with a small smile across your pink lips. Lips that look like morning dew. “You sleep okay?”

He nods. “Best sleep I’ve had in a long time.”

There you go, smiling again, brightening up his morning yet again. “Here, I made you some coffee,” you say as you pour in the black liquid in a white mug, letting the steam billow through the air. You slide it over to him, till it’s safe in his hands.

The side of his mouth twitches into a smirk as his eyes slide over you. “Was nice of you to do that.”

“Hope you like it,” you smile.

“You made it, so ‘course I’ll like it.” He tips the mug up and takes a generous sip, letting the warm liquid saturate his taste buds. “Mmm. Yeah. Jus’ how I like it,” he murmurs as he takes another gulp.

“Glad you like it,” you giggle.

He chuckles as he notices the flour on your cheek, how it sticks out. And just before he decides to brush it away, he taps his finger to his own cheek. “You’ve got a little flour right—”

“Oh!” You frantically wipe it off with the palm of your hand and instantly blush. He thinks you’re fucking adorable all rosy-cheeked and embarrassed. “Must’ve got carried away with the cooking.”

Another laugh and he’s running a hand through his messy locks. “Must’ve,” he smiles.

There’s a moment between the two of you. Something hanging in the air that isn’t heavy, doesn’t have any weight to it. But it shines like the sun, blooms through his nervous system. He thinks he’s fallen in love.

You turn back around and flip some fluffy pancakes onto a plate and bring him some, including a bottle of syrup and a spoonful of butter.

His eyes flick over your beautiful form, taking you in like you’re a breath of fresh air. Like you’re a garden full of roses. “You know, you keep stealing my flannels and I’ll have to buy more.”

You turn around and smirk up at him, a brow raised, eyes bright. “You want it back?”

He chuckles, shakes his head at you. “No. Keep it. Looks good on you.”

And it does. His clothes always look good on you.

You tuck a lock behind your ear and blush, smiling sweetly as you blink up at him. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” he smiles. And when you turn back around, he doesn’t focus on the pancakes or fresh cup of coffee in front of him. He keeps his eyes on the woman he’s falling head over heels for. A woman he saved, who also ended up saving himself.

If I’m the moon, she must be the sun that coated me in light, he thinks to himself.

Tag List: @clawdee @jellybeanxc @lotusbxtch @thebeldroramscal @laurrrra

@whxtedreams @sawymredfox @sanarsi @mountainsandmayhem @bitchytimetravelqueen

@southernbe @katinasweeney @pixelspunk @amyispxnk @mysterious-moonstruck-musings

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@here-briefly @cozylittlepigeon @pastawench @keylimebeag @joelsoftie

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@papipascaaaal @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler @bambisweethearts @puddles221b

@valkyreally @northennlights

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jasminedragoon · 7 days ago

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Oh my god I straight up do not want to see AI generated fics on my feed. I have blocked two popular "writers" who very clearly use AI, and if I see anyone hyping up that slop, I'll block your ass too.

AI generated fics, art, whatever, are not real fics or art. Stop fucking supporting that shit then wondering why all the actual writers and artists are leaving fandoms, or only sharing their fics or artwork with friends in group chats or private discords.

This. Is. Fucking. Why!!!!

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jasminedragoon · 7 days ago

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Holy shittt that SMUT SCENE????? THAT WAS SO HOTTTT! I cannot wait for him to bring up the fact she saved his life and his survivors guilt. THATS GOOD WRITING RIGHT THERE.

Chapter 7: Care

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Chapter Summary: It’s nice to be taken care of. To have your sore feet rubbed, your tired back massaged, and breakfast made for you. You can’t remember the last time you were able to be taken care of by somebody else. Chapter Warnings: domesticity in the apocalypse, pining and yearning, talk of death, mentions of nightmares, pancakes, oh my god can they just tell each other how they feel?!, smut, oral (f & m receiving), 69, face sitting, cum eating Words: 6,500

A/N: Another chapter of me going "do I... do I include this?" and the horny gremlin inside of me telling me "YES."

Healed Masterlist | Healed Playlist | Healed, The Video Edit | AO3

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

In, out.

Gentle breaths.

You’re asleep, wrapped in his arms, his hand trailing up and down your spine. It amazes him how soft your skin is, how sweet you smell, how perfect you fit next to him.

The vulnerability of wanting someone so completely has scared him for years. And yet, he allows himself to savor you, the peace you bring him, and the feel of the rise and fall of your chest against his.

It feels right.

When you’re with him, he doesn’t have the nightmares, he doesn’t feel the pull of despair, he doesn’t wake up trying to remind himself he’s still alive.

But he still thinks about it. All of the time. The gaps in his memory of New Year’s Day, the pain, and the all-encompassing black void. He knows there’s more. He needs to know.

He lies awake most of the night, the unanswered questions and the overwhelming desire for you flowing through his body with every beat of his heart.

He can feel the changes. The more you’re here in his home, the more it feels like you're never supposed to leave, and now as he holds you tight… he thinks he’d like to spend every morning like this.

—-

It’s only you and Steven running the clinic today, an unexpected surgery has taken Dr. V and Wendy away from seeing patients, while Linda is sick. You’re thankful for the busy day, you hardly have the time to think about last night and waking up in Joel’s arms this morning.

Steven is updating you on the chart of a pregnant woman who’s close to her due date. You're trying to focus, but all you can think of is opening your eyes and seeing Joel’s bare, golden chest first thing this morning.

“If we need to help induce labor, we can try red raspberry leaf tea. I’ll show you how to dry and make it, if you’d like,” Steven offers, but you barely hear him. The sound of Joel moaning your name last night still plays in your head.

Steven calls your name. “Hey, you there? I know today’s been long.”

“S-sorry, yeah. That works,” you say, trying to shake the thoughts of Joel out of your mind.

“What exactly works?” he quirks an eyebrow up with a smirk.

“Oh, uh… the tea.”

Steven chuckles. “You alright? You seem distracted.”

“Just tired,” you answer quickly. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“Ah. Need anything for that? We have chamomile and valerian root.”

“No, I’m fine,” you assure. “Just need to get through the day.”

“Well, only a few hours left,” he says, squeezing your shoulder. “You’re doing great.”

—-

By the time Joel made his way down to the kitchen this morning, you were already gone. No chance to ask you how you feel, no chance to look at your beautiful face, no chance to kiss you again. He’d be worried he went too far if it wasn’t for the way you leaned up to kiss him before you nuzzled closer against his chest and fell asleep last night. You’d left his coffee cup near the coffeemaker, two slices of bread in the toaster, and a bowl filled with muesli on the kitchen table. He hasn’t had someone look out for him like this in years. Hell, he hardly ever let Tess care for him in a way that he now thinks he could have learned to appreciate.

He's been restless all day, moving from one room to another. Something, anything to do to distract himself from last night and how much he wants it to happen again.

He’s sitting at the dining room table with his guitar, figuring out the bridge of a song he’s been trying to learn. It keeps his mind busy for a little while, but even then, his thoughts always drift back to you.

He thanks his lucky stars when he hears Tommy’s familiar succession of knocks before he walks in through the front door.

Thank god, another distraction.

“Afternoon,” Tommy greets as he takes a seat on your usual chair across from Joel at the table. “Been a helluva week…”

Tommy drones on and on about the Jackson happenings. The Member House’s roof is finally repaired, patrollers on the Hoback run found a box full of prescription glasses, and there’s an abundance of tomatoes growing in the greenhouse. Joel just nods along, pretending like he’s fully listening as he gently plucks his guitar strings.

“Maria heard a rumor you’ve been out walking.”

“Just a little yesterday,” Joel answers, setting his guitar to the side. “To the end of the road.”

“Well, my house is just a little farther than that. Think you’re up for coming over tomorrow for dinner? Benji would love to see you. Bring your girl.”

“My girl?” he asks, his eyebrow arching.

“Testing, brother,” Tommy chuckles. “You seem distracted.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “A lot on my mind.”

“Yeah?”

"Been having nightmares," he admits. "About what happened. They feel real."

Tommy’s smile falters, and his face loses color. "What do you remember?"

“Too much, but there’s this, feeling I don’t understand. Feel like I’m missing something. It still don't feel right."

"What do you mean?"

"I remember parts. The lodge, the group, the golf club, the gunshot. But then, nothing. Just waking up here, with her."

Tommy shifts uncomfortably. "She said there might be gaps. Trauma does that."

"It's more than gaps," Joel insists. “I want to know what happened. Everything.”

Tommy straightens and swallows. "You sure about that?"

"I am."

"Let's take this outside," Tommy says, standing abruptly. "Think we both could use some fresh air. I’ll get the whiskey."

Joel breathes deeply, steeling himself as he sits in his rocking chair. His heart begins to race when the front door opens and Tommy’s boot steps fall against the porch.

"To health," Tommy offers, taking a seat and raising his glass of whiskey.

Joel grunts, clinking his glass against his brother's before taking a small sip. "Now talk. From the beginning.”

Tommy nods, staring out at the yard. "It was bad, Joel. Worse than you know." He takes another sip. "By the time we got there, you, Dina, and Ellie were down."

Joel's hand tightens around his glass as the shattered memories begin to surface—the freezing cold, Ellie's pleas, pain, and the darkness.

"Ellie was screaming your name. Me ‘n Jesse came in guns blazing. It was chaos. I don’t know how we did it, but we killed every last one of 'em. When I finally got to you..." He pauses, swallowing hard. "Christ, Joel. There was so much blood. Your head, your chest. That leg. I thought for sure..."

He trails off and takes another drink. Joel waits, every muscle in his body tense.

"We got you out, back to Jackson. Ellie was hurt but conscious, Dina wasn’t hurt but barely conscious. You were–" Tommy's voice breaks. "You were gone, Joel. Cold. You were... dead."

Joel feels a chill run through him.

Dead.

Not just injured. Not just close to death.

Dead.

"What the hell are you telling me?" His voice comes out harsher than intended, disbelief edging into anger.

“I’m telling you what you asked me to tell you,” Tommy replies. “No pulse. No breathing. Nothing. All I could think was you'd be back with Sarah. Nothing else, just that finally, you were with her again."

Joel shakes his head. He was so close to being back with his baby girl, he can't believe it. “No,” silently escapes his lips.

"The storm had subsided enough, I was able to radio Maria ahead, she ran ‘n found her. She remembered she was a doctor from when she arrived the day before," Tommy continues. "She wouldn't give up. She just kept working on you. CPR, right in the middle of the street ‘n then when she got you back, we ran you to the clinic ‘n she… she saved your leg. She saved all of you.”

Joel drains his glass, needing the burn of alcohol to ground him. All these months, he thought you were just his doctor, his caretaker. But you're more than that. You're the reason he's still breathing.

"Why didn't anyone tell me?" he asks, his voice barely audible.

Tommy shrugs. "At first, you were too weak. Then... I don't know. Seemed like something you'd want to hear from her, not us. And she never brought it up, so..."

Joel nods slowly, and he understands. Your constant presence, your dedication to his recovery, the way you look at him sometimes, like you're still checking to make sure he's really there. It all makes sense now.

"She never told me," Joel whispers, more to himself than to Tommy.

"Maybe she didn't want to scare you. Or maybe..." Tommy shrugs. "Maybe she didn't want you feeling like you owed her something."

"I died," he says, testing the words.

"And she brought you back," Tommy confirms. "Some folks in town call it a miracle."

Joel doesn't believe in miracles. He hasn't for a long, long time.

But, then, when he can just make out the shape of you approaching, the rays of the bright, afternoon sun beaming off of you, he knows he believes in you, his own miracle, with your skills, your determination, and your healing ways.

"She's important to all of us," Tommy says quietly as he looks over at Joel, focusing only on you. "Saved one of our own. But..." he pauses. "She's important to me because I know how much she means to you."

Joel doesn’t say anything to deny it. He can’t deny it anymore, not now knowing all that you've done for him. Not when just the mere sight of you approaching makes the heart you brought back to life beat faster in his chest. And then, when you spot him and smile, all he can do is stare, like it’s the first time he’s really seeing you. Someone who refused to let him die. Someone who's spent half a year bringing him back to life.

Tommy stands, taking one last drink before he asks, “Alright?”

Joel nods. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Well then, brother, I’ll leave you with your girl.”

Joel nods, still reeling from the news. “Yeah, thanks.”

Tommy smirks before he makes his way home, greeting you as he leaves.

Last night, he had you in his bed, touched you, kissed you, and heard you moan his name, and now, today, he finds out you saved his life.

He can’t look away from you as you step onto the porch.

“Hey,” he says, his back straightening at the sight of you.

“Hi,” you answer, your voice a little hoarse.

“Long day?” he asks.

“Quite. My feet are killing me,” you sigh.

He doesn’t want you to feel any type of discomfort; he wants to care for you like you’ve cared for him for all these months. It’s the least he can do for you.

“Let’s head inside, the seats are softer in there,” he suggests, rising and leading you into the house with his hand against your back.

You sink into the cushions of your usual spot on the sofa with a tired sigh and begin unlacing your boots. Joel watches you, wanting to help in any way he can. Instead of sitting in his usual recliner, he joins you on the couch. You don’t question him, you just take your shoes and socks off and start to rub your tired feet.

“You’ve been on your feet all day?” he asks.

“Yeah, they’re killing me,” you sigh. “I’m exhausted.”

He hates watching you like this, knowing how much you sacrifice not only for him, but for everyone else in Jackson. He reaches forward and picks up the jar of salve from the coffee table.

“Gimme your foot,” he says, holding out his broad palm.

"Joel, what—”

“Your foot,” he repeats. “You said it hurts. Let me.”

“There’s no way I’m letting you…”

He shakes his head.

“After everything you’ve done for me? It’s only fair. S’not gonna kill my pride, I promise.”

You hesitate, watching him, then reluctantly turn and place your feet in his lap.

He scoops out a dab of salve, rubs it between his palms to warm it, then begins to knead it into your arch, your heel, and across your toes.

The salve turns slick under his touch. You sink back against the couch, your head tipping back, a long, happy sigh escaping your lips as you close your eyes.

Something sparks in his chest as he watches you relax under his touch.

“You work hard,” he says low. “I see it. You oughta take care of yourself too, not just everyone else.”

“That’s the plan,” you say quietly, your eyes still closed with a smile across your face.

—-

There’s no mention of what happened last night, but there is tension. So much tension. Tension in the way he touched you, massaging your feet, taking care of you in the gentle way you’ve been taking care of him. Tension in the way his eyes watched your every move from the table as you made dinner. Tension in how close he stood as you both washed the dishes.

The tension carries over on the porch as you sit next to Joel, watching the night sky overtake the sunset.

You’ve been yawning nonstop, between last night and the busy day at the clinic, you haven’t been this tired since the beginning of Joel’s recovery.

"Rough day?" he asks.

"Mmm," you nod, trying to stifle another yawn and failing.

Joel looks over at you. The way he's been watching you seems so different today.

“Tommy asked us if we wanted to come over for dinner tomorrow night. Figured it might be good practice for me to get out more,” he says.

“I’d like that,” you smile.

You’re savoring this time with Joel, but your eyes are beginning to burn, and your body feels heavy with exhaustion. You just want something soft to rest your head on. Without thinking, you scoot your chair closer to Joel’s and lean over, resting your head on his shoulder.

His body tenses for a moment before he relaxes, his shoulder softening beneath your cheek. After what happened between you last night, something like this should feel so simple, but it still feels like you might be overstepping a line.

"Is this okay?" you ask, too tired to lift your head.

"Course it is," he whispers.

Another invisible line crossed by your need to be closer to him. Joel’s porch might just be your favorite place now. Jackson is quiet as everyone settles into the evening. Your eyes grow heavier as the silence stretches between you and Joel… until he speaks.

"I remember the cherry blossom petals,” he says lowly.

You angle your head up to look at him, confused by his musing. "Hmm?"

"When I... when I woke up, I remember the cherry blossoms blooming, ‘n I remember first seeing you..."

Your heart quickens when his head angles down and his brown eyes meet yours.

You remember those first few weeks, the uncertainty and fear that he wouldn't survive, that everything you were doing would be in vain—that you’d lose the man you didn’t even know.

"Those days were so scary," you admit.

"I know,” he breathes out. “I'll never be able to thank you for what you've done for me, ‘n I'm happy you're now able to help others."

You smile softly. "I'm also happy to help you—" you say, another yawn interrupting your words, “—still.”

Joel's lips twitch in a small smile. "Tired," he observes.

You nod against his shoulder.

"Should head in," he suggests. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s your day off, right?"

"Mmm," you hum an affirmative, but don’t move to get up.

Joel chuckles before he gently shakes his shoulder.

“C’mon,” he says as he stands and offers you his hand. You take it, and let him pull you to your feet.

You sway slightly from exhaustion, before you follow him inside and up the steps.

You stop at your bedroom door, turning to face him. Joel stands closer than expected, his brown eyes roaming your face.

"Night," you say softly.

Joel places his hand on your cheek, his thumb brushing back and forth against your skin.

"Night," he whispers back, but neither of you make a move to leave.

He pulls away and clears his throat. "I suppose it'd be easier if you just...” he says, his hand moving to the back of his neck, “sleep in my bed instead of me waking you up… just in case."

"It would," you reply almost too quickly. "Let me just get changed."

He tries to hide his smile, but a small one slips. "I'll be there," he says.

—-

The revelation Tommy shared with him earlier echoes in his head. He had lost his life, and you gave him a new one. And now, after months of you healing him, you’re still here, about to get into bed next to him.

He struggles to calm the heart that you restarted when he hears your footsteps approach his door. His back straightens against the headboard, and then, you’re there, in his doorway. God, you’re beautiful, in your simple sleep shirt and sleep shorts. Everything about you looks so soft.

"I brought you water," you say, placing a glass of water on the bedside table.

You’re standing in the same spot you were last night, before he reached out and pulled you into his arms, but tonight he resists the temptation. Tonight, he just wants to be near you, to sleep next to you, to wake up, open his eyes, and see you.

"Thanks,” he says lowly.

You nod, your eyes fixed on the copy of Lonesome Dove sitting on his table. "Do you want me to read more tonight? We're getting close to the end."

Joel shakes his head. "No, you're tired enough," he says. "Maybe tomorrow."

“Okay,” you respond, yawning.

It all feels right, watching you pull down the sheets and climb into his bed. You gift him a shy smile before you turn onto your side, facing away from him.

"Goodnight, Joel," you whisper. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

"Night,” he says before he turns the lamp off and lies on his back. He stares at the ceiling, his hands resting on his stomach, listening to your breathing.

He turns to look at you, watching your back rise and lower. Last night, you'd fallen asleep with your head on his chest. Tonight, all he’d have to do is scoot over and reach for you to bridge the gap between your bodies.

Carefully, he rolls onto his side and faces you. He reaches out, his hand hovers above your back before he gently lowers it and begins rubbing slow, lazy circles. He doesn't know if this is okay or if this crosses an invisible line, but you don't flinch or pull away at his touch.

"Feels nice," you drowsily whisper.

He massages his way across your shoulder blades, down your spine, and back up to your shoulders.

You let out a small moan that heats him from within. He reminds himself that this isn't about wanting you. This is about your comfort and caring for you.

He rubs away the tenseness that sits tight underneath your skin. It’s the least he can do.

Soon, you’re asleep, and he stops, leaving his hand to rest on your hip as he very carefully scoots closer to you.

That night, there are no nightmares that lurk. No fears or regrets that chase him. There's just you beside him, the person who saved his life, in more ways than one.

—-

This should feel strange—waking up again in Joel’s bed, but it’s beginning to feel like this is where you were always meant to be. In Joel's room, in his bed, with all of him surrounding you—it almost feels more like home than your own room across the hall feels.

Joel isn’t in bed, and the robe that’s usually hanging on the hook near his door is absent.

You stretch and yawn. This might just be the first time you’ve slept late into the morning since you arrived in Jackson.

You don’t even bother changing from your pajamas before you head downstairs, lazily shuffling along the hardwood floor into the kitchen.

Joel is standing at the stove with his back to you, holding a spatula.

"You make pancakes?" you ask.

"I do," he says, turning and smiling at you. "Actually think I'm pretty good at making them."

You lean against the counter beside him, looking into the pan. “They look good. Why didn't you wake me?"

"You've been working so much. Figured it'd be nice for you to sleep in. It's your day off.”

"Well, thank you,” you say, giving him a smile before grabbing the placemats. “I’ll set the table.”

With a mug of coffee that Joel insisted you have, you sit at the table, selfishly stealing as many glances of Joel as you can while he finishes cooking breakfast. His gray shirt hugs his broad shoulders, his wavy hair is a bit mussed from sleep, and his golden skin gleams in the soft light filtering in through the curtains. You like how he looks when he walks over to the table and places your plate in front of you with a smile; you could easily get used to this.

Your first bite of fluffy pancakes confirms what Joel told you: he really is good at making pancakes.

"These are so delicious," you tell him between bites.

"Glad you like 'em,” he says.

It’s nice to be taken care of. To have your sore feet rubbed, your tired back massaged, and breakfast made for you. You can’t remember the last time you were able to be taken care of by somebody else.

“Figured we’d head to Tommy’s before sunset,” Joel says.

