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joelsrose · 11 days ago

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chapter 4!!!! i love this story so much omggg - as always, i hope you guys enjoy xxx

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You were ecstatic—buzzing, practically vibrating with excitement as the sun crept over Jackson’s rooftops like it, too, was eager for what the day might bring.

Today was the day: Joel Miller’s first date in what was likely two decades, maybe more, and you had been the orchestrator of it all.

The entire thing had lived in your head for a week now, spinning like a little carousel of possibilities—some disastrous, some dreamy, some wildly romantic like something out of the battered books you kept stacked beside your bed.

You’d imagined a dozen outcomes: Joel arriving early with flowers (unlikely), Joel cracking a rare joke over dessert (a stretch), Joel sitting with his arms folded refusing to speak (realistic), and even one where he somehow fell instantly, hopelessly in love (a girl can dream).

But most of all, you hoped—really, truly hoped—that he’d try.

You had found someone you thought was perfect. Her name was Naomi—mid-forties, soft-spoken but sharp as a tack, with kind eyes and a laugh that could warm a cold room.

She worked with the school’s little garden co-op, loved to read mystery novels, and once told you that she’d be open to something “real” if it came along. And when you’d nervously shown her Joel’s name in your journal (complete with scribbled-out lines and notes in pink ink), she had blinked, smiled faintly, and said, “He’s handsome. I wouldn’t mind meeting him.”

That alone had made your heart flutter with cautious hope.

Their date was going to be at the dining hall—humble, yes, but at sunset it turned soft and sweet, the candles on the tables flickering like tiny promises. You’d even roped in one of the cooks that night to make something nice—nothing fancy, just warm bread, grilled fish, and the kind of roasted vegetables that made even the most stoic Jacksoners groan with delight.

You’d told Joel you’d meet him at the dining hall, just to make sure everything went smoothly—not that you thought he needed you, exactly, but because a tiny, worried part of you couldn’t bear the idea of him showing up alone and uncomfortable, his arms crossed and jaw tight, already halfway out the door before the poor woman even said hello.

And though he’d grumbled something predictably Joel—something along the lines of, “I don’t need no damn babysitter,” or maybe it was “Like hell you’re watchin’ me like some charity case”—you hadn’t really listened, because the miracle had already happened: he was going.

Joel Miller, who frowned at butterflies like they personally offended him, who didn’t eat dessert because he was apparently too proud for joy, who moved through town like he was allergic to small talk—was going on a date.

And not because Maria begged him, or because Tommy tricked him, but because you had asked.

Because somehow, after all the sighs and sharp looks and muttered curses, he had agreed to try.

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You sat—not subtly, despite your best efforts—tucked into the far corner of the dining hall, half-hidden behind a tall, mismatched stack of crates and a poorly potted plant that offered minimal cover but enough plausible deniability.

From your perch, you watched with the anxiety of a director at opening night as Joel sat at the table, looking profoundly out of place, his posture slightly slumped like he was already apologizing for being there. His shirt was unironed, the sleeves unevenly rolled, and his hair looked like he’d run a hand through it once out of obligation and then given up entirely. You winced.

When his eyes flicked up and caught yours across the room, you straightened your back instinctively and mouthed, “Sit straight,” even modeling the posture with a meaningful lift of your shoulders. Joel blinked once, scowled like a grumpy schoolboy, and adjusted stiffly, muttering something under his breath as he did so.

And then Naomi walked in.

She looked lovely—effortlessly polished in a way that made you feel a flicker of hopeful pride. Her braid was neat, her dress floral and soft, and as she approached the table, you could see the faint smile of curiosity tug at her lips.

Joel stood up, which you had to admit was a win, but any warm feelings were quickly extinguished as he greeted her with an awkward, two-handed handshake—firm and businesslike, like he was closing a deal rather than stepping into a date.

Not a hug, not even a kiss on the cheek, just a dry, utilitarian shake that made Naomi tilt her head a little, puzzled. Then he sat—sat—without offering her chair, the screech of his wooden seat dragging across the floor echoing through the hall like a warning bell.

You physically cringed, your hand flying to your forehead as you whispered, “Oh, God,” under your breath, already bracing for the slow-motion disaster about to unfold before your very eyes.

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You weren’t a body language expert by any means—didn’t need to be. Anyone with a pair of eyes and half a brain could tell this date was going up in flames before the second course even hit the table.

Joel sat stiff as stone, arms crossed so tightly across his chest you wondered if he was keeping himself from bolting. He didn’t smile, not once—not even the tight-lipped kind people give when they’re trying to be polite.

His jaw was set, his mouth a thin, immovable line, and the only real movement he made was stabbing his fork into his mashed potatoes like they’d wronged him personally.

You watched in slow-building horror as he grunted in response to Naomi’s questions, barely making eye contact, and at one point—at one godforsaken point—he actually leaned away from her mid-sentence to refill his water glass with all the grace of a brick wall.

You ran your hands through your hair, heart racing, like maybe the friction would rub the secondhand embarrassment off your skin. You wanted to crawl under the table. You wanted to crawl out of your skin. He was paying more attention to his peas than the gorgeous, interesting, totally game woman you’d found for him, and all you could do was stare, helpless, as your most promising Cupid endeavor to date unraveled like a badly-knitted scarf in the middle of winter.

You kept watching like it was a car crash happening in slow motion—horrifying, inevitable, and impossible to look away from.