"Are you sure you’re good to walk? It's quite a distance. Your leg—"

"M’leg's fine," he interrupts.

“I just don't want you pushing yourself too hard."

"I know my limits," Joel says, his eyes meeting yours. "And I know when something's worth the effort."

“Right,” you nod, feeling as if his words have more meaning beyond just a discussion of a walk to Tommy’s house.

"We can also talk to him about your trip outside Jackson," Joel adds, surprising you. “I understand it's important to you. I’ll make sure Tommy will have good people with you."

"Thank you," you say, meaning it. "That means a lot to me, Joel."

“I’d take you if I could,” he says quietly, his eyes focused on the table. “But my leg.”

“I know Joel, I wouldn’t expect you to.”

"I just want you to be happy here. In Jackson."

What he doesn't say, but what you hear anyway: With me.

—-

The walk to Tommy and Maria’s was easier than expected—his leg only mildly hurt toward the end. Now, he’s comfortable, sitting in a wooden rocking chair, with a glass of whiskey, watching you and Benji play on the front lawn. You're beautiful like this—carefree and laughing, a big smile lighting your face as Benji animatedly talks to you.

"She's good with him," Tommy says. "He normally takes forever to warm up to new people."

Joel nods, unable to take his eyes off you.

"People are already talking about how great she is," Tommy says.

There’s a sense of pride in Joel's chest. He's not surprised—he knows all too well how good you are.

"She belongs here," Joel says quietly.

"Yeah, she does,” Tommy says, holding up his glass to cheers Joel. He takes a drink before he turns to his older brother. “How's it been?" he asks. Since I told you?"

"Still processing," he answers.

Tommy nods. "Makes sense. You tell her you know?”

Joel shakes his head. “Not yet.”

Benji races toward the porch with his favorite giraffe stuffed animal clutched in his arms. You follow behind, slower with a soft smile.

"Uncle Grumpy! Look!" Benji exclaims, thrusting his giraffe toward Joel. "We fixed him! Just like how she fixed you!"

“He looks good,” Joel says, smiling at his nephew. Benji’s wide smile, bright brown eyes, and springy curls remind him so much of his Sarah.

"Come on!" Benji says, grabbing your hand. "I want to show you my room. I have more animals that need doctor help."

"Lead the way,” you say. “Uncle Grumpy, huh?" you ask, with a wink as you’re led into the house.

Tommy chuckles as he stands. “I’ll head in… check on the chili and make sure he’s not overwhelming her. She’s been through enough with your ornery ass."

“Shush,” Joel says.

He likes seeing you here with his family, making his nephew smile, and talking to his brother and sister in law like they’re friends. It’s something he never thought he’d have.

Maria joins him on the porch, leaning against the railing with her arms folded.

“Looks like you’re no longer Benji’s favorite,” she says, nodding toward the house.

“Guess she’s good with kids,” he says. “Reckon she’s good with everyone.”

“Seems it. Tommy said he told you," she says without preamble. "About what happened."

Joel nods, still looking at the door. "Yeah."

"You were dead, Joel," Maria says, her voice matter-of-fact. "When they brought you in, I thought—we all thought—but she wouldn't give up.” She takes a deep breath. “Not bad for a refugee, huh?" she adds with a faint smile.

Joel nods.

"I remember when she arrived on that transport the day before. She was exhausted, half-starved, but still offering to help. Said she was a surgeon.”

Joel listens, wanting to hear the details about you that he's never heard.

“She was the first person I thought of when Tommy’s call came in. She wasn’t even here for 24 hours, and she was thrust into an almost impossible situation, but she proved her worth to Jackson—and to you.”

Joel swallows.

“Like I said,” she continues, “you're allowed to want things that make you happy."

The screen door creaks open, and Benji appears, holding your hand, leading you back outside, animatedly chattering away to you. The sight makes his chest ache in a way he thought it never could again.

Maybe Maria is right. Maybe he is allowed to have this happiness.

—-

It’s well after midnight by the time you and Joel get back to his house. Whatever lines that existed between you and him have blurred beyond recognition. From how he rubbed your back until you fell asleep last night, to how he casually draped his arm behind your chair at Tommy and Maria’s, to the way his hand would slightly brush against yours as he walked home beside you.

Now, you’re back in his bedroom, clad in your sleep shirt and shorts. Joel’s already filled a glass of water for himself and you, another small way he’s beginning to care for you.

You run your hand along the cover of Lonesome Dove, tracing the embossing of the cover. “Do you want me to read more tonight?”

“Can I read it to you instead?” he asks.

Your breath catches at his offer. You nod, your heart feels like it’s going to flutter out of your chest when you climb into bed beside him, sitting up with your back against the headboard just like him. He reaches for the book and opens it, picking up where you stopped those few nights ago, when everything changed.

“Newt, the Rainey Boys and Pea Eye got to go into town the next afternoon. The fact that the first group drug back in ones and twos, looking horrible, in no way discouraged them…”

You love seeing Joel like this—soft and unguarded. The lamp backlights him in aureate tones, his reading glasses perched on his nose. Your eyes roam his handsome face from the plush of his lips, to the sharp point of his nose, and up to the soft waves of his hair.

You’ve been trying to resist him for so long, this invisible pull, this slow step to touching him more, to wanting him more, to needing him. You scoot closer, pushing those boundaries again, you’re so close now, your arm touches his.

“As they were talking, a party of some half-dozen soldiers came riding up the street, led by the big scout, Dixon.”

His voice comforts you, deep and slow, his accent drawling as your feelings for him and the ways he’s been caring for you draw you closer to him. It’s beginning to feel almost impossible to stay away from him.

You slink farther down, and before you can even realize what you’re doing, you rest your head on his lap, softly sighing a contented sound.

Joel pauses, looking down at you before he begins reading again, his hand resting on your shoulder, moving back and forth against your skin in a soothing pattern.

“Call walked down the street and picked up his hat, which had fallen off. The soldiers rode slowly past him. Two dismounted and began to try to load Dixon on his horse. Finally all six dismounted—the man was so heavy it took all of them to get him up and draped over his horse. Call watched. At the sight of Dixon, his anger threatened to rise again. If the man moved, Call was ready to go for him again. But Dixon didn’t move. He hung over his horse, blood dripping off his head and face into the dust…”

Joel stops reading… folding the top of the page down to bookmark it before setting the book on the table.

“That’s enough for tonight,” he says. “This damn book hits too close to home sometimes.”

You nod, rising from resting on his lap, settling beside him. “I understand.”

Joel turns the lamp off and lies down. There’s an air of tenseness now, but it’s not the same crackling feeling of desire between you; this one sits heavier and deeper.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes roaming your face, before he answers. “I am, because of you.”

He rolls to his side, pulling you close to his chest. He gazes into your eyes, an almost panicked look in them before he kisses you. He rolls you beneath him, his solid weight lying heavily on top of you. But then, he groans and you can recognize it’s one of pain, not of pleasure.

You pull away. “Joel,” you say breathlessly, “your leg. You need to be careful.”

He rolls off you with a frustrated sigh. “Damnit. Sorry.”

“No,” you say, propping yourself up on an elbow to look at him. “I like it… but your leg is still not okay. I want you but—”

“Fuck it,” he growls, reaching for you again. “I don’t care. Come here.”

He wraps you in his arms, his hands roaming your body, his mouth covering yours before his lips travel down your neck, nuzzling and licking your sensitive skin there.

You let out a moan when the bristle of his beard rasps against your skin. He bunches your sleep shirt up as he kisses his way further down your body, when he reaches your chest, he nuzzles his face between your breasts before he kisses his way over to your nipple, licking and sucking it into his mouth while his large hand cups your other breast.

He groans against your skin, his eyes looking into yours as he kisses his way across your chest, drawing the other nipple into his mouth, his tongue circling around it.

“Joel,” you moan, threading your fingers through the soft waves of his hair.

He pulls back, his breathing ragged. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “Keep going,” you implore, reaching down to pull your shirt over your head and tossing it aside.

His lips trail further down your body. You’re desperate for him, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your heart pounding as you part your legs for him. Joel moves, shifting himself down to settle between your thighs, but as he adjusts, you see the flash of pain that crosses his face. He tries to hide the grimace, but you catch it.

“Joel,” you say. “Your leg. We should stop.” God, the words hurt to say. You want to feel his mouth against you all over your body, but the two of you have worked too hard and cared too much to let tonight undo his months of healing.

He sighs heavily and moves to lie beside you. Frustration radiates from his side of the bed.

You turn to him, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips. “I’m sorry, you’ve come too far, and the last thing I want to do is have you reinj—”

“I know,” he interrupts. “I just… god, I want to taste you.”

Your pussy pulses at his words, your slick soaking your sleep shorts at his confession.

You kiss him again, then pull away to look into his eyes, seeing the desire for you sitting deep inside them. That desire causes you to move your hands to your shorts, pulling them down and off, leaving you naked for him.

“Fuck,” he grits, pushing himself up to yank his shirt up and over his head. He reaches for you, pulling you on top of him. You can feel the hard outline of his cock pressing against you through his pants. You rock against him, his deep groan echoing into the quiet night.

He plants his hands on your back, pushing you forward to fold over on top of him, your chest meeting his, his mouth chasing your lips, desperate to kiss you. Joel’s hand glides down your body, his fingers leaving a trail of heat as he reaches your pussy, wet and pulsing for his touch. You’re moaning into his mouth, your tongue licking against his.

“Christ,” he groans. “You’re so wet f’me,” he marvels.

You whimper in response as he explores you, running a thick finger up and down, painting your slick arousal across your pussy.

“Tell me what feels good,” he whispers. You can feel the rumble of his desire to please you vibrating through your chest.

“That,” you breathe, grinding against his hand. “All of it.”

He dips a finger inside, gently fucking into you while his thumb swipes back and forth against your clit. Your head falls forward, nuzzling into Joel’s neck, your eyes closed as he draws the pleasure out of you.

“Look at me,” Joel commands. “Need to see you.”

You force your head up and your eyes open. His gaze is intense, his lips parted as his hand savors you.

“Joel,” you whisper as you begin to feel your orgasm crest, almost unbelieving you’re moaning his name out again. “I’m close.”

He pulls his hand away.

“Baby, listen to me,” he lowly commands.

Fuck. Baby. You almost feel dizzy at the way his deep voice sounds calling you baby. You pull away, your lips parted, panting for air.

“I want you to sit on my face. Need to taste you proper.”

You nod frantically and lean in, kissing him before you move up his body, turning to face his feet and stretching your legs wide for your knees to bracket his shoulders.

You lean forward, resting your hands on his thick thighs. You can feel his hot breath against your cunt as he takes in the sight of you wet and ready for his mouth.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he growls before he grips your ass, pushing you down against his mouth.

You gasp, almost losing your balance at the first feel of his tongue licking a long path across you. You can feel the scratch of his beard against your thighs as he pushes his face further against your cunt, devouring your pussy like it’s never been ate before. His tongue circles your clit, flicking at the sensitive bud. You feel set alight by him, by his care, by the way his nose presses against your clit when he fucks you with his tongue. You don’t know how long it’s been since Joel has done this, but fuck, he knows how to make you feel good.

His hips buck in the air as he eats you, his cock straining under his pajama pants. You reach your hand over, rubbing your palm against him through the soft fabric. You want to see him, to taste him, to feel the heat of him against your tongue.

His moan reverberates against your pussy when you tug his pants down and his cock springs free. He’s so thick and hard, precum glistening on his tip. You marvel at the sight of him, wide with a prominent vein nestled in a thatch of dark curls. He really is golden-skinned all over. Joel Miller is all man, all rugged, all beautiful.

When you lower your head and get your first taste of him, his hips jerk up, a long “fuck” is grunted against your cunt. He tastes like Joel… earthy, sweet, and salty.

He doesn’t stop groaning as his tongue pumps in and out of you, his grip on your ass matching your grip on his thighs. Your lips stretch around his thickness when you take him deeper into your mouth. His hips begin to pace along with the rhythm of your mouth bobbing up and down on his length. When you take all of him into your mouth he hisses, squeezing your ass hard as his whole body tenses.

It doesn’t take long for him. A low growl of your name is muffled against your cunt when he cums, his cock pulsing between your lips, spilling hot and thick across your tongue. You swallow him down, moaning along his length as you feel your orgasm ripple through you. His tongue flicks rapidly against your clit, his hands pulling you apart so that he can press you farther down against his mouth. You let go of Joel’s cock as you scream his name, your pussy clenching and flooding against his mouth. He drinks you down, groaning with satisfaction just as you collapse against him, your cheek on his leg as you catch your breath.

When you feel like you have the strength, you move off his body and lie down, turning to face him. You can see your wet glistening across his beard when he smiles, his eyes half-lidded.

“Come here,” he says, pulling you close. You tuck your head against his chest as he pulls the blanket over your naked bodies.

“Thank you,” you quietly say.

“Hmm?”

“For taking care of me today and last night.”

He holds you tighter, pressing you closer against him. “It’s the least I can do,” he whispers.

That night, you fall asleep in Joel’s arms, the last thing you hear is Joel softly whispering, “Good night, baby.”

—-

A/N: My taglist has grown too large. Please follow @whocaresposted and turn on notifications to be alerted about new chapters!

My perma tags: @forspringcleaning, @schnarfer, @mothandpidgeon

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jasminedragoon · 10 days ago

Text

IM HORNY ON MAIN AGAIN! I LOVVVEED THIS ONE!! Especially bc i work in food service. You captured it perfectly god i love it so much. They're so tender and sweet and lovely. GOD DAMN IT I NEED MORE

Somebody to Love

Pairing: Harry Castillo x waitress!reader

Summary: Harry finds someone who wants him for something other than his money.

Warnings: no spoilers!, language, flirting, rom-com meet-cute vibes, food and alcohol consumption, reader has two roommates that fit the rom-com vibe, smut (18+ MDNI), dry humping, unprotected piv sex, longing/yearning

WC: 7.6K

A/N: I haven't seen the movie yet so there's no spoilers, don't worry! This is written just knowing what we know from the trailers.

The first day he came into your diner, it was raining.

Well, more like pouring, actually.

You remembered because the little bell above the door clanged so loudly, you thought the ancient relic might have actually met its fate that day. When you turned to see who raced inside, it was him.

Harry.

He held a soaked copy of the New York Post in his hand. It was falling apart after doing an extremely poor job of keeping him dry in the sudden downpour. His dark hair was drenched and dripping all over the sticky tile floor. He blinked a few times, trying to get the rain out of his eyes without looking more pathetic than he already felt. He looked down at the destroyed newspaper and made a face before lifting his chin and scanning the restaurant.

That's when he spotted you.

He hesitated for a moment before offering up a lopsided grin and a shoulder shrug as you made your way towards him.

"Do you have a trash can I can borrow?"

You circled the host stand and held out the plastic bin, only to tease, "If you're borrowing it, that means you'll bring it back, right?"

He took a second then laughed politely at your shitty joke before dropping the newspaper into the empty bin with a solid thump.

"Consider it returned," he smiled, dark brown eyes sparkling despite the agitation he had felt moments before when he was caught in the rain.

You showed him to a table, one near the window, and brought him a coffee — to warm you up, you had said. He wrapped his hands gratefully around the stained mug and took a sip. When he swallowed, he paused, then looked up at you with genuine shock.

"This is... good."

You giggled. "Thanks."

"No, I mean—" He stopped to take another sip and made a satisfied noise in the back of his throat. "This is really good."

"You have a beautiful way with words," you teased again.

"Some of these expensive cafés around here don't make coffee half this good," he continued, taking another gulp.

"Well, I guess I've found my hidden talent," you shrugged.

The way he smiled at you had your heart skipping a beat.

There were other tables that probably needed to be cleaned or wanted their check, but you couldn't force yourself to step away. Something about him was magnetic.

And at the time, he really didn't seem all that special to the naked eye. He was just wearing a pair of worn jeans, an oversized brown jacket, and a basic looking tshirt underneath. He looked like every other working man within a five mile radius of your diner that stopped in for lunch every day. And yet... something pulled you to him.

Something must have pulled him to you, too, because a week later, he returned.

"No New York Post?" you asked when you greeted him at the door, hoping you didn't look too eager to see him.

He shook his head and pointed to the trash can.

"That's the only place The Post belongs. Only had it that day because someone left it at a bus stop bench. It was all I had."

"Desperate times," you mused before leading him to a table.

He looked a little dressier that day: slacks, but with a polo shirt. The only ring he had was on his pinky, one you were rather convinced was a fake emerald. You smiled to yourself, tucking away the lack-of-a-wedding-band note for later.

When he sat down, you noticed for the first time he placed a compact umbrella on the booth next to him before picking up the menu. You grinned and pointed to it with your ballpoint pen.

"Hey, you got yourself an umbrella," you said, "moving up in the world."

He looked up at you with those soft brown eyes again, the ones that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the very same eyes you couldn't get out of your head for a week.

"I learn from my mistakes."

He became a regular after that. Once a week, every Thursday around one in the afternoon. You weren't sure if the time just suited him best or if he picked it because he knew you would be working.

You had hoped it was the latter.

About two months later, the diner was unusually busy. A tour bus had stopped outside and the restaurant was overloaded with thirty extra patrons. The kitchen was slammed, the counters were a mess, and of course one of the servers had called off that day.

You forgot it was Thursday. Harry had come in and seen the chaos. He tried to catch your eye but you were too busy balancing four plates on your arms to notice.

Another waitress, Darcy, hurried up to greet him, looking equally as frazzled as you but still offered to clean a table in her section. Harry turned her down, said he wanted to wait for you, and leaned against the wall watching you work with a small smile on his face.

Once one of your tables got up, Darcy helped you clean it and murmured quietly that you had a request at the door. You glanced up, saw him, and grinned happily despite the stressful lunch hour.

"Not in a rush today?" you asked when you led him to your only open table. He slid into the booth and shook his head.

"Nothing that can't wait."

"I'm honored," you said sweetly with a hand pressed to your chest. He smirked and his eyes quickly scanned you up and down.

"You're worth waiting for."

It knocked the wind out of you at first. You blinked like you weren't sure you heard him right, then exhaled a nervous laugh.

"Careful or I might think you're flirting with me."

"So what if I am?"

You laughed again and felt your face heat up. You started to fan yourself with your notepad, which only made Harry's smile grow bigger.

"Oh, you must be a heartbreaker," you teased.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, tilting his head to the side, still smiling. You leaned forward, placing both palms flat on the freshly washed tabletop, and lowered your voice.

"You're a smooth-talker, Harry," you said, refusing to break eye contact. "I'll bet you have a waitress you visit every day of the week. I'm just Miss. Thursday."

He threw his head back and laughed. Like, really laughed. And it made you smile so big that you dropped your chin to your chest to hide.

When his laughter finally died down, you lifted your head to look at him again, both of you wearing matching grins.

"Not true," he said, his dimple catching your eye and making your heart flutter a bit. "Let me take you out for dinner," he finally added, and even though you saw it coming, you still felt a rush of excitement shoot through you when you heard the words.

"Yeah? So you can introduce me to Miss. Friday?"

"Is that when you're free?"

You nodded, teeth sinking into your lower lip.

"Then tomorrow it is," he said firmly, "and you can pick the restaurant."

You whistled low and straightened back up. Your other tables were clearing up and heading to the front to pay, but you couldn't care less.

"Anywhere?"

He nodded and folded his hands confidently in his lap.

"Anywhere."

"And what if I have expensive tastes, Mr. Castillo?" you asked with a flirty tone.

"I can afford it," he assured you, still wearing the same smile.

"Even Nova?" You had said the first fancy, most hard-to-get-into restaurant you could think of, just as a joke. But Harry nodded without missing a beat.

"Nova it is."

You laughed and shook your head.

"I was just kidding," you said, "seriously, I'm good with anything—"

"Would you like to eat at Nova?" he asked, cutting you off. You paused for a moment.

"Well... maybe one day," you shrugged, "but the waiting list to get in is, like—"

"How's eight work for you?" He was already tapping away on his phone, offering it like it was nothing.

"Uh— s-sure," you sputtered. "Eight works."

He held up his phone for you to take. "Save your number and address. I'll pick you up."

He said it like he serious, but by Friday you still expected him to show up and admit it was just for laughs and maybe take you to some hole in the wall Italian spot, if you were lucky.

You were just fixing your hair and smoothing down your dress when your two roommates squealed from the window.

"He's here!"

"Oh, damn — he's got a Mercedes? Who is this guy?"

You snatched your purse and ran out into the living room, wedging yourself between them. Your jaw dropped when you saw Harry step out of the driver's side and round the front, casually buttoning his smart looking jacket and glancing around the relatively quiet street. But before he ascended the stairs to your building's front door, he looked up and spotted your three faces practically pressed against the dirty glass.

"Fuck!" you giggled when you all flew away from the window. Then a moment later, the buzzer rang.

"Y-Yeah," you stammered, pressing the answer button with a stupid grin.

"It's Harry."

You pressed the other button to unlock the door, then pushed your one roommate out of the way so you could make sure you didn't have lipstick on your teeth.

"What does he do again?"

"Who fucking cares!"

"Shhh!!" you hissed right when a firm knock came from the door.

"I'll get it!" Melanie sang, skipping to the door to cut you off. She flung it open just as you were reaching for her shoulder to yank her back, revealing Harry on the other side. His face lit up when he saw you, then his gaze dropped to Mel and he politely held out his hand.

"I'm Harry—"

"I know," she gushed, grabbing his hand and shaking it roughly. He grinned and glanced at you quickly before looking back at her. "I'm Melanie, that one's Liv."

Harry nodded at Liv perched on the couch who was waving at him like a fucking lunatic.

"Nice to meet you both." His eyes scanned the modest apartment behind you. "Cute place. How long have—"

"Let's go!" you said, pushing Mel out of the way and sneaking out the door.

"Have her back by midnight!" Melanie shouted as you were dragging him away.

"Yeah! But if you don't, at least do us all a favor and rock her world. It's been a while!" Liv added.

"Oh, my god!" you screeched over your shoulder while Harry chuckled softly next to you. "I'm going to kill—"

The apartment door slammed shut. You could hear their combined giggles, even though you were already halfway down the hall.

Harry cleared his throat, biting back a smile while you fanned your face in embarrassment.

"I am — so sorry about them," you said, stepping onto the elevator. "They're just... they're assholes," you laughed before tapping the L button repeatedly. "Sorry, it takes a few tries," you mumbled, then sighed happily when the button finally lit up and the doors slid shut.

An awkward silence settled around you as you waited for the elevator to take you to the lobby.

Fucking Mel and Liv, you seethed to yourself while sparing a nervous glance in Harry's direction. He was staring straight ahead at the closed doors, smiling in that way that made your knees weak, and you felt yourself smile back.

"So..." you began, breathing a sigh of relief when the doors opened. He pressed his palm against the side so they wouldn't shut, and looked at you expectantly. You blinked and cursed under your breath when it occurred to you he was waiting for you to go first, then hurried over the threshold and out into the run-down lobby.

"So," he echoed, opening the door for you to step outside. At least that time, you expected it and didn't look like a complete idiot. But then he stopped you before you could take one step down and offered his arm. You thanked him softly, looking shyly down at his crooked elbow, and looped your hand through.

If Liv didn't make it abundantly clear you hadn't been on a date in a while, it sure as hell was obvious to him now.

"You look—"

You stopped short when you heard tapping on the glass above your heads. As Harry was reaching to open the passenger side door, you looked up to find Mel and Liv making obscene gestures towards you and your date. Mel was miming a blowjob while Liv dry humped the air. Your eyes widened in horror and your jaw dropped. Harry turned to you, noticed your expression, but before he could spin around to look up, you grabbed his face, keeping his eyes locked on you.

"If you have any respect for me," you said lowly, "you will not look up right now."

He laughed and stepped back so you could get into his car, silently promising to ignore your roommates.

"Anyway," you laughed when he had finally pulled away from the curb. "You look so nice. I had no idea you cleaned up so well."

Harry grinned as he smoothly changed lanes.

"What, this old thing?" he joked, referring to his perfectly tailored black suit. When he came to a stop at a red light, he looked over at you. His gaze slid down your form, taking in the deep purple dress you had borrowed from Liv that was just a little too tight, but in a way that showed off your curves.

"You look absolutely beautiful," he breathed after what felt like an eternity. The way he said it made it sound like he was truly blown away and it caused a wave of goosebumps to flash across your skin.

"Thank you," you murmured shyly.

The light changed to green and you grew distracted with the car — the smooth as butter leather, the tinted windows, the hundreds of fancy looking controls that reminded you of a space ship. Your gaze kept darting all around, taking everything in.

"What do you do, Harry?" you asked.

You had asked him a few times before, and every time he managed to change the subject or sidestep the question. It didn't even occur to you he kept giving you non-answers until the night before, when you were telling Mel and Liv about your date and the question inevitably came up.

"What? I never told you?"

You shook your head and the corner of his mouth turned up into a half-smile.

"Huh... hold on, we're almost there," he said, pulling up behind a convertible with a logo on the back you didn't recognize, but based on the way people on the sidewalk were gawking, told you it was expensive.

And yet again, Harry managed to distract you. When you looked up and saw the sign for Nova above an impossibly gorgeous looking restaurant, your eyes nearly bugged out of your head.

"Are you serious?" you gasped. Harry looked at you, confused.

"You said—"

"I know what I said," you replied, "I didn't think— h-how did you—"

You couldn't get the words out. It was insane. It had to be one of the hottest restaurants in New York City, and yet Harry was able to get a reservation on a Friday night with barely twenty-four hours notice?

Your door opened and a young man in an impeccably pressed suit stood on the outside, offering you his arm. You gently took it while Harry got out on the other side, sliding a bill to the valet and rounding the front of his car to join you on the sidewalk.

"Ready?"

You nodded, speechless, as you took his arm. He led you up through the huge double doors and to the hostess, giving his name with practiced ease. She tapped something on a computer, smiled at you both, and led you through the restaurant.

It was dark, but in a warm, comfortable way. The guests were not rowdy, the kitchen was silent, and there was a pianist playing classical music in the center of the dining room.

A far cry from your diner.

"Here you are. Enjoy your meal," the hostess said once she reached your table. It was off to the side of the room. Private.

Harry pulled your chair back and looked at you, smiling at the way you were utterly and completely stunned.

"Thank you," you whispered, sitting primly in the chair. In front of you, there was an intimidating set of silverware on top of a white linen tablecloth. A candle was placed between you both, along with a small bouquet of flowers.

Harry sat down across from you, unbuttoning his suit and arching an eyebrow in your direction.

"Is it living up to your expectations, Miss. Thursday?"

You giggled and nodded.

"It's a step up from the diner, that's for sure."

"But the coffee's terrible," he grinned. Then he leaned forward, looking side to side quickly before meeting your eye. "Waitresses aren't as pretty, either."

Your cheeks burned and you laughed again, fanning yourself while looking away. Harry chuckled and leaned back in his chair.

"It's cute when you do that," he said. You dropped your hand and looked back at him.

"Do what?"

"When I pay you a compliment, you fan yourself," he said. "Very 50s movie star. I like that."

"Oh," you replied softly, "I didn't even realize. But... thank you."

"You're welcome." He folded his hands in his lap and crossed one leg over the other under the table.

When your server arrived to get your drink order, Harry sensed your discomfort right away.

"Do you like wine?" he asked, taking charge. You nodded. "Red or white?"

"Red."

"We'll take the bottle of the 1982 Chateau Latour Pauillac," he said, looking up at the waiter.

You stared dumbly at Harry after the server disappeared to get your wine.

"That sounds really expensive."

"Thought you had expensive tastes?" he reminded you with a smirk.

"I was joking," you said, "I drink wine out of a box! I can't tell the difference!"

He laughed and leaned forward again, resting on his elbows when he said, "Can I tell you a secret?"

You nodded and leaned forward, as well.

"I can't tell the difference, either."

You dissolved into a fit of giggles just as the server arrived with your bottle of wine. He took a customary sniff and taste before nodding his approval, then waited until your glasses were filled before addressing you again.

"Are you okay with the tasting menu?" Harry asked.

"Uh, yeah," you said, then looked up at the waiter and nodded. "Sounds great."

After he left, you tried to mimic Harry. You picked up your glass, swirled it a bit, took a sniff and then a tiny sip. He watched you with an amused look as you smacked your lips together, looking deep in thought.

"Hm," you hummed, "I'm getting notes of... cherry... and..."

You glanced over at Harry and tried not to laugh.

"Amber."

He gave you that wide smile that brought out that dimple you loved.

"Amber?" he repeated. "What's amber?"

"I have no idea," you laughed, "I was trying to impress you. Did it work?"

"Oh, yeah. Big time," he said, making you laugh again.

Halfway through the tasting menu, you realized no one had ever made you laugh as much as Harry did. Your cheeks actually hurt from smiling so much, but you couldn't stop. He just had something about him that made you feel so comfortable and at ease, even if you were way out of your element.

"Hey," you said suddenly right as the server was putting dessert in front of you. Harry cocked his head to the side, waiting. "You never told me what you do for work."

He slowly grinned, nodded his thanks to the waiter, then lifted his wine glass to his lips.

"What'd you think of the wine?" he asked.

You shook your head and gave him a fake look of disapproval.

"Nuh uh. No changing the subject," you said. He chuckled and set his glass down.

"Alright. Private equity," he sighed, lacing his fingers together and ignoring his dessert completely. You blinked and frowned.

"What does that mean?" you asked, feeling dumb.

"I buy companies, strip them down, make them better, and sell them for more money," he answered plainly.

You nodded and took a bite of your dessert.

"Sounds... interesting."

"No, it doesn't," he smiled. You laughed, hiding your smile behind your hand.

"No, it really doesn't," you agreed, making him laugh, too. "Do you like it?"

He shrugged and finally lifted a fork to scoop up a piece of tart.

"I'm good at it."

"But do you like it?"

"Sometimes. The people can be draining but when it pays off, it's rewarding."

"Yeah. That's how I feel about the diner, too," you sighed, feigning seriousness when you added, "it's almost like we do the exact same thing, huh?"

You made him laugh and once again, you were amazed by how easy it was to be with him already.

After Harry paid what appeared to be an absolutely ridiculous bill that made you squirm a little in your seat, you were faced with the awkward part of the date that you almost forgot about.

Does he take you home? Does he ask you to come back to his place? Would you go?

"Want to take a walk?" he asked when you both stepped outside of the restaurant, and you breathed a sigh of relief. "Weather's nice. Unless— those shoes—"

He looked down at your heels but you quickly shook your head.

"No, I'm good. A walk sounds nice."

Luckily, he walked slow because you were lying — your shoes were not made for comfort. But you were willing to sacrifice it to spend a little more time with him.

The street was bustling with life, but it wasn't very loud. A few people laughed while sharing cigarettes outside of a bar. A man with earbuds and vibrant, reflective clothes jogged by, minding his own business. An older woman wearing a chic poncho with a full face of makeup walked her small dog across the street.

It was a nicer neighborhood than the one you lived in, that was for certain.

"Thank you again for dinner," you said after the silence stretched on a little too long.

"You're welcome," he replied, then waited a beat or two before adding, "If this isn't your scene or you don't feel comfortable, we don't have to do stuff like this next time. We can do anything you want."

You frowned, confused.

"I liked it," you said slowly, "it's definitely not like anything I've ever experienced before, but I still liked it."

"Yeah?" he asked, stopping suddenly. You did the same and turned to gaze up at him.

"Yeah. Of course."

He looked relieved. His face relaxed a bit and he gave you a small smile. Then you shot him a coy look when you added, "So there will be a next time, then?"

He smiled wider and tipped his chin up so he could glance at the night sky, and that was when you noticed the flush creeping up his neck, just past his collar.

"I sure as hell hope so."

He looked back down, eyes flickering across your face and settling briefly on your lips before finding your eyes again.

"I'd love that," you said, feeling the warmth creeping up your own neck from the way he looked at you.

Then, he brought a hand up to cup your face, his dark brown eyes shimmering in the moonlight.

"Can I kiss you?"

He said it so softly, almost like he was nervous, but you found it hard to believe. How could someone like him be nervous around someone like you?

You felt yourself drift a little closer, that magnetic pull doing you in. His cologne invaded your senses, his warmth curled around you like a blanket, and you nodded, unable to form the word yes.

He was gentle at first, and his lips were unexpectedly soft against yours. He moved slow, savoring every second, massaging your lips tenderly against his own and learning the feel of you for the first time.

You melted into him so easily. The hand on your face gripped you a little harder when your lips parted, and when he deepened the kiss, you could still taste lemon and wine on his tongue.

He stepped forward and you stumbled backwards, arms flying up to wrap around his neck. His free hand found your lower back and he guided you further until you felt the cool press of brick behind you.

Within a minute, the kiss went from gentle to heated. You were firmly stuck between Harry and a brick wall, and all you could do was try to keep up with the intensity behind each swipe of his tongue against yours. His beard pressed into your chin, burning the skin there, making his mark, but you loved it.

You were completely lost in it, in him. The way he smelled, the way he felt, the way he kissed you like he may never get another chance again. Months of weekly visits to the diner that left you wanting all built up to that moment and neither of you could seem to stop.

That is, until a group of people out drinking walked by with a low whistle aimed in your direction and finally, Harry tore himself away.

"Christ," he chuckled, still standing too close and still holding your face. You both panted for air and stared at one another, searching each other's eyes, trying to get a read.

"Maybe I should — I should take you home."

You threaded your fingers through the hair on the back of his head and before you could lose your nerve, said:

"Or you can show me where you live."

He didn't hesitate, which thrilled you, and fifteen minutes later, you found yourself in his car with his hand firmly planted on your thigh as he drove you across town.

"Tribeca?" you asked, peering around.

"Yep."

"Wow," you breathed, looking out the window. Every building you passed by looked more impressive than the last until Harry turned down a street and slowed down.

The doorman jumped to attention, snapping his fingers at a younger man behind a counter, the both of them rushing outside.

"Mr. Castillo," the doorman greeted warmly when Harry stepped out. Harry nodded, murmured good evening, and rounded the car to open your door. From the corner of your eye, you saw the doorman swat the other on the shoulder, who shrugged and made a perplexed face in return.

Your hand slid easily into Harry's and he shut the door behind you.

"My apologies," the doorman said to you, "we didn't realize you would be having a guest this evening," he added, looking at Harry.

"It's alright," he said smoothly while handing the keys and a folded bill to the younger man. "I'll take any chance to prove I'm a gentleman."

They chuckled and you smiled, but mostly for a different reason: it appeared Harry didn't bring guests home often.

The lobby was stunning. Bright crystal chandeliers hung above your heads. The carpet was the softest, thickest carpet you ever stepped foot on. Two gorgeous fireplaces sat on either end of the spacious room and in front of each was a sitting area filled with couches and chairs and tables. Even the elevator was beautiful. Inside the car was mirrored with golden edges. Soft music filtered through the air and just when you noticed the ornate light fixture above you, Harry swiped a card and pressed the P button on the elevator, making your jaw drop.

"Penthouse?" you squeaked.

He gave you a strained smile and glanced down at his watch.

Your brows furrowed for a moment, trying to figure out what was going through his head.

You stepped off the elevator, following Harry into his apartment. Lights were already on and dimmed throughout the space, as if they were on timers. He watched you take a few hesitant steps forward and slowly spin around, taking everything in. Your eyes trailed over the marble kitchen countertops, the plush velvet chairs in the sitting room, the massive television, the floor to ceiling windows overlooking a breathtaking view. But it lacked... something.

Harry remained silent, waiting for you to turn back to him. When you did, you gave him a small smile and said, "Is this all?"

He laughed softly and pushed off the wall to join you.

"What do you think?" he asked, brushing his knuckles up and down your arm.

"Do you like it?"

It was the second time you asked him that question in one evening.

"Yes. I do."

You nodded and took a step forward, closing the small gap between you.

"Then I like it, too."

His mouth found yours once again, kissing you with an urgency that had you wondering if it was more than just lust behind it. Either way, you matched it, tongue swirling in tandem with his and fingers weaving eagerly through his hair as he blindly walked you both through the kitchen, towards where you assumed his bedroom would be.

When you stumbled past the threshold to his room, you giggled from your combined excitement, breaking the kiss. His mouth trailed down to your jaw, lips peppering kisses all the way to your pulse point. You craned your neck to the side and your eyes fluttered closed with a soft moan. His hands searched your dress, looking for the zipper, pulling hastily at the fabric as the backs of your legs bumped up against his bed.

"Careful," you whispered, and his groping stilled. "I borrowed this, it's not mine," you explained with a laugh. Harry pulled away from your neck to catch his breath and gaze down at you. His face looked flushed, eyes a little glassy, and his lips already swollen. Something about seeing a man so put together look so wrecked, all because of you, sent a tingle down your spine.

"I could buy a hundred more to replace it," he reminded you with one lifted eyebrow.

You grinned. "I don't care."

Something flickered across his face. Something soft, not unlike disbelief. Then his hands were on you again, searching for the zipper now that he could see properly.

In a heartbeat, the dress became a purple puddle at your feet and Harry was lowering you carefully onto his bed with his mouth nipping and sucking up and down the column of your throat, pulse coming alive at his touch.

You arched your back and dragged a hand through his hair with a gasp, holding him against your neck while your hips lift, searching for friction and thank god, he gave it to you. He dropped his weight between your legs with a grunt and grinds, soaking up every delicious sound you made underneath him.

His hands found the straps of your bra and he slipped them past your shoulders, kissing every inch of skin as he went. With a speed that made you gasp, Harry reached behind and unclasped your bra, then tossed it to the side to join your dress and shoes.

Without missing a beat, he continued to plant wet kisses all the way down your sternum, between your breasts, and only then did he pause to look up at you with heavy lidded eyes.

"You're so fucking beautiful, do you know that?"

You couldn't answer him. The words got lodged in your throat when his mouth wrapped around your breast, sucking and flicking his tongue over your nipple while you writhed impatiently beneath him.

"Fuck," you moaned as he continued to explore your body, like he was mapping you, memorizing you. "Harry — please..."

You were tugging feebly at his pristine white button down, his suit coat long forgotten somewhere in the journey from the front door to his bedroom.

He reared back at your plea and began to feverishly unbutton the shirt, his gaze all the while raking up and down your nearly naked body like he was drinking you in.

When he shoved the shirt past his shoulders, he made an annoyed noise in the back of his throat when the fabric caught on his wrists, forgetting entirely about his cufflinks.

He dropped each one into the silk sheets and nearly ripped his shirt off, far too eager to get his mouth back where it belonged — on you.

He fell forward onto his arms and continued to kiss you everywhere he could reach while your hands snaked between your bodies, working shakily on his leather belt.

"Jesus — get these off," you huffed, pushing down on the waistband of his slacks. He chuckled against your neck and helped you, kicking the offensive material to the floor and flinging his white undershirt off to join the rapidly growing pile of clothes.

You sucked in a deep breath at the sight of his bare chest for the first time. He took care of himself — that much was clear. But he wasn't overly buff and his stomach was still a little soft. You dragged your palms slowly up and down his tanned skin, admiring every curve and slope until your fingers found the band of his boxers. His stomach tensed when you slid your hand inside and you heard him stifle a groan when your fingers curled around his cock.

"I wanna see it," you murmured in his ear while slowly stroking him up and down. His hips lazily followed your hand, his hot breath skittered across your chest, and even though you were in the middle of this world, surrounded by extravagance you could only ever dream of, the only thing he wanted was you.

He granted your request, pulling down his boxers and freeing his cock, leaving him entirely bare to you. He watched with heavy eyes as you continued to work him with your fist, enjoying the way he twitched in your palm when your lips parted greedily at the sight of him in your hand.

He had enough. He couldn't take it any longer. His fingers curled around the edge of your black panties, stretching them away from your hips, slowly, before looking up at you.

"You borrow these, too?"

You shook your head then yelped when the fabric tore suddenly away from your hips.

"Jesus!" you giggled, but his mouth hastily slanted over yours, silencing you with a deep kiss that had your head swimming and your knees weak.

"Been thinking about this for weeks," he confessed, the words slipping past his lips and pouring into your mouth. One arm dropped down to grip himself at the base and your own hands instantly grabbed onto his broad shoulders, bracing yourself for what was to happen next.

"Me, too," you whispered, but he just shook his head while lining himself up at your entrance.

"No, it's not the same," he murmured back. "You're all I can think about. Driving me fucking crazy every second of the day. Wondered what you were doing—" You felt the blunt tip of him breach your cunt and you inhaled sharply. "Wondered— wondered what it would be like to— to— fuck..."

You gasped in unison when he pressed inside, parting your wet walls with ease, like he was always meant to be there. You whimpered his name and clawed at his shoulders, unable to look away from his face contorting with pleasure, at the feeling of you wrapping around him for the first time.

"To — what?" you exhaled when he was fully seated inside of you. His nose nudged the side of your head and he planted a tender kiss to your temple.

"Wondered what it would be like to wake up next to you every day."

It was so unexpectedly sweet. It had your stomach twisting as you pulled him back down to your mouth, your hand cupping the back of his neck to keep him close.

He rolled his hips forward, slowly, allowing you both a chance to adjust to the tight fit of his cock inside of you. You moaned into his mouth and it just spurred him on. His hand found a home on your hip, thumb pressing into the crease at the top of your thigh, then he did it again — he pulled halfway out just to slowly glide right back in, basking in the way you stretched for him.

"You're perfect," he murmured against your lips. Your eyebrows pinched together, gasping at the heavy weight of him every time he pushed forward. "You're so sweet and beautiful and fucking — perfect."

He groaned the last word, burying himself as deep as possible as if to emphasize his point. You shuddered in his arms, unable to articulate just how good, how full, how complete you felt. All you could manage to do was nip weakly at his chin and rock your hips upward, encouraging him to move faster, to take more — take all of you.

So, he did. He picked up the pace until he found a rhythm that made your mouth hang open and your legs shake. He was hypnotized, watching the way your eyes rolled back and your tits bounced with every harsh thrust. The only thing that kept you firmly in place was his hand pressing down on your hip as he took and took and took.

"God, you're pretty," he moaned. He was overcome with you, completely sunk and drowning. "So fucking pretty like this. I'll never get enough. Never — shit — never get enough."

The huge, sprawling bedroom was filled with the sounds of your skin slapping together punctuated with the soft noises you murmured into one another's skin. It was as if nothing else even existed outside of that space, even though you were very much firmly in the heart of one of the busiest cities in the world. You were both so lost in each other that nothing else mattered.

He groaned when he felt your arousal dripping down his shaft and onto his sheets. You were just so tight and warm and perfect, it was driving him insane and he wished more than anything that he could come inside you. He wanted to see the way he spilled out of your pussy and leaked down your soft thighs. He wanted the image burned into his brain for eternity.

"Harry—" you whined, nails digging into his back. "Oh god, don't stop! Don't— don't stop— ple—"

His mouth captured yours once again, quieting you while also giving you exactly what you wanted. He snapped his hips ruthlessly, knocking the air from your lungs as you wrapped your legs around his waist. You pulsed around his cock and whined so sweetly into his mouth that it had him feeling dizzy and reckless.

He slipped his tongue past your lips when you came, his name garbled in your throat in a way that made him feel like a fucking god. You tore yourself away, too desperate for fresh air, and dropped your head lazily into his pillow as you rode out the rest of your orgasm.

"Harry," you sighed, and his skin prickled at the sound. Your eyelids drooped and your swollen lips parted to drag in more air. You were so spent but still wanted him to feel good, so you tightened your hold around his waist and dragged your fingers through his sweat soaked hair.

"Come for me," you whispered into his ear. You felt his entire body shudder at your command and a jolt of confidence ripped through you.

"I will," he gasped, vision blurring with every wet smack of his hips against yours. "I will, baby. I wi— I'll give you anything you want. I'll — oh, f-fuck..."

Your teeth gently grazed the shell of his ear, just enough to sharpen his senses. His arms wrapped around you, holding you still as he fucked you hard now, chasing his own release.

"Inside me?" you asked. The way your voice sounded so sweet and innocent had his cock instantly swelling.

"N-no, I can't." He couldn't risk it but it still broke his heart to tell you no.

You made a disappointed noise but you didn't push it. You loosened your legs and a few hard thrusts later he was pulling out of you with a grunt. Your legs dropped to the mattress, shaky and loose. You rolled your head and watched in a trance as Harry hovered above you, jerking his cock with clenched teeth until he stilled with a low, deep moan. A moment later, you felt hot spurts of cum painting your stomach and mound. It was filthy, the way you loved being covered in him, how you reveled in the feeling of his sticky release on your skin.

He looked dazed and breathless when he was done, staring down at you with bleary eyes as he gasped for air. But then his gaze brightened when he watched you lift a lazy finger to swipe through his mess, collecting a taste and popping it into your mouth with a moan.

"Jesus," he groaned, and you giggled. He pushed a hand through his hair and took a deep breath before forcing himself to stand.

"I'll get you something," he said, stumbling for a moment. You eyed his soaked, semi-hard cock appreciatively before he turned to his bathroom. He returned with the softest washcloth you'd ever felt in your life. You almost told him not to use it, that you felt bad ruining it, then remembered where you were and who you were with and refrained.

Afterwards, he was incredibly sweet. He pulled you into his arms and turned out the lights, both of you still naked between his silk sheets. His thumb rubbed gentle circles against your arm and his lips occasionally brushed lovingly over your eyes, nose, or forehead.

In return, you pressed lazy kisses against his throat and slotted your leg in between his, unable to stop yourself from smiling.

"I had a really nice time tonight," you finally said, breaking the silence and making him laugh.

"Me, too," he replied, gazing at you in the beam of moonlight that cast across his bed.

You bit your bottom lip shyly and glanced around his bedroom. There hadn't been much of an opportunity to take it all in before, but now in the quiet stillness of night, you realized his room was unusually bare with the exception of his huge bed and one large abstract painting on the wall.

"Did you just move in?"

He shook his head, eyes still locked on you. "No."

He could tell you were curious but didn't want to pry, so he threw you a lifeline.

"I could've hired a decorator but," he glanced around, looking a little forlorn. "I wanted to wait and do it myself. With someone."

"Oh," you breathed softly. Then, sensing his vulnerability, added, "I would have done the same thing. It's part of what makes a house a home, you know?"

His dark eyes flashed to yours and he smiled.

"Yeah, that's right."

You grinned and snuggled a little closer into his chest. His lips found the top of your head and he hummed, content. Your eyes slid closed and you could feel your body relaxing, ready to drift off to sleep when he spoke again.

"I have a confession to make."

Your eyes snapped back open and you looked up expectantly.

"I don't think I can wait til Thursday to see you again," he smirked. Your heart skipped a beat and you pretended to think it over for a second.

"Well... I guess I could make some time on Monday or Tuesday," you mused.

"How about both?"

You swallowed and nodded, hoping you didn't come off too eager when you said, "Yeah, I think that would work."

As he pressed a tender kiss to your lips to seal the deal, you mustered up the courage to ask the question that had been weighing on your mind since the day before.

"Harry?"

"Hm?"

He looked at you like he was completely smitten, like he was ready to give you the world on a silver platter if you asked.

"Since we're making confessions, I have a question that's been bothering me," you said carefully. His smile faltered, but only for a moment.

"What is it?"

"Why didn't you tell me about all of this before? When I asked what you did for work, you always blew me off. I was starting to think you were unemployed but—" you laughed and looked out the partially covered window overlooking Manhattan. "—I was way off."

Harry sighed and rolled onto his back, bringing you with him to lay on his chest.

"I haven't had a very good track record with dating," he said. "And usually when women find out what I do, all they see is the money, the lifestyle, the parties, but..." he trailed off for a moment, fingers playing idly with the ends of your hair. "I just wanted someone to want me for me."

You tilted your chin up, giving him a sorrowful look as you cupped his cheek, forcing him to look at you.

"I want you for you," you told him firmly. He smiled, took your hand from his face, and turned it over to kiss your palm.

"I know."

Truthfully, he knew before he even asked you out on a date. The months he spent getting to know you at the diner had him convinced. But when he told you what he did and showed you where he lived and your only reaction — your first concern — was did he like it? Well, that gave him all the hope in the world that you just might be that someone to help him decorate his home one day.

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jasminedragoon · 10 days ago

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I am spoiling the live action Lilo & Stitch. And I am doing it up front and plainly.

Do not fucking see this movie. Do not waste your money on this. Period.

They made Nani give Lilo up to the American government. They made Nani LEAVE Hawaii and pursue being a marine biologist. They made a native Hawaiian character give up her sibling to pursue a dream that she originally did not have. This is imperialist propaganda at its FINEST.

The original fucking movie is about family staying together. It's about indigenous people being able to stay with each other and stay in their home and be together! That's the whole fucking point! Nani is Lilo's last living relative on her homeland—it is jarring, it is disgusting and disturbing that Nani would not only leave her last blood relative alone, give her up to the very government that is harming native Hawaiians TODAY, but also travel to the "mainland" for her dream!

Not to mention, Nani's actress isn't fucking Hawaiian. She's much paler in photos and real life. They fucking darkened her for this movie.

Don't even get me started on the transgender subtext of Pleakley's "human" disguise from the original movie being completely erased in favor of him being played by a regular ass white man. Jumba doesn't have his accent, they made him more villainous, and his "human" disguise is a non-fat white man—which part of his original joke, I know, is that he was bigger and was more clumsy in the movie because of his size, but to have the main shape of his character completely removed is also fucking weird.

This live action movie is a desecration to the original. I encourage you to not see it, please. Don't give Disney any of your money on this one. Just watch the original. Please just watch the original.

The new message in the live action movie is disturbing and gross.

This is one of the most disrespectful live actions I've seen and heard of. I implore you to not watch it.

#I wasn't even gonna watch it cuz live action isn't as good as the animated version like 99.99999% of the time

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jasminedragoon · 13 days ago

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ik i just run a tumblr smut page BUT!!!

FUCK ICE, free palestine, free congo, FUCK trump, FUCK musk, no one is illegal on stolen land, and if u disagree, FUCK YOU TOO!!!

i’ve said this before but if u support that fuckass orange in office, idc if ur a silent follower or ur like is ur only form of interacting with me, just know, i don’t want it!!! and u are a terrible person!!! 😛

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jasminedragoon · 16 days ago

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jasminedragoon · 17 days ago

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CAROLLLL WHAT THE FUCKKKK SHE WAS PREGNANT!??!?!?! NOOOOO THE ANGST IN THIS ONE IS SO STRONG! THE CHANGE FROM DONT LIE TO I DONT THINK I LOVE YOU ANYMORE?!?!??!?! THATS INSANITY! I WISH SHE WOULDVE BEEN LIKE OH YEAH WELL I HAD A MISCARRIAGE NOOOOOOOO IM GRIEVING

"The days of you and I" - part 2

Jackson! Joel Miller x fem!reader

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Summary: Joel’s growing pain and survivor's guilt create a widening rift between you, as harsh words leave wounds deeper than any physical injury.

w.c: 7,9k

warnings: angst, mentions of murder and revenge, emotional trauma, grief trauma, survivor's guilt, discussion of death and loss. mentions of miscarriage. It contains spoilers from season 2 of the last of us. No proofreading because, you know. No proofreading because I'm a lazy sloth.

Note: Remember this story is a sequel of this one shot "What remains of us" or you can ignore it and keep reading this one haha.

A/N: Thank you so much for all your love on this fic. As I said, this fic will touch on some heavy topics related to the aftermath of events we are already familiar with. This one is not the best, I know. But it is building the tension I talked about before. I hope you like it, and I really expect to see your reactions and comments on it. Remember I created an AO3 account where these pieces of reading are being published too. Sending hugs and love.

One, two, three, four, five. Breathe.

Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Breathe.

He’s okay. He’s okay.

He is fine. He is fine.

You saved him.

Every time you closed your eyes, you still saw it. You still heart it. You still feel it.

You could sense the inevitable outcome of a nightmare with no end. Perceive the crackling of your heart, shattering, being ripped out from you.

There was Joel lying, blood slicked across his face, his chest barely rising, his name caught somewhere between your throat and the crushing weight in your chest. The field of dreams built after these years of a quiet life, tearing apart.

Because inside, right at the back of your mind, there was still a reality from which Joel wouldn't make it out alive. That reality was still your trembling knees, touching the floor and caressing a face whose eyes couldn't meet yours.

But in those dreams, you also saw the bodies of Fireflies scattered around him, the smell of gunpowder and copper heavy in the air. His eyes flickering open, then closing again, and you knew, you knew you were too late.

You jolted awake with a gasp, your hand gripping his tighter than you’d realized, your head heavy against the sheets at the edge of his hospital bed. The room was dim, Joel’s chest rising and falling in slow. You turned your head, your cheek brushing against the rough calluses of his hand still in yours. It was warm. Real. Alive.

A broken sound slipped from your throat before you could stop it. Your lips pressed to his knuckles, over and over again, relieved washing all your body.

“You’re okay,” you whispered, voice shaking, salt from your tears mixing with the warmth of his skin. “You’re okay.”

But it wasn’t enough to calm the storm inside you. The room felt too small. The grief, the relief, the terror, too loud, crowding your lungs.

You carefully set his hand down, brushing your fingers through his hair one last time before quietly standing, the floor creaked under your boots. You slipped out the door just as Tommy was coming down the hallway.

He nearly bumped into you; his brow furrowed the moment he saw your face. “Hey—hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, voice low, cautious, like one wrong word might send you shattering.

You tried to speak, but your throat closed. The only thing you managed was a rough, strangled, “I—I Tommy.”

And then your hands were fisting in his jacket and you were burying your face against his chest before you could stop yourself.

“I’m so scared,” you choked out, the words spilling like blood from a wound. “I’m still so scared.”

Tommy’s arms came around you, strong and steady. He let you shake; let you break against him for a minute. “Hey now,” he murmured, “I know, I know. But listen to me — Joel’s fine. He made it. He’s in there, he is breathing thanks to you. You don’t have to keep carrying this like you been.”

You pulled back enough to look at him, your face crumpled. “I can’t,” you rasped, shaking your head. “I can’t, Tommy. If I close my eyes, I lose him. Every time. I’m terrified that I’m gonna wake up and he is going to be dead.” You looked at him, “I cannot get back from it.”

He gave a weary, sad sort of smile. “Yeah… you can. And you need to.” He let out a breath, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “You haven’t slept, not really, in near a month. You been sitting in that chair every night like a ghost. I see you. Maria sees you. Ellie does. You need to come up for air, darling. You need to grieve what you lost, too.”

You stiffened, your stomach twisting. “I can’t… we agreed,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “We weren’t gonna—”

“I know what we agreed,” Tommy said quietly, eyes steady. “But just because you made me and Maria swear not to tell anyone, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Don’t mean it doesn’t hurt. You lost something, too.”

And for a moment you hated him for saying it out loud, for naming the grief you’d tried to bury beneath blood and terror and a flicker of hope.

But mostly you felt yourself breaking, splintering apart, because you’d been holding it together with spit and wire and now there was nowhere left to hide.

“I’m not ready to talk about it.” You replied, “My only priority is Joel’s well-being.”

Tommy nodded, a quiet, sad understanding in his eyes. He didn’t push or didn’t offer some empty platitude or tell you it was okay, because you both knew it wasn’t.

“Alright,” he said softly. “I get it. Just… don’t forget you’re still here too, alright? You can’t bleed out until there’s nothing left of you to give.”

You swallowed hard; throat thick. “I’m fine.”

It was a lie. You both knew it. But Tommy let it be, because sometimes kindness was letting someone cling to the lie a little longer.

For the sake of it.

He gave your arm a squeeze and gestured back toward the room. “I’ll sit with him for a while. Go walk it off. Get some air. Go get to change clothes. You don’t have to be strong every second, you hear me?”

You didn’t answer, just gave a small, jerky nod before moving past him down the hall, your chest tight, legs unsteady. The grief was a storm inside you, still too raw, too sharp, but for the first time in weeks, you weren’t carrying it alone.

The door creaked softly as you stepped into the house, the familiar scent of old wood, leather, and that trace of Joel that clung to everything hitting you like a blow to the chest. It was like walking into a memory you weren’t ready for; one you hadn’t realized you’d been avoiding.

The one where things had remained still, and your quiet little life hadn’t been tainted by ghost of the past he wasn’t ready to face.

You left the door half-open behind you, the quiet hum of the wind outside the only sound filling the empty space. Your boots felt too loud against the floorboards as you made your way upstairs, each step heavier than the last.

In the bedroom, it was like time had stopped.

Joel’s glasses still rested on the nightstand; one arm crooked like he’d taken them off in a hurry. An empty glass of water sat abandoned on your side of the bed. The blankets were half-pulled down, the imprint of both your bodies faint in the mattress as if neither of you had truly left.

Almost a month had passed.

You stood there, rooted to the spot, staring at the bed like it was some kind of relic. Your chest ached at the sudden, vivid memory of that night.

Joel’s rough laugh echoed across the room when Ellie had made some comment on her willing to try and forgive him for what he had done. the way his eyes had shone just a little when he said, “Maybe she’ll come around more often again.”

How you’d nearly told him.

You remembered sitting on the edge of the bed, hand brushing his, your heart hammering as you tried to work up the nerve to say the words that had been eating you alive for days. You hadn’t gotten the chance. The attack came that morning. And everything after that was blood, screams, and a world you didn’t recognize anymore.

Your hand came up to your face, covering your mouth, as if you could press the grief back in.

Not now.

You turned away from the bed, your throat tight, and made your way into the bathroom. The light buzzed softly when you flicked it on. You gripped the edge of the sink, staring at your reflection. You looked wrecked. Hollow-eyed, pale, a shadow of the person you’d been a month ago.

A quiet, bitter laugh slipped from your lips. “Get it together,” you muttered to yourself.

But it wasn’t that easy. It never had been.

You splashed cold water on your face, trying to chase away the ghosts. The house felt too quiet without Joel in it. Too big. Too wrong.

You dried your face, took a steadying breath, and for the first time in weeks, allowed yourself to murmur the thing you’d almost said that night, so soft, even the walls couldn’t hear.

“I was pregnant.” You murmured; your voice broke on the process.

You made your way to the dresser with, every step heavier each time, like your bones knew what was coming before your heart did. The top drawer still held your clothes, neatly folded the way Joel always teased you about.

Your fingers brushed over a worn t-shirt before you pushed it aside, pulling out a clean pair of jeans, tugging them on with monotonous movements. Your hands shook as you reached for a simple tank top. It felt too thin, too unfamiliar against your skin.

Without even thinking, you crossed the room to Joel’s side of the closet, the side you hadn’t touched since that night.

His scent hit you again, sharp and familiar: cedar, soap, something distinctly him. Your chest tightened, throat burning as you reached out and pulled one of his old flannels from the hanger. The one he wore when it got cold around the house, sleeves rolled up, collar a little frayed.

You shrugged it on over your tank top, the fabric heavy and too big around your frame. The sleeves hung past your hands, the scent of him wrapping around you like a hug you weren’t sure you would even feel again.

Your fingers gripped the lapels of the shirt, holding it closed like armor.

You caught sight of yourself in the mirror then, wearing his clothes, eyes rimmed red, hair messy, face drawn.

You pressed a hand to your chest, feeling the steady beat of your heart under your palm.

He’s alive.

He’s breathing.

And you’re still here.

A tear slipped down your cheek, but this time, you let it fall.

You grabbed your jacket from the hook by the door, not bothering to wipe your face. The cold evening air would take care of that.

And then you walked out, because you couldn’t stay in that house one more goddamn minute.

You headed back to the hospital.

Because wherever Joel Miller was, that’s where you belonged.

You didn’t bother taking the main path. Your feet knew the way, cutting through the back alleys and between old buildings like muscle memory. Every step closer to that hospital felt like pulling yourself out of a grave, but you kept going.

Because he was still there and walking to the hospital felt relieving. Jackson was still recovering from the attack, but nothing mattered to you.

It was like if you had become selfish.

You reached his room and hesitated at the door, hand on the knob, heart pounding like it wanted to crawl out of your chest.

One, two, three, four, five. Breathe.

The memory of your nightmare flickered in the back of your mind. Joel, bloody. The Fireflies on the floor. The way your hands shook as you fired again and again, the sound of someone begging.

You swallowed hard and pushed the door open.

Tommy was sitting in the chair by the bed, elbow propped on his knee, head bowed like he’d been carrying a weight too heavy for one man alone. The soft light entering from the window, accentuated some of the lines in his face, made him look older than you remembered. He lifted his head when he heard the door, and his eyes softened when he saw you standing there, Joel’s flannel drowning your frame.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just gave you that sad, understanding look that made your throat tighten all over again.

“He’s been sleeping,” Tommy murmured, his voice rough, like gravel. “He woke up before, but it seems like he is tired.”

You nodded, your eyes sliding past him to Joel. His face had recovered the same color it had before, but the wounds and scars would settle past him. Your eyes settled on his lips parted as he breathed deep and even.

You crossed the room quietly, your hand brushing over the edge of the bed as you made your way to Joel’s side, needing to see him up close, to confirm with your own eyes what Tommy had said. His chest rose and fell, slow but steady. The faint furrow between his brow had eased in sleep.

It loosened something in your chest, if only a little.

“How’s the fixing going?” you asked softly, not taking your eyes off Joel. “With Jackson, I mean.”

Tommy let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s… going good. Roof repairs, patching the wall on the south side. Got a couple of new folks stepping up too. But it’s not the same without you both around.”

You finally looked at him, brow drawn.

“You know,” he went on, his voice gentler now, “your help would be useful. It might even help you, being out there. With your hands busy. With people. Jackson still needs you. And so does he.”

His eyes flickered to Joel, then back to you.

And you felt it, that ache in your bones, that pull between needing to be right here and knowing the world kept moving outside these four walls, that grief didn’t wait for anyone to be ready.

“I don’t know if I can yet,” you admitted, voice small. “I feel like… if I leave this room, even for a minute, something might happen. I can’t— I don’t wanna miss it.”

Tommy gave you a soft, sad smile. “I get it. I do. But you aren’t going to disappear into this room to prove you love him. You already did the hard thing. You kept him here.”

You swallowed, blinking fast. You hated how constantly you were reminded of what you had done to kept him here.

He stood up then, resting a hand on your shoulder as he passed. “When you’re ready,” he murmured. “We’ll be waiting, alright?”

And then he slipped out, leaving you alone in the soft light and steady rhythm of Joel’s breathing.

You let out a trembling breath, pulling Joel’s hand into yours, and leaned down, pressing your forehead to the back of his knuckles.

“I’ll come back to the world soon,” you whispered. “Just not without you.”

The days bled together after that. Sleep came in snatches, food tasted like nothing, and the house still smelled like Joel. You’d started to force yourself to step outside, help with repairs, take walks around the perimeter of Jackson. Tommy was right. It didn’t fix anything, but it dulled the sharp edges of grief for a little while.

And Ellie… Ellie had finally come around.

It wasn’t easy for her either, carrying her own ghosts and regrets, the heaviness between them too tangled and fraught to name. But she’d shown up, a little bruised, one arm hugged around her middle where cracked ribs still ached.

You came back to the hospital late that afternoon, sun just beginning to dip, the sky streaked with orange and pale pink. The moment you stepped through the door; you could hear voices. Joel’s still hoarse, Ellie’s quieter than you remembered, both of them cautious but trying.

You made your way there, pausing by the door before they noticed you.

“—still think you should read that stupid comic,” Joel rasped, a ghost of a smile in his voice. “It isn’t as half as bad as you make it out to be.”

“I don’t know man,” Ellie shot back. “You say that now, but last time you fell asleep halfway through.”

“I was resting my eyes.”

“Yeah, sure.”

You felt your throat tighten, an ache blooming in your chest. It was such a small, ordinary thing, a normal conversation in a world that had been anything but. And it hit you how long it’d been since you’d heard them like this.

Joel caught sight of you then, his gaze softening. “Hey,” he murmured, reaching his hand out weakly toward you like instinct.

Ellie twisted in her chair, a sheepish look on her face like she’d been caught somewhere she shouldn’t be. “Hey… sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” you shook your head quickly, offering them both a smile that barely held. “No, I’m glad you’re here.”

Ellie’s lips twitched, and she gave Joel a small nudge. “Told you she wouldn’t be mad.”

Joel’s fingers brushed yours when you reached for his hand. “We were talking abou that comic we found back in those old days of us on the road.” he murmured; his voice still rough but warmer than it’d been in weeks. “It’s good, her being here.”

“I know,” you said, voice soft, squeezing his hand.

Ellie stood then, stretching with a grimace. “I should… get back. I promised Dina I wouldn’t be out too long. She says I need to take it slow.”

Joel’s expression flickered, something close to reluctant, but he just nodded. “Will you come back again?”

“Yeah,” she said, looking between the two of you. “I will.”

And with a last glance, she ducked out the door, leaving you in the quiet again, but this time, it didn’t feel quite so heavy.

That’s what you wanted to believe.

You pulled Joel’s hand to your chest, resting it over your heart. “She loves you; you know?”

Joel’s eyes closed, a tear slipping from the corner. “I’m not sure how I deserve it.”

You kissed the back of his hand. “None of us deserve half the things we get, Joel Miller.”

His brow furrowed faintly at your words, his rough thumb instinctively brushing over your skin, like he could soothe whatever storm had just crossed your mind.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice soft, fragile in a way you didn’t often hear from him.

But your gaze had already drifted, landing somewhere past him, past the room, past yourself. You smiled then, small, sad, a little tired, the kind of smile that felt like old wounds and memories too sharp to hold for long.

“Nothing,” you whispered, shaking your head like it could scatter the ache away. You squeezed his hand, brought it to your lips one more time, and didn’t let him ask again. Because you knew if you said it out loud, if you told him what you lost, what you gave up, what you carried so he wouldn’t have to, you might break apart in a way you couldn’t put back together.

And right now, he needed you whole. Or at least, what was left of you.

So, you just kept his hand pressed to your heart and murmured, “You just rest, Joel. I get you.”

Three days later, the room smelled clean, and old wood, the soft hum of life returning to a place that had been far too quiet for too long. Joel sat propped up in a chair by the window, the pale light of morning painting his face in soft golds and silvers. He still looked worn, the bruises faded to ugly yellows and greens, but his eyes were clearer now.

The exercises had started that morning.

Mara, a woman in her middle thirties just as you, one who’d lost her sister in the attack, had volunteered to help with Joel’s physical therapy. It wasn’t easy for her, you could see it in the tightness of her jaw and the flicker of grief in her gaze when their hands met, but she did it. Carefully, gently, guiding Joel’s arm through its slow range of motion, mindful of the broken ribs, the healing bullet wound in his leg.

Joel winced but didn’t complain, his jaw set, sweat beading at his hairline. Ellie sat on the floor nearby, legs crossed, making sarcastic remarks when she thought he needed distraction and staying silent when she could tell he didn’t.

Tommy leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his face unreadable but his presence steady as ever. Watching, like he always did. Taking care of his big brother, switching places this time.

And you, you’d given Gail another chance.

It hadn’t been easy, but you’d found her by the gates a couple days before, asking for a way to help. The bitterness between you hung in the air like smoke, but you let her through it. Because grief made ghosts out of people, and neither of you needed another enemy.

You were at her house. The air between you still felt heavy, like a storm waiting to break, but you’d come anyway. Because maybe you didn’t know how to tend some wounds you had on your soul.

Gail handed you a cup of coffee, her hands trembling just enough for you to notice. You took it in silence, standing by the window that looked out toward the mountains.

“How’s he doing?” she asked after a while, her voice rough, like it hurt to say the words.

You didn’t look at her, kept your eyes on the way the snow clung to the branches outside. “He is trying. Still hurts like hell. Can’t move much on his own yet. But he is fighting.” You took a slow sip of the bitter coffee. “Ellie had come. They talked. First real conversation since it happened.”

“And you?” She asked, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m glad he is fine.” You replied, no meeting her eyes.

Gail was quiet for a moment, the silence between you thick and aching. The wind outside rattled against the windowpane, a ghost of a sound in the quiet room.

“I don’t think he could,” she said softly, like she was testing the words, seeing if they sounded true spoken out loud. “A man doesn’t fight his way back from the death like that for someone he hates.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight, your eyes still locked on the white-dusted branches swaying in the wind. “He didn’t. I was the one who…” you murmured. “What I did. What I… what I gave up.”

At that, you finally turned your head, your gaze meeting hers. There was no malice there now, just an old, worn kind of sadness you both carried like extra weight. She gave you a small, sad smile, and you felt something loosen in your chest — not forgiveness, not yet, but something close to it.

“I was afraid, you know,” you admitted quietly, voice trembling. “Still am. That when he looks at me, he’ll see what I cost him.”

“Maybe,” Gail said, taking a sip from her cup, her eyes never leaving yours. “Or maybe he’ll just see the woman who sat at his bedside every night. The one who wouldn’t let go.”

“Do you think he could come to resent me?” you asked her, meeting her gaze.

Gail let out a long breath, setting her cup down with a soft clink on the table. She rubbed her hands together like she was trying to find the right words, or maybe the courage to say them.

“I have no answer for that.” she admitted, honest in a way that stung. “People carry and react to things in different ways. Joel…He might be angry he doesn’t have the control on his hands. He might be hurt. He might not even know how to feel about it yet.”

You felt your stomach twist, a sick kind of dread curling low in your gut.

“But,” she continued, leaning forward a little, her voice softer, steadier, “I don’t think he’ll resent you for saving his life. For loving him enough to do whatever it took. I think… deep down, he’ll understand. You burn for them. You bleed for them. And I don’t think he is stranger to that kind of love.”

You bit your lip, your eyes stinging as you looked down at your cup. “I just… I don’t wanna be another scar on him.”

Gail gave a small, sad smile. “But you already are. But that’s no the same as a wound”

You sat there a moment, her words settling in your chest like a stone and a balm all at once.

“Do you still resent him for what he did to Eugene?”

“I will always despise him for it,” Gail said again, her voice steady, like she’d made peace with her anger. “But I’ll accept that you don’t deserve to lose him because of what I feel. I loved Eugene. You love Joel too. And that kind of love, well. Loving is tragic sometimes.”

Your throat felt tight. You swallowed hard, not trusting your voice right away.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you whispered.

Gail gave a sad little smile. “None of us did. We just get what’s left after the world takes what it wants.”

For a long moment, you both just sat there, two women bound by grief and blood and the ache of what couldn’t be undone.

“I had a miscarriage,” you confessed, like if you didn’t say it out loud it might not be entirely real. “The night we brought Joel back. Only Tommy and Maria know.”

Gail set her cup down with a shaking hand, leaning her elbows onto her knees, staring at the floor. “Jesus,” she whispered. “Why didn’t you—?”

“Because I couldn’t,” you breathed, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. “I couldn’t deal with losing him and… and that baby. I didn’t even tell Joel. I just… shoved it down. Buried it under everything else. Because he needed me. Ellie needed me. There wasn’t room for me to fall apart.”

The room was silent, save for the ticking of the old clock on the wall. Then, softly, Gail spoke, voice rough as gravel. “I’m sorry.”

You shrugged, wiping a tear off your cheek. “It’s just one more thing, right? One more grave I’ll carry around in my chest.”

“No,” she said, and this time there was steel under it. “It’s not just one more thing. It matters.”

You looked at her, and for the first time in what felt like forever, there was no anger in her gaze. Just a tired, broken woman who understood what it meant to lose pieces of yourself you’d never get back.

“Don’t tell this to anyone,” you said, standing up, your voice steady even though your chest felt like it might cave in.

Gail didn’t argue. Didn’t make promises she couldn’t keep. She just nodded, solemn, the lines around her eyes deepening as she looked up at you.

“I won’t,” she murmured. “It’s not my place.”

You gave a tight nod, setting the empty cup down on the table. The room suddenly felt too small, the walls too close, so you crossed to the door, your hand hovering on the knob for a second.

“You ever need to… you know where to find me,” Gail said, her voice softer now, almost gentle.

You didn’t answer. Just gave a faint, weary smile over your shoulder and left, stepping out into the cold evening air. The chill hit you like a wall, but it was easier to breathe out here. Easier to feel like the world was still turning.

When you made it back to the infirmary, the late afternoon light was slipping through the blinds in thin, tired lines. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and old paper, and there was the soft shuffle of movement, the faint sound of labored breathing.

Joel was gripping Mara’s hand, his knuckles pale as she helped him ease through another stretch, working his upper body with a focus that made your throat tighten. His face was drawn tight with effort, sweat beading along his temple, but his jaw was set, and his eyes, those goddamn eyes, burned with stubborn, quiet determination.

“You’re doing good,” Mara was murmuring, steady and calm. “One more. You got it, Joel.”

He let out a ragged breath, brow furrowed, and pushed through it. And you felt something twist in your chest. Because even after everything, even when his body betrayed him, Joel Miller still didn’t know how to quit.

You stepped inside quietly, but his gaze found you anyway. Those storm-grey eyes flickered to you, and for a moment, his hand almost faltered.

You forced a smile, crossing the room and settling on the other side of the bed. You reached out, your fingers brushing over the back of his wrist where his pulse thudded wildly.

“Look at you,” you said softly, voice thick. “You’re doing good.”

And it hit you like a blow to the ribs, not the pain of a wound, but something heavier, deeper. The kind of ache that settled behind your sternum and made your hands feel too empty, your throat too tight.

Because in that flicker of a look, no warmth, no smile, no spark of that easy, familiar ache you knew so well, you saw it. The doubt. The distance. The quiet, gnawing thing you’d been terrified of since the night you dragged him back, half-dead, bleeding out in the snow.

And maybe it wasn’t resentment. Maybe it wasn’t hate. But it was something. Something colder.

You forced your smile to stay, even though it felt brittle as glass. Let your thumb drag along his wrist, feeling his pulse there like a frantic little drum, as if it mattered. As if you could hold him to this world by sheer will alone.

“You’re almost through it,” you whispered, and your voice cracked on the last word. “I told you I wasn’t gonna let you go.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you a moment longer, something unreadable passing through those tired, storm-dark eyes before he dropped his gaze back to his lap, letting Mara guide his arm down carefully.

You swallowed hard and stood, backing toward the door.

“I’ll… I’ll come back later,” you managed, already hating yourself for the way your voice shook.

And before either of them could say anything else, you slipped out into the hallway. Pressed your back to the cold wall and closed your eyes, because you didn’t want to cry here. Not where someone might see.

But Tommy noticed.

Ellie too.

Perhaps this was the beginning of the aftermath you didn’t want to face.

Tommy’s footsteps were quiet but deliberate as he came to stand beside you. Without a word, he leaned his shoulder against the wall, close enough that you could feel the steady weight of his presence.

“He is…It has been a difficult day for him” he said.

You nodded slowly; your breath still uneven. “I see it in his eyes. Like he’s somewhere far away, and maybe… maybe resenting being here.”

Tommy’s gaze was steady, his voice low and rough. “He’s scared. Not just about his body. About what’s left of him, who he is now. It’s a hell of a thing, knowing you survived but feel like a ghost.”

“You had tried to keep it hidden, the blood seeping through your shirt from a wound you got during a scuffle with some smugglers. You thought you were careful, but Joel had that sixth sense, the one that made it impossible to hide anything from him.

That evening, you’d been sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to clean the cut with water, heart pounding from the pain and the fear of being discovered. You heard footsteps before you saw him.

Joel crouched down beside you, eyes narrowing as he took in the dark stain spreading across your shirt. “Are you trying to hide that from me?” His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of concern and frustration all at once.

You shook your head, forcing a weak smile. “Didn’t want to worry you.”

He grabbed your hand gently, pulling you up. “You don’t have to do that.”

You looked away, feeling the sting of tears, not just from the wound, but from the raw truth in his words. That night, he stayed with you, helping patch up the wound, silently promising to watch over you no matter what.

That was the moment you knew Joel was never going to let you face the world alone.

That was the moment you realized you loved him.”

The next morning, sunlight filtered softly through the hospital room blinds, casting pale stripes across the worn floor. You stirred awake, your body aching from hours spent curled up in the hard chair beside Joel’s bed. Your eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, everything felt still, until you caught his gaze.

Joel was watching you, eyes sharp and clear, a faint crease of both worry and irritation etched across his brow.

“You should stop sleeping on that chair,” he said, voice low but edged with annoyance. “I’m alive. Just like you wanted.”

There was a pause, a soft breath between you. His words were blunt, but beneath them, you heard something softer, relief, and maybe even a hint of gratitude.

You managed a tired smile, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “I just want to make sure you’re still here.”

Joel’s eyes softened for a fleeting second, the weight of his pain briefly giving way to something gentler. He squeezed your hand back, his grip still weak but steady.

“You worry too much,” he muttered, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You shifted in the chair, trying to find a more comfortable position but mostly just staring at him. “I can’t help it,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m afraid I’ll wake up and you won’t be here.”

He looked away, jaw tightening. “I’m stubborn. You should’ve known that by now.”

You were about to say something when Mara appeared quietly in the doorway, clipboard in hand and a reassuring smile on her face.

“Good morning, Joel. Ready to get started?” she asked gently.

Joel glanced at you, then back at Mara, a mix of relief and determination flickering in his eyes. You squeezed his hand once more before standing up.

“I’ll be just outside if you need me,” you said softly, stepping back to give them space.

Joel nodded, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer.

“You can stay.”

“I... okay,” you said quietly, moving to pull up a chair beside the bed.

Joel shifted slightly, the effort causing a faint wince, but his eyes held steady on you.

“Don’t make it a habit,” he warned, voice rough but teasing.

You smiled softly, squeezing his hand.

The days blurred together after that. Snowfall, dim afternoons, the creak of old wood floors, the sharp scent of antiseptic in every room. Joel was healing, slowly, stubbornly, as everyone expected he would.

He was soft with Ellie. She came by every other day now, bringing comics or talking about new skills she was learning with Dina. Joel would ruffle her hair, tease her about how much taller she’d gotten. There was a warmth in his voice when he spoke to her, something aching and tender you remembered so clearly from before.

He was patient with Tommy too, with his brother’s worry, with the way Tommy hovered and cracked bad jokes to fill the silence. And with Mara, the doctor helping on his rehab, Joel offered polite thank-yous and that old, quiet grit of his, never complaining even when the pain was plain in his face.

But with you… now it was different.

It was in the way his eyes slid past yours when you walked into the room. The way his voice turned clipped and careful when you spoke. The way his hands, once so instinctively reaching for you in sleep or conversation, now stayed neatly folded in his lap.

He wasn’t cruel. Joel Miller never was. But there was a distance. A wall he had lifted. And it hurt worse than anything you could’ve braced for.

It was in the little things too, like when Ellie asked about that old guitar Joel kept at your house, and he just said, "I’ll get it sometime," like it wasn’t something that had once lived between your lives like a promise.

Or when Tommy cracked a joke about you two being thick as thieves again once Joel was back on his feet, and Joel’s answering smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You kept showing up. Because you had to. Because you loved him.

But every day it got harder. And it felt like you were both pretending not to feel it.

It started with Joel’s nightmares and how he neglected the comfort you offered.

The first time, you woke to the sound of his ragged breathing, a low, broken sound like a wounded animal caught in its last fight. His hand clutched the blanket, face contorted in some terrible, unseen memory.

You reached for him without thinking, murmuring his name, fingers brushing his damp hair from his brow.

But he jerked away. With force enough to freeze your hand mid-air, enough to make the ache bloom in your chest like something sour.

“I’m fine,” he’d muttered, eyes still glassy, staring anywhere but at you. And when you tried again, when you offered a whispered "Hey, it’s just me," Joel had turned his face to the wall.

Night after night it was the same.

You’d stay when Tommy or Ellie left. You’d sit in that chair by his bed, or sometimes at the window, and when his sleep turned restless, you’d rise and cross the room.

And every time — every goddamn time — he brushed you off.

"Go home."

"Don’t need you watching me."

A warning flicker in those tired eyes that begged you not to push.

But you did. Because you couldn’t not.

And that was when it started to fray, that quiet war between wanting to be what he needed and realizing he wouldn’t let you anymore.

Ellie could hold his hand. Tommy could steady him through the worst of the spasms when the pain gripped his leg. Even Mara could coax a ragged laugh from him when he managed to hold something strongly.

But you…You were the one thing he refused.

And it broke something in you. Little by little, day after day.

Because you knew the ache in his eyes wasn’t anger.

It wasn’t even disappointment.

It was grief and resentment.

And every time you looked at him, you were a reminder of all the ways he’d nearly slipped away.

Of all the things unsaid.

And that maybe… just maybe… you saving him had cost you both more than you realized.

You were kneeling beside him, one hand steadying his wrist while the other guided the small rubber ball he was supposed to squeeze, a simple exercise, but every movement made his jaw clench, sweat prick at his hairline.

The ball slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a soft thud and rolling toward the edge of the room.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, voice low, tight with frustration.

“I got it,” you said quickly, already moving, reaching for it before it could roll too far.

But something in the way you said it, too fast, too practiced, like you’d spent weeks catching the things he dropped, making it easier for him to avoid asking, made him still.

When you straightened, ball in hand, you caught the flicker in his eyes. There was irritation.

“You don’t have to… you know,” Joel rasped, his voice rough around the edges, “keep picking up after me like I’m… like I can’t do it.”

Your breath caught.

“I’m not,” you said, even though you both knew you were.

He let out a slow breath, his hand flexing open and closed like the weight of it was more than just his busted bones. “Stop pitying me.”

Your hand tightened around the ball, heart stumbling in your chest at the edge in his voice.

“I’m not pitying you, Joel,” you said quietly, the words rough like gravel. “I’m here because I love you. Because you matter to me, not because I feel sorry for you.”

His jaw worked, a muscle ticking there. He looked away, and for a second you thought maybe it would stop there, like all the other half-finished conversations the two of you had let die in the quiet. But it didn’t.

“Bullshit,” Joel muttered, shaking his head, his fingers flexing uselessly. “You don’t understand what it’s like.”

“Then help me understand,” you bit back, voice trembling. “Stop shutting me out.”

His eyes snapped up to yours, and there was something raw in them, grief, anger, shame, it bled out in every word.

“I can’t even… I can’t manage to make love to you anymore,” he ground out, like it physically hurt to admit it. “I can’t touch you without feeling like a goddamn shell of who I was. And you sitting there, looking at me like I’m still him… it’s killing me.”

The words knocked the air out of your lungs. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The room felt too small, too bright, too heavy with things that’d been left unsaid for too long.

“I never asked you to be who you were,” you managed, your voice breaking. “I just wanted you. All of you.”

Joel’s face crumpled, his hands gripping the edge of the chair like he might tear the damn thing apart.

“You deserve better than this,” he whispered.

“I don’t want better,” you shot back, voice sharp, trembling. “I want you.”

For a long second, all you could hear was the ragged rise and fall of his breathing, the distance between you still there, but cracked now, fissured with something desperate and bleeding and real.

“I should have died.” He said, “And you brought me back because you’re selfish.”

The words hit like a fist to the chest.

Your breath stuttered, eyes burning as they locked on his. There was no venom in his voice, just raw, bone-deep hurt, the kind of grief that twisted a man up from the inside out.

And still, it felt like a knife.

“I brought you back because I love you,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Because losing you would’ve killed me too. And I didn’t—I couldn’t let that happen.”

Joel shook his head, his jaw tight, eyes glassy but refusing to fall. “You should’ve. You should’ve let me go.”

“No,” you said, the word sharp and final, your throat tight and aching. “I will never be sorry for saving you. Never. You can hate me for it, Joel, you can push me away, but I’ll carry that. Because I still wake up every day and thank whoever’s out there that you’re still breathing.”

His face twisted, pain and anger and love and loss all tangled in a single shattered look. “You don’t know what it feels like,” he rasped. “To be stuck in this… this broken thing that ain’t even a man anymore. To see you looking for a man who is not here.”

Your heart felt like it was splintering clean in half. You crossed the room slowly, not touching him yet, not forcing it, but close enough that he couldn’t avoid your voice.

“I’m not looking for the man you used to be, Joel,” you said, quietly, steadily. “I’m in love with the man right in front of me.”

For a moment, he looked like he might come apart entirely, like those words knocked something loose inside him he didn’t know how to hold anymore.

“I’m so goddamn tired,” he whispered, a crack in his voice you hadn’t heard since the outbreak years. “What you did to keep me here… you shouldn’t have done it.”

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t look away. Couldn’t. “You would have done the same for me, Joel,” you said, steady, though your voice wavered on the edges. “As you did for Ellie. At Salt Lake. When you lost it because you thought we were losing her.”

You watched something shutter behind his eyes. A flicker of the man you knew, of the truth that hung thick and sharp between you , and then he killed it. Buried it like he’d buried so many other parts of himself.

“No,” Joel said, low and cold and cruel in a way that wasn’t real, in a way he needed to be. “I wouldn’t have done that for you.”

It was a lie. A brutal, deliberate lie.

And you felt it, the way it landed like a blow to the gut, the way it cracked something open in your chest.

But you also saw it. The flicker of guilt in his eyes, the strain in his jaw, the way his hand trembled against the sheets.

You knew him like the palm of your hand.

He was trying to hurt you. Trying to drive you away.

Because Joel Miller knew one way to survive grief, and it was to cut the people you loved out before you lost them.

He didn’t say it, but you knew. He’d seen how tired you looked every day. How you barely slept, barely ate, how the light in your eyes had started to dim.

He saw you breaking under the weight of loving a man who wouldn’t let himself be loved.

So, he tried to kill it. Tried to make you hate him enough to leave. Because maybe if you hated him, you wouldn’t hurt so goddamn much when the world took him from you for good.

You swallowed, throat raw, the ache in your chest a steady, dull throb. But you didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Instead, you leaned in just enough for him to hear you, your voice rough, scraped clean down to the bone.

“Don’t lie to me, Joel.”

He looked away then, eyes shining with something he’d never let fall. His jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break, then his voice came, low, rough, without looking at you.

“I don’t even know if I still love you.”

It landed like a punch. Like a knife between the ribs.

Your breath caught, the room tilting for a second under the weight of it. Your fingers clenched around your own skin, nails biting into the flesh as the words echoed through you.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

And then Tommy’s voice broke the quiet, stepping into the doorway behind you.

“Hey— What’s going on in here?”

You didn’t turn around. But Joel did. And when his eyes lifted, he saw it.

The tears. Silent and steady, tracing down your cheeks like they’d been waiting for an excuse.

For a final cut.

And for the first time in days, something cracked in him. Something he couldn’t lie to anymore.

But it was too late.

You didn’t give Tommy an answer. Didn’t spare Joel another word.

You just turned, walked out, your shoulders squared, your face wet, leaving both of them in that heavy, suffocating room.

Joel’s eyes stayed locked on the empty space you’d just left; regret was written all over his face.

Tommy watched him for a long moment, then spoke quietly, “You can’t let it end like this.” He pleaded his brother.

But Joel only shook his head, the weight of his own bitterness crushing him. “It’s already broken.”

Outside, the night pressed against the windows like a warning, and somewhere beyond, a threat was waiting, ready to drag them all deeper into the darkness.

tags 💌: If you want to be removed or you're not interested in the story anymore, please tell me so I can remove you. :)

@heartpatch @jasminedragoon @picketniffler @grayandthyme @ccmoonshine

@theoraekenslover @stcrrjoon @stupidthoughtsinwriting @officialjellydoughnut @dshc99 @eleganthottubfun @mystickittytaco @fvispunk @daydreamzsworld @comicccc

@nosebeers @whirlwindrider29 @person-005 @bunnyofribbon

@ainhoetaaa @missladym1981 @keileighr @callofdiva @pinkcabinet

@tomie-it-girl @shadowpheonix @unknownomgg @22thumbs

@vanishintoyoubby @sarahhxx03 @chick66i

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jasminedragoon · 19 days ago

Text

I CANT BELIEVE ITS OVERRRRR!!! THE THERAPY SCENE WAS FANTASTIC!!! I WAS FLABBERGASTED! AMAZED! SHOCKED AND AWED! THE ENDING I WANTED BUT ALSO DIDNT EXPECT??? THE SMUT WAS ABSOLUTELY SCRUMPTIOUS, IMMACULATE, BITCH I CAME 10 TIMES NO PHYSICAL TOUCH! CONGRATULATIONS ON BEING AN EXTRAORDINARY WRITER

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

“So, you’re back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Understatement of the century,” Tommy mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

Tess nods, encouraging.

“We’ve been a good team, I think.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckles under his breath, eyes down.

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

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

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

Tommy looks between you and Joel, slow.

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

You let out a dry laugh and look to Tess.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Um,”

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

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

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

You exhale slowly, eyes shifting to Tess.

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

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

“I told her to leave him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Joel—”

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

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

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

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

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

You inhale together, slowly.

Deep breath in.

Hold, hold, and exhale all the way out.

Another.

And another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your voice wavers as you begin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A long pause.

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

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

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

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

He glances at you, something flickering behind his eyes.

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

The room quiets.

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

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

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

He turns to Joel first.

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

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

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

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

His eyes drop to his lap.

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

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

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

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

You squeeze his hand, nodding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nods once, thoughtful.

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

Her smile is gentle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hug holds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tommy nods. “Eight sharp.”

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

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

Tommy nods back. “Yeah. See you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re right.”

And that’s it.

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

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

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

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

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

“Mornin’.”

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

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

“Let me take him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You peek in.

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

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

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

Joel grins. “Tough crowd.”

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

Eventually he glances up and spots you there.

“Hey,” he says.

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

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

Your feet still halfway across the rug.

It hangs in the air, the word daddy.

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

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

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

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

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

Is it normal for a baby to have two dads?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then your cheek.

And then, gently, he kisses your lips.

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

You let it happen, you even lean into it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Tommy pulls back a little.

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

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

You pause, breath shallow in your throat.

“…What?” you whisper, “You okay?”

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

He doesn’t finish.

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

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

You pull the blanket tighter around yourself and say nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s good.”

“Mm.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve been seein’ Maria.”

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

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

The room goes still.

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

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

“Okay,” you say slowly.

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

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

He shrugs, jaw tight. “Made time.”

You blink at him. The room feels smaller.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You take a breath. “How long?”

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

“A few months.”

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

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

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

“I want a divorce, Tommy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next morning, you wake with a jolt.

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

But the crib is empty.

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

Empty.

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

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

You hear him singing.

“If I ever were to lose you…”

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

“...I’d surely lose myself,”

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

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

You stare and stare and stare at the monitor screen.

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

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

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

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

But you know that’s not the truth.

Not the whole truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because he never made you guess where his heart was.

He gave you everything without needing to be asked.

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

Joel made it about you. Always you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hears your steps immediately.

“Hey,” he says, glancing up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He what now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that seems like it’s enough for him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You still sure?” he asks, voice low.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then finally, his mouth finds you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he makes you.

Again.

And again.

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

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

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

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

“At least twenty minutes.”

“Perfect.”

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

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

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

“I love you, Joel.”

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

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

“You’re so pretty,” you murmur.

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

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

“I’m serious,” you say, smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Say it again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joel, I—fuck, I can’t—”

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

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

He doesn't stop.

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

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

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

“Joel—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joel—please—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look at me,” he whispers.

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

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

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

“Say it again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you’re gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you breathe. “Perfect.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's going to be okay.

6 Months Later

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then your eyes catch on something across the yard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s messy, but it's family.

And family matters.

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

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

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

I love you. I'm eternally grateful.

love, may x

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

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jasminedragoon · 22 days ago

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Get to know your mutuals game!

Answer the questions then tag 5 people!

Favorite color: purple

Last song: Take my Love and Run by Bad Suns

Currently reading: so many fanfics, and rereading my manuscript to publish my book

Currently watching: The Office *25 re-watch

Currently craving: 12 ounce steak, medium rare, tallow butter, aviation cocktail, 12 oysters to start from Prince Edward Island

Coffee or tea: depends on if I work or not. Tea at home, Coffee at work.

Tags if you want! @myownwholewildworld @mermaidgirl30 @entitled-fangirl

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jasminedragoon · 23 days ago

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¿Por qué? ¿POR QUÉÉÉÉ? I AM SO HEARTBROKEN BUT SO EXCITED FOR THEM TO FALL IN LOVEEE AHHHH WHEN HE HELPED HER WHEN SHE FREAKED OUT OVER THE LOCKET COMING OFF! MY HEART FLUTTERED

— A haunted body, part three: "You and me, for evermore" ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (jackson!joel x f!reader)

fic masterlist | ao3 | capuccinodollupdates | previous chapter | next chapter

— Chapter summary: You show up at the office the day after the argument with Joel. And he doesn’t seem all that surprised to see you. But the morning stretches on, and something makes him soften. wc: 7k

A/N: This one’s a short one (by comparison lol). I know you love a slow burn, babies, but get ready for what’s coming after this. Don't forget to let me know your opinion in the comments, it helps me a lot! <3 (TAG LIST OPEN) (also, if you asked me to tag u but I didn't, please dm me to let me know!)

Jackson. The next morning.

The door was already open when you reached the office. A low hum filled the building, muffled voices drifting in from the hallway, boots moving across wooden floors, someone laughing, distantly. It was barely eight, and the morning light came in gray and pale through the windows, casting long stripes across the floor.

Inside, Joel and Tommy were mid-conversation. They didn’t look up right away. Joel was leaning against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, his voice low and vaguely irritated. Tommy stood opposite him, nodding, a hand resting casually on his hip.

“Good morning,” you said, careful not to interrupt too loudly, a soft smile tugging at your mouth more out of habit than anything else.

Tommy turned toward you almost immediately, his face lighting up a little.

“Morning, Snow.”

You didn’t need to meet Joel’s eyes to know he was already watching you. You could feel it—sharp, unwavering. When you glanced up, briefly, it was confirmed: his gaze didn’t falter until you’d crossed the room and sat down at your desk. There was no frown on his face, no outward show of irritation, but something about the set of his jaw and the quiet intensity in his eyes felt unmistakably like resentment—or maybe something harder.

You slipped your coat off and draped it over the back of your chair. The conversation between the brothers continued, unbroken. Joel’s tone was clipped now, gruff and practical, laced with annoyance.

“We don’t have the time,” he was saying, gesturing vaguely. “Not for this many new people. We’re stretched thin already.”

Tommy pushed back, calmly. “Give it a week, maybe two. We’ve got extra help this month. You know that.”

Joel didn’t respond right away. He moved instead, slowly rising from his seat, shoulders tight, as he reached for his coat on the rack by the door.

“Extra help don’t mean much when we don’t have what we need to work with,” he muttered. Then he glanced over at Tommy again, his voice sharper this time. “And I only got two eyes. Can’t watch every volunteer out there.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “You’re not alone. Hugh’s been running things fine. Erin too.”

“I need you,” Joel said simply, not looking at him now, already halfway out the door.

Tommy started to reply—mouth opening like he had something ready to fire back—but then he caught himself, turned, and looked at you instead.

“Well?” he asked, jerking his chin in the direction of the hallway where Joel had disappeared. “You coming?”

You looked down at your desk. Your notebook was still open from yesterday, pen lying neatly across the top like you’d placed it with intention. You hadn’t.

“Yeah,” you said, standing too quickly, like your body made the decision before your mind did. “Sure.”

You reached for your coat again, the fabric still warm from your shoulders, and followed after them.

Joel and Tommy walked a few paces ahead of you, their voices rising and falling in a easy rhythm. For the first few minutes, the conversation had nothing to do with logistics or town patrols or anything remotely official. It hovered instead around Ellie—something about the last patrol she’d done with Tommy, some inside joke you didn’t understand. Joel laughed at one point. The sound startled you.

It made you pause. Not because it was loud or strange, but because it was his, and you'd never heard it before. Or maybe you had, and just hadn’t recognized it in the context of him. Either way, it caught you.

They kept talking about her for a bit, and without meaning to, a small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

Ellie reminded you of someone. Not in the obvious way, not even in the way she looked, but in something less tangible. A certain way she tilted her head when she was curious. The quick, bright movement of her hands. The shape of her smile, sometimes.

Sophie.

The name bloomed uninvited in your mind, like something delicate pressed between two pages that you’d accidentally reopened. There was always a moment before the ache, like a kind of stillness. And then the weight came in.

You imagined her here. Just for a second. It was almost easy. Would she have liked Jackson? Probably. There was a kind of gentle chaos to this place, gardens growing out of cracked pavement, communal meals under mismatched string lights, children running barefoot past makeshift fences. She would’ve adored the movies, you thought. Would’ve insisted on watching them all, even the terrible ones. She’d probably cover her walls with magazine clippings, tape up torn pages with curling edges, photos of a life she never got to live but dreamed of anyway.

She used to ask you what it had been like—before. Before everything collapsed, before the silence replaced the noise. And you told her what you could, painted pictures from scraps of memory: half-remembered commercials, scenes from movies, the smell of bookstores, the thrill of being unnoticed in a crowd. But there was always a gap. You were still young when it all fell apart. Most of what you remembered came from watching the adults around you, catching glimpses of the world through them like reflections in glass.

Still, she listened. Eyes wide, heart open. She had her mother’s eyes, her father’s smile. A perfect blend of Frances and Gabriel, as if Sophie had been the last gift they were able to give you. Even on the final night of their lives, they handed her to you like something delicate, something worth fighting for.

Sometimes she curled beside you while you spoke, her head resting lightly against your shoulder. Other nights she was quieter, just lying next to you, both of you suspended in that unspoken comfort that didn’t need explaining.

A familiar pressure built in your chest. Your nose tingled, and your eyes blurred just slightly with tears that didn’t fall. You raised a hand to your throat, brushing your fingers over the chain around your neck. The heart-shaped charm was cool against your skin, a weight that grounded you.

You’d kept it hidden for so long—tucked inside a soft pouch at the bottom of your backpack, sealed like something sacred. But here, in Jackson, you’d let yourself wear it again. And somehow, that felt like its own kind of healing. A quiet signal to yourself: you were safe.

You swallowed, the movement catching in your throat, and looked up just as Tommy said your name. His voice cut clean through the fog of your thoughts. He smiled as he said goodbye, promised to swing by the school later, said something lighthearted that didn’t quite land. Joel answered for you. You didn’t say anything.

When Tommy walked away, you and Joel kept moving, side by side. The space between you felt intentional. Neither of you said a word. Your eyes were fixed on the ground, your boots leaving marks. Your mind, however, was elsewhere. Still clinging to the warmth of memories you didn’t want to let go of.

“I told you not to come today,” Joel said eventually. His voice broke the silence without warning.

You didn’t turn to face him. “You said you talked to Tommy about it too,” you replied. “But he didn’t seem to know anything.”

He exhaled, a heavy, exasperated sound. You glanced over just in time to catch the tension in his expression, the way his brow pulled in like the beginnings of a headache.

“You lied,” you said, watching his profile. “But I knew it was a lie when you said it.”

Joel stopped walking. It was abrupt, enough to make you pause just a step ahead. You turned to face him. He rubbed a hand over his forehead like he could press the exhaustion away. When his eyes met yours, you noticed the wear in them. Not the usual sharpness, but something dulled by too many nights without sleep.

“Do me a favor,” he said, his voice quieter now. “If you’re gonna follow me around all day, at least do it quietly.”

You blinked. “You don’t want me to talk to you?”

A humorless smile touched his mouth. “Glad we’re on the same page,” he said, and turned back down the path.

You stood there for a second, watching his back. And then you moved again, faster this time to catch up with him, the air colder now than it had been a minute ago. You reached out without thinking and caught his arm, your fingers tightening on the sleeve of his coat, firm enough to make him stop.

He turned, surprised but not startled. Just looked at you.

“You didn’t answer me last night,” you said. Your hand was still on his arm. You didn’t pull it away. “What have I done to you? I’m serious, Joel.”

Your voice wasn’t angry. And he didn’t look away, but he didn’t answer either. You waited anyway.

You glanced around instinctively, aware of the weight of eyes that weren’t yours. A few people passed by, casting glances in your direction, subtle but unmistakable. You realized how this might look—your hand clutching his arm, the space between your bodies sharp with tension—and let go. Your fingers left his coat reluctantly, as if your body had moved before your mind was ready.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” you asked, this time quieter.

Joel didn’t speak at first. He looked away, somewhere over your shoulder, like he could pretend not to be part of this conversation. But then his eyes came back to yours.

“There’s nothing to say,” he said, flatly. “You don’t listen. Not once since you got here. I asked you to stay out of it. You went to my house. I told you again, and then you walked into the office with Tommy like none of it mattered.”

“That’s not what I asked,” you said.

He frowned, annoyed or tired. “Then I don’t know what else you want from me.”

You let out a short laugh that didn’t sound anything like amusement.

“You act like a man in crisis,” you said. “Trying way too hard to scare me off with this whole dangerous, cold thing you’ve got going on—”

“Careful.”

You stepped closer. “Or what, Joel? You gonna lay your hands on me again?”

The words settled heavily in the space. His face shifted, his eyebrows relaxing, the hardness in his jaw giving way to something else.

“No,” he said, quiet but steady. “That was wrong. I know that.”

You waited. He didn’t move.

“But don’t talk to me like that again,” he added. “You don’t get to.”

You tilted your head, studying him like you were seeing something he didn’t mean to show.

“You didn’t scare me last night,” you said. “And I think you hated that.”

“Wrong.”

“Am I?”

He sighed, long and quiet, and looked at you for what felt like a full second too long.

“If someone lays a hand on you,” he said finally, “you don’t push them again. You don’t keep standing there like you’re asking for more. You get out. That’s how you survive.”

“And you think I don’t know that?”

“I think you forget. You think the men out there are different? Or the ones in here? You think all of them stop when you ask?”

You shook your head. “I'm not stupid.”

“Didn't say you were. But you’ve got a smart mouth,” Joel said, his voice like flint striking against stone. “And all that’s going to get you is hurt. It’s really that simple.”

He lifted his hand, pointing a finger at you. It hovered in the air, but he didn’t touch you.

“You saved me once, Joel. Doesn’t mean you’ve been promoted to life coach.”

He exhaled through his nose and looked down, shaking his head like he’d heard this before, like it wasn’t the answer he wanted.

“I can read a situation. I can measure risk. I’ve done it my entire life,” you said. “I spent years out there on my own. No patrols. No fences. I know what danger looks like, I know how to move through it. And last night—last night wasn’t danger.”

Joel glanced up at you, his expression unreadable. You kept going.

“I wasn’t facing just any man out there,” you said. “I was talking to you. And you didn’t hurt me. You didn’t even—”

“It’s not wise to trust—”

“But if you ever lay a hand on me again,” you interrupted, stepping forward, pressing your index finger to the center of his chest, right over his sternum, “I’ll break every one of your fingers. One by one.”

He didn’t move. Not at first. His eyebrows lifted slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. His gaze stayed fixed on your face, and then, just there—at the corner of his mouth—a flicker of something unmistakable. A smirk.

A fucking smirk.

“Right. Well,” He stepped back, adjusting the collar of his coat. "That's an appealing idea."

You didn’t move right away. You just watched him, studied him like he might disappear if you looked away.

When he noticed your hesitation, he gestured with his hand.

"So? We've got work to do. Let's go."

You turned and started walking ahead of him, your footsteps measured, the silence between you now pulsing.

What a prick.

Jackson School. An hour later.

Joel reached for the ladder leaning against the pale brick wall just below the second-floor window. His hand wrapped around the wood rung, steadying it. Up above, Jerry sat awkwardly on the windowsill, half-inside, half-out, adjusting the freshly painted green and white sign.

“Watch your footing on the way down,” Joel said, glancing up. “The step’s not holding like it should.”

You were close enough to hear him but far enough to pretend you hadn’t. Sitting cross-legged in a flimsy plastic chair by the entrance, your notebook balanced across your thighs, pen moving in slow arcs as you traced aimless lines—shapes that meant nothing. You didn’t look up.

The place was quiet. You had arrived earlier and taken your time walking around the building, noting what had been finished and what still needed work: the shine of varnished doors, the scent of sawdust clinging faintly to the air, the roof tiles that didn’t sit quite right. Spring had brought a thin sunlight that warmed the walls and made everything feel momentarily possible. It was the right time to tend to the things winter had delayed; uncooperative windows, water spots on ceilings, the minor but persistent problems no one bothered with until the world thawed.

Joel hadn’t spoken much to you. Only when necessary. Simple things, instructions, observations. No small talk, no tension either—just this maddening neutrality. And that irritated you in a way that was hard to explain. Not because he was cold. Not because he was dismissive. But because his silence didn’t seem charged with anything. Not anger, not resentment. Not even curiosity.

A damn smirk. A flicker at the corner of his mouth. It stuck with you, like a thorn.

You found yourself wondering what it meant. Was he amused by you? Did he think you were joking? Or worse, did he believe you entirely, and still think it was funny?

He should believe you. Of all people, he should know better than to underestimate someone. You’d broken fingers before. Wrists. Even hands.

Gabriel had taught you. Both you and Frances. Back when the three of you were still orbiting the same collapsing sun. He believed in preparedness. In strategy. In the precise pressure points of the human body. You hadn’t forgotten any of it.

Eventually, just as promised, Tommy arrived. He and Joel exchanged a few words with Erin, who was stationed near the entry and had been organizing the school schedule all morning. She sometimes worked up in the tower too, helping coordinate patrol rotations when things got tense.

Erin was a kind woman—unmistakably so—but not in a way that made her seem soft. She looked like someone who had long ago decided there were more important things than being liked. She was probably in her early fifties, with a wiry frame and sharp green eyes that rarely missed anything. Her hair, cut just below her ears, was a muted blonde streaked through with silver that caught the light like threads of steel.

The first time you met her, she’d watched you and Joel for maybe five minutes before quietly pulling you aside. She didn’t ask questions, didn’t probe or press. She just said, low enough so no one else could hear, “Be firm with them.” Then she’d turned and gone back to work, like nothing had happened.

Now, Joel stood a few feet away from you, arms braced on his hips, eyes on the sign Jerry was still fixing. He said something about aligning it straight, the tone of his voice low, even, careful with authority.

You glanced up from your notebook and let your gaze settle on him. There was something strangely grounding about the sight of him—solid, safe maybe, his outline familiar even when your feelings about him weren’t. His eyes were squinting against the bright afternoon sun. His hair looked softer than it should’ve, thick and silvery where it caught the light, like something meant to be touched. You traced the shape of his nose, the set of his mouth.

The lower half of him was partially obscured by the hem of his jacket, but you could still see the curve of his belly beneath his shirt, just barely visible where the material shifted. His belt was buckled tightly at his waist, the leather worn in some places. He wore new boots—black, clean, clearly broken in just enough to be comfortable. You didn’t remember seeing them before. His legs looked longer than you remembered.

You exhaled, the sound escaping you without warning, and looked at his face again.

He was already watching you.

“Don’t you got anything to do?” he asked, his chin tilting upward just slightly.

You leaned back in your chair. “You tell me, sir.”

There was a pause. He didn’t move. His eyes stayed on yours, unreadable. For a second you thought he was about to respond—his mouth shifted, parted slightly—but before anything came out, Erin called his name from inside.

He didn’t say a word. Just walked past you, boots scuffing the dirt, his presence brushing close. You didn’t look up. Not until he was gone.

You kept your eyes fixed on your notebook, pretending to write.

After a moment, you glanced around. The day had that strange, temporary brightness to it, like someone had lifted a film off the world and left all the colors just a little sharper, more saturated. Shadows moved cleanly across the grass. Even the chipped paint on the school doors looked prettier, somehow, like it had earned its wear.

Then came a soft sound—a dull thud on the grass—and your head turned instinctively toward it.

“Sorry, sweetheart, could you pass me that?” Jerry called from above, gesturing toward the tool he’d dropped.

You saw the screwdriver a few feet away, glinting slightly in the sun, nestled in the grass.

“Sure,” you said, rising quickly from your chair. The notebook slid off your lap as you moved.

You stepped over and crouched to pick it up. Jerry, balanced at the open window above, gave you a cheerful thumbs-up.

You liked Jerry. There was something honest in the way he spoke. He’d come to Jackson a year earlier with his wife, Kavya, and their daughter, Arya. He looked like he might be in his sixties—maybe older—but it was hard to tell. His skin was olive-toned and sun-worn, and his thick white hair curled slightly at the edges. He had huge eyes, warm and dark.

Without thinking, you began to climb the ladder, one hand still curled around the screwdriver. The wood creaked beneath you, but you moved with focus, careful not to shift too much weight in any one direction.

When you reached the top, you stretched your arm out toward him. Jerry leaned forward just enough to take the screwdriver from your hand.

“Thank you. Watch yourself climbing down,” he said, nodding toward the lower rungs with his chin.

You gave him a short nod in return and began your descent, steady and cautious. But as you reached with your right foot, the next step gave way beneath you.

It splintered in half—no warning, no sound but the abrupt snap—and your body jerked sideways. Your arms flew out, grabbing the rails of the ladder, fingers pressing in hard as your weight shifted and everything tilted slightly off-center.

You made a sound, a gasp, involuntary and soft, more breath than voice, as you tried to find balance. But then something caught—a tug at your neck. You reached up in reflex, your fingers brushing the chain of your necklace. It was caught on something—a nail, maybe, protruding from the ladder's frame.

You tried to free it. Your hands were quick, practiced even. But the ladder wobbled again beneath you, and the seconds drained away too fast.

There was a prickling sensation in your stomach, a rush of heat, as the inevitability hit you all at once: you were going to fall.

You shut your eyes without meaning to, waiting for the impact. Waiting for the pain of your body hitting the ground.

But the impact didn’t come.

Instead, there were arms around you—strong and solid, pressing into your sides. Not pavement. Not grass. A body catching yours.

And for a second, all you could hear was the sound of your own heartbeat thudding against your ribs, too loud, too close.

You heard the crash of the ladder hit the ground behind you. A heavy, final sound that jolted you back into yourself.

Your eyes opened.

Joel was right there.

Not just near you, but close—his face barely an inch from yours. You could see the crease between his brows, the faint part in his lips like he was about to say something, but hadn’t decided what yet. His eyes were dark and intent, and everything in his expression said he hadn’t taken a full breath since the moment you fell into his arms.

Then, like a delayed realization, you became aware of where your body was. Your arms looped around his neck. His hands pressed to the backs of your thighs, the curve of your waist. Holding you like he’d done it before. And in fact, he had.

Heat rushed to your face as you shifted your hand to his chest, pressing lightly. He took the cue and let you go, guiding you down to the ground as if he didn’t fully trust you to steady yourself on your own.

“I left you alone for one goddamn minute,” he said, his voice clipped.

You turned from him, instinctively, as if the words were something you needed to avoid being hit by. Your hand moved to your throat and chest, to the bare skin where your necklace should have been. Your eyes darted across the grass, searching.

Behind you, Joel’s voice came again, louder now.

“Didn’t you hear me? I told Jerry to be careful with the ladder. Jesus—what if I hadn’t caught you?”

“I... I...” You turned to look at him, only for a second. The words dissolved in your throat. Your hand stayed pressed to your neck. You could feel your pulse there, fast and shaky.

Your eyes started to sting.

Joel’s expression shifted, the tension around his mouth tightening. He stepped forward, his boots brushing the grass.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

You shook your head—not quite no, but not yes either.

“What’s wrong? Hey.” His hand came down on your shoulder, warm through the fabric of your shirt. “Your wrist? Your ankle?”

You opened your mouth but couldn’t form the right answer. Instead, your gaze returned to the grass, sweeping back and forth, helplessly searching.

“My necklace,” you said finally. “I lost it. I can’t see it.”

He was quiet for a moment. You could feel his eyes on you as you scanned the ground again, your breath hitching slightly.

Joel’s fingers tightened briefly on your shoulder. You looked up.

“What did it look like?” he asked, his voice lower now, softer. “Were you wearing it right before you fell?”

“Yeah. It's silver. With a little heart.” You swallowed. “It’s—it’s a locket.”

Your voice caught slightly on the last word. There was an ache blooming just under your ribs. What it it was gone, swallowed up by the tall grass?

Joel didn’t say anything at first. Just kept looking at you.

Then he stepped away from you without a word and began to search. You watched him cross the patch of grass in long strides, scanning the ground, his body shifting slightly each time he bent to look closer at something glinting in the light. His eyes moved quickly, methodically, sweeping over the space between the school’s entrance and the place where the ladder had fallen.

If the necklace had been caught in the fall, it could’ve landed anywhere—flung out by the force, maybe ten feet away, maybe more. The thought made your stomach turn. It didn’t help that the sun was catching every reflective surface—broken glass near the school fence, the corner of a windowpane, even Joel’s belt buckle when he turned toward you—all of them briefly hopeful until they weren’t.

You stayed where you were at first, too dazed to move, your hand still at your throat like it might bring the locket back. Your pulse thudded beneath your fingertips. Then you forced yourself to look around, to pretend you had control over something. You stepped lightly through the grass, peered beneath flower pots, crouched beside the walkway as if the necklace might be waiting for you in a place you’d never think to look.

Across the yard, Erin came out of the building, a chipped mug in her hand. Her expression twisted as soon as she saw the ladder on its side, and then her eyes shifted to you.

“Are you alright, honey?” she asked, concern tightening her voice. Her eyes swept from your face to the ladder on its side, then back up to Jerry, still half-hanging from the window. “Jesus, Jerry—be careful, please.”

Jerry said something in response, a muttered apology maybe, but you didn’t catch it. You were still watching Joel. He hadn’t stopped moving.

You moved a few steps closer to where he was, still scanning patches of grass, small cracks in the sidewalk, any place it could have landed unseen and—

“I’ve got it,” he said, and your heart stumbled.

You stood up straighter, breath caught in your chest, and turned toward the sound of his voice. Joel was walking toward you, the necklace held between his fingers. His gait was unmistakable to you now.

He stopped in front of you and reached out. The silver chain dangled from his fingers, broken, the heart-shaped charm swinging gently in the air between you.

You opened your hand, palm facing the sky. He placed the necklace there without saying anything.

A soft sigh slipped from your lips as you looked down at it, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. The chain was snapped near the clasp, a clean break. You turned the locket over once, twice, checking for scratches, but it was intact.

Still, something in your chest ached.

“Thank you,” you said, barely more than a breath.

Joel nodded.

“You're welcome,” he replied, his hands moving instinctively back to his hips, like he needed somewhere to put the tension. His eyes didn’t leave you.

You felt the tear slip before you could stop it, sliding down your cheek in a straight, unbothered line. You didn’t wipe it away.

“It's okay. We found it,” Joel said, as if that fact should undo something. As if it was enough.

You felt Erin watching too, silent a few steps away.

You nodded, glancing down at the broken chain pooled in your palm.

“It’s broken.” The words came out flat. Not angry, not blaming. Just factual.

You stared at it a second longer. Then, without ceremony, you slid the necklace into your pocket, like maybe seeing it was too much, like keeping it out of sight might quiet whatever had stirred in you.

You looked back at Joel.

“I’m sorry. And… thanks. For finding it.”

He shook his head.

“It’s okay.” A slight lift of his chin. “You okay?”

You nodded quickly, too quickly.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” But the way you closed your eyes gave you away.

You turned, your shoes scuffing against the grass, and walked briskly back to your chair. The notebook was still there, your pen resting across the page. You didn’t look back. Not at Joel, not at Erin.

“I’ll go see if Tommy needs anything,” you said, voice thinner now, already halfway inside the school before anyone could respond.

The building swallowed you up in a hush, the air different inside—cooler, still tinged with the scent of wood shavings and fresh paint. You climbed the stairs without thinking, following the sound of low voices until you reached the classroom where Tommy was working.

But you didn’t go in. You stopped just beside the doorframe, where the chatter blurred into background noise and no one could see you.

You reached into your pocket and pulled the necklace out again. The locket sat in your palm like something ancient and bruised all at once. You thumbed it open.

Inside of it, there was a tiny piece of paper worn from years of resting there. You touched it with care, fingers shaking a little despite yourself.

In tidy, small black block letters it read: You + me for evermore

Next to the plus, written in blue ink—hastier, looser, added years later in a different hand: and Sophie

You stared at the words for a long time, as if they might change the longer you looked at them. But they didn’t. They stayed exactly the same.

Jackson. Noon, that same day.

Joel stepped inside the building and was met instantly by the faint, curling scent of incense. It hit him in the chest before anything else did. Not unpleasant. Familiar, even. It brought to mind a boyhood version of himself—years stripped of responsibility, when he used to spend afternoons at a friend’s place where the windows were always fogged with smoke. His friend burned incense obsessively, not for the pleasure of it, but to mask the sharp edge of cigarettes. Joel had always noticed the way the lavender clung to his clothes long after he left.

Phillip made these ones now. He split his time between the greenhouse and the patrol schedule. Quiet guy, always smelled like soil and herbs. Lavender, rosemary, sometimes cinnamon. Once, rose petals.

Joel wiped his boots against the fraying rug by the door. The building was quiet, air thick and still. He moved toward the staircase and began to climb, his movements unhurried, almost rhythmic.

He hadn’t seen you since the morning, when you'd walked into the school building without looking back. He’d taken Leo’s shift again, patrolling the outskirts with Sean. Erin had promised she’d pass the message on—that he’d stop by later to check the log. Still, he figured you were already gone by now.

But the office door was shut. But when he opened it with a short movement, almost instinctively, his eyes found you right away.

You were there, sitting back in the desk chair like you belonged in it, one leg curled underneath you. Book in hand. The same one you’d had yesterday, the faded paperback bent in the middle.

Joel blinked, hesitating only a moment before saying, “Thought you’d be home by now.”

He turned toward the coat rack, pulled off his jacket, and hung it up with the kind of care that came from habit more than need. When he glanced back at you, you still hadn’t moved.

He dropped into his chair with a weighty sigh, the kind that sounded too old for him, but he made no attempt to hide it.

You looked up from the book but didn’t meet his eyes.

“It’s only ten past twelve,” you said.

He nodded. Just that. A small, silent agreement. Nothing more.

“Why’d you come back?” you asked, finally looking at him now. “I thought everything was handled for today.”

He rested his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned back slightly.

“Figured I’d check in. See how things were going. At school—did Tommy or Erin mention anything?”

You gave a little shrug, the movement minimal. “Nothing important. Erin fixed the ladder.”

“Right,” Joel said, and then didn’t add anything else.

You turned back to your book. Turned the page.

Joel kept looking at you, though he tried not to. His gaze moved to the floor, to the desk, to the jacket slung over the back of your chair—anything else. But eventually, it always circled back to you.

You looked composed—unbothered, even. Like nothing had touched you all morning. But your eyes were a little swollen, subtly, like the remains of something that had passed through quietly.

He thought of the locket again. The way it had caught the light when he found it half-buried in the grass, its hinge already open like it had been waiting for someone to notice. He hadn’t meant to see inside, it had happened in the seconds before his instincts kicked in and he shut it. There was a scrap of paper inside, yellowed and fraying at the edges. He didn’t try to read it. He told himself that counted for something.

Still, the image stayed with him. The shape of it. The vulnerability of something that small and private lying exposed in the open.

There were things he wanted to ask. Questions that took shape in the back of his throat before dissolving there. Not because he lacked the nerve, but because he knew better. There were certain doors he’d spent years learning not to open. This felt like one of them.

The day he found you in the snow, his body had already made the decision before his mind could process what was happening. He would have helped anyone in that state—barely conscious, skin ice-cold, blood too bright against the white. But then he saw your face, and something in him folded. Recognition didn’t come with clarity. It came with disbelief. You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be you.

And yet, there you were. He’d thought you were going to die.

He thought maybe the only thing left he could offer you was a soft place to land. Somewhere safe to go, if you had to go.

But you didn’t die. You healed. Against every prediction, every diagnosis, you began to recover. No amputations. No permanent damage. No explanation. Your wounds closed. Your body came back to life like it remembered how to live. And Jackson, starved for anything close to a miracle, wrapped you up in its awe.

Joel never went to see you.

Tommy told him, often, in that way of his where meaning came layered: Maria brought her some clothes. She’s staying with the Rowells for now. I stopped by earlier—she’s doing alright. Every word meant: You should go. Every silence meant: Why haven’t you?

Joel didn’t answer those silences.

The truth was that if you were going to live here, in this town, in this life he had finally carved out of ruin—then maybe it was best if he stayed far from you.

But then you appeared in front of him one morning, like it was the most natural thing in the world, holding a plastic container of cookies and wearing that overly thankful expression that grated on him more than he could explain. You were smiling—so earnestly, so cheerfully, like someone who had never been hurt in their life—and it made something coil tightly in his chest.

Joel didn’t want any part of it. Of you.

But then you came again. First to his house. Then the office. Like you’d mapped the places he wouldn’t be able to avoid and stationed yourself there with your effortless small talk and irritating warmth.

He almost told Tommy. More than once, he stood on the edge of it, thinking maybe it would be easier to just explain everything, say it plainly: She shouldn’t be near me. This isn’t a good idea. But putting it into words made it too real. Too heavy. So he didn’t. He let the thought settle somewhere at the back of his mind and told himself he’d say it tomorrow. And when tomorrow came, he told himself the same thing again.

Everything about you seemed crafted to irritate him. The way you were helpful, not to the point of being invasive, just… persistent. Pleasant. Which made it worse. Because Joel knew what it looked like when someone was trying too hard to be liked—and that wasn’t what you were doing. You weren’t trying at all. You were just there. And somehow, that was worse.

You made him coffee without asking. You organized his papers like it was your job, which maybe it was, but still. You followed instructions, respected the lines he drew, and you kept showing up. And every time you did, he felt the pressure build in his chest. Because you were supposed to get the message. He was sure he was sending it—cold enough, sharp enough. Clear.

But if you saw it, you didn’t seem to care. And that? That was infuriating.

What unsettled him most was that you weren’t afraid. You didn’t flinch when he raised his voice. You argued back with the same force, met him blow for blow without hesitation. There’d been a moment last night, fleeting and almost funny, when he’d genuinely wondered if you’d break one of his fingers. And the strangest part was: he wasn’t entirely sure he’d mind if you tried.

And now you were across the room, half curled into your chair, your posture unconcerned, like you’d forgotten anyone else was there. The sunlight was pouring in through the window behind you, soft and golden, brushing the edges of your shoulders and the back of your hair. It made you look... untouchable, almost.

He watched as you turned a page with the kind of ease that made him restless.

And then the question arrived in his mouth before it had finished forming in his brain.

“Can I see it?” he asked.

You looked up, eyes narrowing in mild confusion. “What?”

“Your necklace,” he said. “It’s broken, isn’t it?”

He saw the way you paused—just a second longer than natural. He could tell you were thinking it through, deciding whether or not to give him access to something so small and private. Maybe wondering what right he had to ask.

But you didn’t argue. You didn’t push back.

You shifted in your seat and reached into your coat pocket.

Joel stood up before you could hand it to him from where you were sitting. He crossed the room and stopped by your desk, resting his hip on the edge with a kind of casualness he didn’t entirely feel. He extended his hand, palm open. You dropped the necklace into it without a word.

He adjusted his glasses, letting them settle more firmly against the bridge of his nose, and studied the chain in the quiet. The metal was warm from your pocket. One of the links near the clasp had come undone, barely noticeable unless you were looking.

“Looks like it can be fixed,” he said, his voice quieter than before.

You looked at him, uncertain. “Yeah?”

Joel nodded, eyes still on the necklace. “I can... I mean, I could fix it. If you want.”

When he glanced back at you, your expression had shifted, just slightly. The crease between your eyebrows had softened.

“You know how to do that?”

He lifted the corner of his mouth, not a full smile, more of a reflex. He didn’t want to look smug.

Of course he could fix it.

But he only said, “Yeah. I do. It doesn’t look complicated. The chain broke cleanly—look.”

He lowered his hand toward you, fingers uncurling just enough to show you the delicate line where the metal had come apart.

You tilted your chin up to see, your eyes following the gesture. The light hit your face in a way that made it hard not to notice the tiny details—your lashes casting long shadows on your cheekbones, the barely-there layer of peach fuzz along your jaw, softening the edge of you. You were very still, but not in a tense way.

“And the clasp on the locket,” he added, glancing down at it again, “it’s loose. Looks like it could come open without much effort. I can fix that too, if you want. Maybe do something about what’s inside. Like put something over it, something protective, just to keep it from getting worn, or—”

“Why would you do that?”

Your voice cut through the air between you, not harsh, just direct. You were looking at him now, fully, brows drawn together slightly in confusion. Your head tilted just enough to suggest the question wasn’t rhetorical. You really wanted an answer.

Joel blinked, caught off guard not by the question itself, but by how quickly it seemed to peel something open inside him.

“What?”

“Why offer to fix it?” you said. “You don’t have to.”

He shifted where he stood, leaning back from the desk a little, putting space between his body and yours.

“I know I don’t have to,” he said. “But I know how to do it. And I don’t mind.”

“You don’t mind?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t have offered.” His voice was calm. Maybe a little tired.

You looked down, fingers brushing the edge of the desk. One hand came up briefly to scratch your neck, a small, absent motion. Then your eyes met his again.

“Okay,” you said simply.

Joel nodded once and stepped away from the desk. He closed his hand around the necklace, the fragile chain folding in on itself in his palm.

“Alright,” he said, voice low. “I’ll take care of it.”

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jasminedragoon · 23 days ago

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CAROL WHAT THE FUCK?! HOW COULD YOU CAPTURE ME IN A FIC?! I have never related more to a fmc i love it so much. Im gonna cry. I already cried. Thank you so much for continuing writing this one!

The days of you and I | part 1

Jackson!Joel Miller x fem!reader

Summary: After Joel’s near-death, you stay by his side, refusing to leave him behind. You both confront the weight of what’s been done and what it means to still have each other for now.

w.c: 4,5k

warnings: angst, mentions of murder and revenge, emotional trauma, grief trauma, survivor's guilt, discussion of death and loss. It contains spoilers from season 2 of the last of us. No proofreading because, you know.

A/N: Okay, hello. This is a new Joel series because we love Joel here, and he is alive and recovering. This series will have angst, and the topics followed throughout the story will hold onto the path of healing after a traumatic event for the characters. I already have the end for this series, so everything will lead to it. I hope you like it and stay here to read it. Reblogs are really important, and I appreciate them. I'm gonna be out for a days because I have to put an end to the semester before winter break and do my teacher duties.

Also, I created an AO3 account, and I'll be posting fics there too from now on.

The hospital room was very quiet. With that eerie absence of sound that you could feel penetrating your bones, damaging the inside of your body with a pain that pierced your body, seeped into your soul, and oppressed your heart.

Joel still woke up to that silence, as if was chocking him to death and he had decided he have had enough of it. to the distant hush of an early morning, and a world that carried on without him. The sharp sting in his ribs reminded him he was still alive, though some days, he wondered what for.

His eyes opened slow, the weight behind them too heavy to lift at once. The ceiling looked the same as it had for the past week, wooden beams, a single hanging light. He’d spent more hours staring at it than sleeping. The painkillers dulled the sharp edges, but nothing softened the hollow inside his chest.

And you were still there.

Your silhouette sat by the window, curled into the old chair like you belonged there. As if you were stuck. A book half-read on your lap, a cup of cold tea nearby, and that same tired crease between your brows you probably didn’t know you had. You looked so small in the pale dawn light, so goddamn stubborn.

He should’ve been glad. Grateful you hadn’t left.

But this morning, something cracked inside him.

It wasn’t relief that filled him. It was grief.

His bones were still aching, his legs dumbed under the cover. He didn’t feel like a man no more, but as a lifeless lump lying in bed.

And you deserved better than this version of him, this half-broken thing stitched together by other people’s hands, carrying the weight of mistakes that couldn’t be undone. Joel wasn’t the man you met. Wasn’t the one who held you like you were the only good thing left in the world.

And seeing you here, still choosing him, hurt worse than any wound that other girl that beat him almost to death had left behind.

He swallowed hard, voice rough and unused.

“You don’t need to stay here all the time, you know?”

The words came out more bitter than he meant them to, tasting like rust and regret.

Your head turned, soft eyes finding his. That damn look, the one that exactly saw right through him, the one that made him feel like a man again for a moment.

And for a second, Joel wished you’d leave.

Because it would be easier than losing you piece by piece like this.

You smiled, small but steady, like you always did when you noticed he was awake. That damn smile, it cut through him every time.

“Took you long enough to wake up again,” you murmured, the softness in your voice brushing against the raw places in him he tried to keep buried. You crossed the room, moving to his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it hadn’t been three weeks and one more of watching him drift in and out of fevered sleep and silence.

“You must be feeling tired,” you said, fingertips brushing through the strands of his hair, pushing them gently from his forehead.

Joel didn’t move, but his throat worked around a swallow. It wasn’t fair, you being so gentle. Wasn’t fair that after everything, you were still here, speaking to him like he was the man you remembered, not the one lying broken in that bed.

He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning, barely, into your touch before forcing himself to pull away. His jaw clenched.

Reality blurred at the edges; every breath thick with a kind of grief he didn’t know how to name. Time didn’t move right in this room. It stretched too long, like a cruel joke, dragging him through the sharp fragments of what he used to be.

He wasn’t mad.

He was devasted.

He felt ashamed of the man he was now.

He never experienced a physical pain like this. One that burned inside and out his body.

He hadn’t even noticed his hand was clenching around nothing.

How he could even be useful for this town now that he was gone. Everything left was limb laying on a bed with nothing left but a void consuming him as a whole.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, the coppery tang of blood grounding him for a second. His voice, when it came, was cracked and quiet.

“You shouldn’t… shouldn’t waste your time on me, darling.”

A bitter, broken kind of truth. But in his heart, he knew it would be worse than dying to watch you stay, wasting your life on him.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull your hand away, even when his words hung heavy in the air between you like a noose. If anything, your fingers curled more firmly into his hair, a tender anchor to a man too lost to realize he was still here, still tethered.

“I’m not wasting anything,” you said softly, the words steady even as your throat threatened to close around them. “You’re here, Joel. That’s enough.”

He gave a ragged breath, like he wanted to laugh, wanted to scream, but all that came was a low, broken sound somewhere deep in his chest. His gaze dropped to the space between you — his hand, bruised and shaking, lying useless on the blanket.

“Don’t deserve you sitting here, watching this,” he muttered, voice hoarse, eyes hot though no tears came. Couldn’t remember the last time they had.

A long, aching silence stretched between you.

You could feel it, the war inside him. The part that needed you close, needed your touch, your voice, like it was the last thing tethering him to this side of the dark. And the other part, the one too proud, too broken, too wrecked by shame to let himself have it.

But you’d made your choice the moment he opened his eyes a week ago.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. Not a promise you made lightly in a world like this.

Joel closed his eyes again. He didn’t answer. But for the first time in days, his hand moved, slow, halting, to brush against yours.

“Did you… really take them all?” he rasped.

Your heart clenched, but you didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

You gave a small, steady nod.

He swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw twitching. His gaze dropped for a second, his hand flexing weakly against the sheets.

“I don’t regret it,” you said at last, the words steady despite the ache in your chest. “No one deserves what they did to you.”

There was a storm behind Joel’s eyes, a thousand things he wanted to say, but his throat burned too much to let them out. Anger, grief, guilt, some twisted kind of gratitude. It tangled up inside him like barbed wire, tearing at every soft part he had left.

“You didn’t have to…” his voice broke, low and pained.

“I know,” you whispered. “But I would do it again.”

Your fingers brushed against his, and this time, his hand turned, weakly curling around yours. A tremble ran through him, and you felt it in your bones, the weight of his shame, the depth of his sorrow, and somewhere, buried beneath it, the fragile pulse of the man you knew still fighting to breathe.

But the love you felt for him, that was enough to send you into a spiral, where nothing else felt real but the desperate need to save him, the desperation of not losing him because that would have meant losing yourself that day.

Neither of you spoke for a while after that. The room was heavy with the things you didn’t need to say.

You didn’t look away from Joel, but you felt the shift in the room, the familiar presence of Tommy as he stepped in.

“Hey,” Tommy’s voice was rough, softer than usual, like he was afraid to break whatever fragile peace hung in the air. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You lifted your head, your fingers gently slipping from Joel’s, though his hand lingered in the empty space you left behind.

Tommy gave a small nod toward you. “Gail’s waiting to see you. Said whenever you were ready.”

Your stomach twisted, a cold unease settling in your chest. You gave Joel one last look, brushing a thumb over his hand before pulling away completely.

“I’ll be back,” you whispered.

Joel didn’t answer. Just stared at the ceiling, eyes distant.

As you stepped out, Tommy caught your arm, just briefly, his hand firm but kind.

“I’ll stay,” he murmured. “Not gonna leave him alone.”

You gave him a grateful, weary nod and left, the door shutting quietly behind you.

The room felt emptier after you were gone. Joel let out a slow breath, eyes closing for a moment before shifting to glance at his brother.

“Gail?” Joel’s voice was rough, but clearer now. “She… she going to therapy with her?”

Tommy rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, sighing as he sank into the chair by the bed.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Doctor says it might help. Been… hard for her since it happened. It isn’t just you carrying scars, brother.”

Joel looked away, his throat working around another swallow. The word therapy felt foreign in his mouth, like it belonged to a world he’d never stepped into, one too far gone for men like him.

Joel stayed quiet for a long time after Tommy spoke, the words circling in his head, refusing to settle. His gaze lingered on the window, on the way the morning light edged in like it didn’t belong here.

Then, rough and low, he broke the silence.

“Was she…” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat, hating the weakness there. “Was she hurt? When… when they brought me back?”

Tommy’s face shifted, the answer already written in his eyes before he spoke.

“Yeah,” he admitted softly. “She… she had some bruises. Took a hit to the side’a her face, couple more on her ribs. And there was a wound on her abdomen.”

Joel’s stomach turned, a cold, sinking dread washing over him.

“Abdomen?” he rasped, his hands curling weakly into fists against the blanket. “Christ.”

Tommy sighed, leaning his elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand over his face. “She didn’t give a damn about it. Wouldn’t let anybody touch her. Wouldn’t even let them clean her up ‘til you were stable. Sat right there in that chair covered in her own blood and yours, talking to you like you could hear her.”

He shook his head, a ghost of a sad, fond smile on his face.

“Would’ve fought off half the town if anyone tried to pull her out of here.”

Joel closed his eyes, the guilt pressing so heavy against his chest he thought it might crush him. A sharp breath rattled through him, his throat burning.

“Goddamn fool,” he muttered to himself, a tear he’d never admit to stinging behind his eye.

“She loves you, you know,” Tommy said quietly, watching his brother’s face. “Way you do her. There is no shame in letting people love you, Joel. Even if it hurts.”

Joel didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not with the knot in his throat, not with the war inside his chest.

But his hand flexed again against the sheets reaching for something, for someone, perhaps you.

The silence thickened again, the kind of quiet that settled deep in your bones. Tommy stayed still, letting Joel sort through whatever storm was building behind those weary eyes.

Then Joel spoke, voice low and cracked, like gravel scraping out of his throat.

“She killed… all of ‘em.”

Tommy’s jaw tensed. He stared down at his hands, lacing his fingers together like it might steady him.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Every last one of ‘em.”

Joel’s throat worked around a swallow, his gaze distant, unfocused, like he was seeing it happen even if he hadn’t been awake for it. Like he could feel the blood she spilled on his behalf soaking into his hands too.

“I should have been the one…” Joel’s voice broke at the edge, bitter and aching. “Should’ve finished it. Not her. Not—”

“She didn’t leave you a choice, Joel,” Tommy cut in quietly, but firm. “You were barely breathing. We didn’t know if you’d make it. You almost died on her arms that night.”

Joel gave a humorless, broken kind of laugh, but there was no light in it. Just sharp edges.

“And now what?” he muttered, a tear sliding down his temple he didn’t bother to wipe away. “She got their blood on her hands. Because of me.”

Tommy leaned forward; his voice steady in that way Joel remembered from years long gone, before the world turned to shit.

“She doesn’t regret it,” he said. “You know that. And neither would I.”

Joel’s eyes finally met his brother’s. A flicker of something there. Grief. Fury. Love. Loss.

“But I do,” Joel whispered. “I regret that she had to.”

Tommy swallowed hard, his throat bobbing.

“You’re not the only one with scars, brother,” he said softly.

“I don’t regret it,” you said, voice steady, though your chest ached with the weight of it. “No one deserves what they did to Joel.”

Gail’s brow lifted, arms folding across her chest. “Murder?” she challenged; one word sharp enough to cut.

You didn’t blink. “Murder’s a simple act these days. Torture?” Your voice turned cold, almost unfamiliar even to yourself. “That’s another thing.”

A beat of heavy silence stretched between you.

“Murder is what Joel committed when he blew my husband’s head off,” Gail snapped, her voice brittle, laced with venom, old grief that still clung to her like a second skin.

“It’s not the same,” you bit out, shaking your head.

“It is,” Gail said, stepping closer. “The only difference is you had the chance to save him. If you hadn’t, Joel would be dead right now. And you’d be mourning him like I mourned mine.”

A fury you hadn’t felt since that day surged hot through your veins. You took a shaky breath, eyes narrowing.

“Fuck you,” you hissed. “You don’t know him. You don’t get to talk about him like that.”

Gail’s face didn’t move, but something in her gaze flickered, something dark, bitter, and quietly resigned.

“I know enough,” she murmured. “Enough to understand what kind of man survives in a world like this. And what kind of woman kills for him.”

You held her gaze, unflinching, the burn of unshed tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, though your face gave nothing away.

“I’m not sorry,” you whispered. “And I never will be.”

“You don’t get it,” you murmured, voice breaking just enough to betray the rawness beneath your fury. “My life would’ve ended.”

The words hung there, fragile and furious all at once.

You swallowed hard, fighting the tremor in your throat. “When they took him… when I saw what they did… there wasn’t a world left for me after that. So don’t stand there and talk about men surviving and women killing like you understand a goddamn thing about what it feels like to have your heart ripped out of your chest and left bleeding in the dirt. Because you’ve been behind these walls, safe, without knowing what it’s like out there.”

Gail’s brow twitched; her gaze steady but dull. “Do you think I haven’t lost people? Do you think grief makes you special?”

“I didn’t say that,” you shot back, your voice tight, shaking now. “I’m saying you didn’t see him. You didn’t watch them tear him apart. You didn’t hear the sounds he made. And you sure as hell didn’t have to put him back together.”

Her jaw clenched. “And now what? Do you think murder fix it?”

“I don’t care if it does or doesn’t,” you spat. “I care that they’ll never touch him again. That they won’t look at Ellie. That no one here will whisper about how Joel Miller should’ve died that day.”

Gail scoffed, a bitter sound. “And what about you? How can you carry this and walk around like it won’t eat you alive?”

“I don’t care,” you said, low, certain. “I care about him.

A beat of silence.

“You think that makes you strong?” Gail asked quietly.

“No,” you whispered. “It makes me his, as I’ve always been.”

Gail’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “You talk like that’s a badge of honor.”

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “It’s not. It’s a fact.”

She tilted her head, watching you like someone examining a wound too deep to close. “What if you drown into this?”

“I’ll try to save myself” you shrugged.

Another pause. The room felt too small, thick with old grief and new wounds, neither of you willing to be the one to walk away first.

“I loved Eugene so much” Gail said, her voice rough. “And when he died, it didn’t turn me into this.”

You met her eyes, unflinching. “But it made you bitter towards Joel.”

Gail’s jaw tightened, something sharp flickering in her gaze. “He made choices. Ones that cost people their lives. Good people. You act like he’s some goddamn martyr, but he isn’t.”

“And neither was Eugene,” you shot back, your voice low and steady. “Do you wanna talk about choices? Fine. Joel made his. I made mine. And you? You’ve been standing behind walls judging the rest of us ever since we arrived.

Her nostrils flared, a bitter breath leaving her. “I don’t have to like what this world turns people into.”

“Neither do I,” you murmured. “But I’ll fight for the one thing in it that still means something to me. That’s the difference between you and me, Gail. You buried your heart with Eugene. I’m not ready to bury mine.”

A long, heavy silence stretched between you, the old ache of loss clawing at both your throats. And for the first time, Gail didn’t have a sharp reply. She just looked away, jaw clenched, and you took your opening.

You didn’t say goodbye. You just left.

You made your way back through the hallway, your steps slow, heavy, like every word from that conversation with Gail was still clinging to your skin. The air in Jackson felt colder somehow, like the whole town was holding its breath, waiting for something none of you could name.

As a town, you were still recovering from that day.

When you reached Joel’s door, you didn’t push it open right away.

You stood there, hand hovering by the frame, heart hammering against your ribs because, god, he was still here. Still breathing. Still alive.

And it didn’t matter how broken or battered he was, how much rage or guilt sat behind those tired eyes. It was him. And that was enough for you.

Inside, you heard the low murmur of his voice, raspy, weighted with a pain he never used to let anyone hear.

“But how is she really doing?”

“She’s… holding up,” Tommy answered, voice cautious. ”

Joel let out a rough, broken sound. Not quite a sigh, not quite a sob.

“If you ask me, you’re lucky she’s still here after what this world’s done to both of you.” Tommy said.

There was a pause, then Joel spoke again, softer this time, like he wasn’t sure he meant to say it out loud.

“I just… I don’t want her staying because she feels like she has to,” Joel muttered, his voice rough, almost cracking. “She should go, Tommy. Find something better. Hell, anyone better than… whatever I am now.”

Your stomach twisted. A sharp, cold ache settling beneath your ribs. You stayed frozen at the doorway, your hand tightening around the frame, every part of you aching. You didn’t mean to listen, but it was too late. The words were already carving themselves into your chest.

“She’s not here out of obligation.” Tommy said, his tone harder than before. “What would you do if you were her?”

Another pause.

Joel let out a humorless, ragged chuckle, and it hurt to hear it. “It’s not fair.”

“But she gets to decide what’s fair,” Tommy shot back. “And so far, she has decided it’s you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, blinking fast against the burn in your eyes. Your heart hammered in your chest so loud you were sure they’d hear it.

You needed one more second to pull yourself together. To bury the hurt his words left behind, not because you doubted him, but because you knew where they came from. The same place you’d been sitting in since the day you saw him bleeding out in the dirt.

You swallowed down the knot in your throat, forcing your face into something steady, or close enough to pass for it. Then, with a breath you weren’t sure reached your lungs, you pushed the door open.

“Hey,” you said softly.

Both their heads turned. Joel’s eyes landed on you first, and for a split second, something in them broke open. A flicker of guilt, sorrow, and something heavier, like he knew you’d heard more than you were meant to.

But you gave him a small, careful smile, pretending the sting behind your eyes wasn’t there. Pretending your heart wasn’t in pieces on the floor between you both.

Tommy cleared his throat, glancing between the two of you. “I, uh — I’ll give you a minute.” He patted Joel’s shoulder, murmured something you couldn’t catch, and brushed past you on his way out.

The door clicked shut.

Silence stretched thin in the room, heavy like storm air. Joel shifted uncomfortably on the bed, his hand twitching against the blanket. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

You crossed the room, sitting down on the edge of the mattress by his side. Close, but not quite touching.

“I was thinking…” you began, “I could ask the doctor if you can leave the hospital and go back home. We surely need to make some changes there with the bed and—”

“Stop it.” He cut you off, his voice rough but firm. “I’m not going anywhere right now.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sharpness. “Joel—”

“No.” He shook his head, eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite name. “Not until I’m ready. And right now, I’m not ready to face that.”

The weight in his tone pinned you still. You wanted to argue, to tell him that staying there wasn’t helping him heal, but the raw edge in his voice stopped you.

Instead, you just nodded slowly. “Okay,” you said softly.

He didn’t answer, just closed his eyes, the tension in his jaw slowly easing into something like resignation.

You settled into the chair beside his bed, not bearing the closeness anymore, the quiet between you thick but familiar. Your fingers absentmindedly traced the worn edge of his sleeve, as if hoping to stitch together the frayed pieces of him with nothing but touch.

Joel’s breath was shallow, uneven, and you could feel the weight of everything he wasn’t saying pressing down on the room. The man you knew, the one who’d fought through hell and back was here, but buried beneath layers of pain and doubt.

“I’m scared,” he finally muttered, voice rough and low. “Not of dying... of what’s left after.”

Your heart clenched. “You’re not alone in that,” you whispered. “You know that.”

“What you did—” he began “I didn’t deserve to be saved, baby.”

“I made my choice.” You replied, eyes watering.

Joel’s gaze dropped to your trembling hands, then back up to your face, searching.

“I’m broken,” he said quietly, voice cracking. “Not the same man I was before.”

You shook your head gently, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You’re still him,” you insisted, voice firm but tender. “Wounded, maybe. Scared, sure. But still you. And I’m still here.”

A long pause stretched between you, filled only by the faint rhythm of his labored breathing.

Joel’s eyes glistened, a shadow moving through them as he let out a shaky breath.

“What you did… it’ll haunt you,” he murmured, voice low and rough like gravel. “Same way Salt Lake haunts me. What I did to those Fireflies… what I took from Ellie. Thought I was saving her. Thought it was worth whatever price.” He swallowed hard, jaw trembling. “But it never leaves you. Never lets you forget. Look what they did to me.”

You didn’t flinch. You leaned in, your hand finding his cheek, thumb brushing against the rough line of his beard.

“No,” you said softly, steady. “It won’t haunt me, Joel.”

He blinked, as if the words knocked something loose inside him.

“Because I know what we do,” you continued, voice trembling but certain, “when we love someone enough to tear the world apart for them. I know what it means to save the person who’s your whole heart. And I’ll carry it. All of it. And I won’t regret a single thing.”

His eyes closed, a tear slipping down his temple, and for the first time in too long, he didn’t look like a ghost of himself. He looked like Joel.

“Goddamn you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I don’t deserve you.”

“I’m not letting you go,” you said, leaning your forehead to his.

His breath hitched at the sound of your voice so close, your warmth grounding him in a way nothing else could.

“Baby…” he rasped, like it hurt to say it, like it was both a confession and a plea.

You hushed him gently, your hand brushing through his hair, your forehead still pressed to his.

“It’s gonna take time to heal,” you whispered. “I know that. I’m not asking you to be okay tomorrow, Joel. Or next week. Or even next year. I just need you here. With me. However, you can manage.”

His fingers, still weak, clung to yours like a lifeline. His voice cracked as he spoke again, rough and small.

“I won’t be able to protect you.” You felt it in the way his words splintered under the weight of his shame, the jagged edges of the man he used to be catching against what was left. His eyes searched yours, desperate and hollow all at once.

“I won’t be able to protect you,” he repeated, voice breaking like a man confessing to a sin he could never undo as he closed his eyes. “Not like before. Not the way I should do.”

You swallowed hard, a tear finally slipping free, tracing down your cheek as you gripped his hand tighter, like you could anchor him to this moment, to you.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered, voice trembling but certain. “You protected me for so long, Joel. Longer than anyone else ever did. It’s my turn now. I don’t need a gun in your hand to feel safe. I just need you. That’s it. I just need to feel the beating of your heart under my hand to know you’re still breathing with me.”

His throat worked around a choked sound, his other hand weakly lifting as if it wanted to touch you but couldn’t quite make it, so you guided it to your cheek, holding it there like it was the most precious thing in the world because that’s how it felt.

“I’m still yours,” you whispered against his palm. “Always. However, you come back to me.”

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