Joel said something—you couldn’t hear it over the clatter of cutlery and murmur of nearby tables—but you saw Naomi’s brows shoot up, her head tilt just slightly, the way a woman does when she’s giving someone one last chance to backpedal. Joel, of course, did not backpedal. His mouth moved again, probably something gruff and dismissive in that grumpy cowboy drawl of his, and you actually saw Naomi scoff. Not laugh. Not smile. Scoff. Sharp, unimpressed, and loud enough that a few heads turned.

Then, just like that, she pushed back from the table with a scrape of chair legs that echoed louder than it had any right to, grabbed her coat, and left without another word. You were frozen, eyes wide, mouth half-open, watching as Joel just blinked at her retreating form like she’d spilled her drink and he wasn’t sure if he should clean it up or not.

As soon as the door swung shut behind Naomi, you didn’t hesitate—not even for a second. You launched out of your hiding spot like a woman on a mission, practically sprinting across the dining hall, weaving between chairs and startled diners until you slid into the now-vacant seat opposite Joel. You leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes wide and incredulous, like you’d just walked in on a crime scene.

“Joel,” you hissed, voice pitched low but vibrating with disbelief, “what the hell happened?”

He barely looked up from his half-eaten plate, casually poking at a piece of roasted potato like this wasn’t the dating equivalent of a four-alarm fire. “We didn’t click,” he said, with a shrug so nonchalant it nearly made your head explode.

“Joel,” you said again, dragging out the syllables like a prayer for patience, “why did she get up and leave like that? Like you insulted her lineage or ran over her kid!?”

He gave you a look, the picture of stone-faced indifference, and mumbled, “I don’t know. She was talkin’ about her cat.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And what did you say, Joel?”

He paused for a beat, glanced away, then muttered under his breath, “I said I don’t trust people who let animals sleep in their bed.”

You blinked at him. “Jesus, Joel.”

He shrugged like it didn’t matter, like he hadn’t just taken a flamethrower to a perfectly decent date. “Didn’t like me the second she sat down.”

“Yeah, Joel,” you said, exasperated, “maybe because you said three words total, insulted her cat, and greeted her like she was an IRS agent coming to audit your crops. You shook her hand.”

He scowled deeper, already standing, already grabbing his coat like this whole night had been a bad dream he could storm away from. “That’s enough,” he muttered, brushing past you, out the door and into the cold.

“What the hell,” you hissed, pushing your chair in with a sharp scrape, bolting after him.

You caught up with him just outside, your breath fogging in the evening air as you jogged to close the space between you. “Joel! Stop.”

He did. He turned on a heel, the movement sharp, sudden, and his voice was rough when it came out. “What? Is that why you’re here? To tell me how shit I did? You think I don’t know I fucked it up? You don’t think I’m aware I ain’t some charming, fresh-faced guy women line up for? I know what I am. I know I’m well past my goddamn prime.”

You stared at him—this big, broad, stubborn man who looked like he was made of iron and regret, standing under the soft street light like it was trying to make something warm out of someone who didn’t believe he could be.

“Stop it,” you said, firm, breathless. “You want me to feel sorry for you? I won’t. Because you’re not past your prime, Joel. You’re still here. Still living. Still capable. You’re handsome, whether you believe it or not—Naomi said so herself before she even met you.”

He froze.

You could see it—that flicker of something in his eyes, just barely there, something startled and unsure. And it wasn’t your scolding that got to him, or the fact that you’d followed him out into the cold like you cared enough to keep trying.

It was that one word. Handsome.

Because you—who wore sweaters with daisies on them and drank out of a chipped Little Miss Sunshine mug and believed in soulmates and fresh starts and love at first sight—you had called him handsome. Had looked at him like there was still something good there. Something worthy.

He shifted, his shoulders tight, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat like he was trying to tuck his embarrassment away with them. His gaze didn’t quite meet yours, instead flicking sideways, focused on some invisible spot in the dirt. “Alright,” he muttered gruffly, voice thick with something he wasn’t ready to name. “Maybe I shouldn’t’ve shaken her hand.”

You watched him, lips twitching with the threat of a smile you didn’t dare let fully bloom just yet. “You think?” you said, teasing but warm, your voice low like you didn’t want to scare off this rare, soft moment.

He sighed, and it felt like it came from somewhere deep—bone-deep, years-deep. “I should’ve talked more. Been less—” he gestured vaguely, almost helplessly, “—me. More gentlemanly or whatever. It’s been a while.”

You took a step closer, slow and steady, like you were approaching a wild animal that didn’t quite know how to accept kindness. Your fingers brushed his forearm first, then settled there, grounding, gentle. He didn’t flinch. Just looked down at your hand like it was the first warm thing he’d felt all day.

“And that’s okay, Joel,” you said softly, eyes on his, voice like honey and heartache. “No one’s asking you to be perfect. You don’t have to get it right the first time. Or the second. We just… have to try. A little more. Next time.”

His eyes lifted to meet yours then, a brow arching with something halfway between surprise and amusement. “Next time?”

“Oh yeah,” you said, your hand still on his arm, your eyes sparkling with something fierce and fond. “I’m not givin’ up on you yet, cowboy.”

That earned you a sound you hadn’t heard before—a real chuckle, low and rough, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. It made something in you light up, bright and effervescent.

He shook his head, just slightly, like he couldn’t believe you, like he was still fighting the smile threatening his own mouth. “You’re somethin’ else,” he muttered, but this time, it sounded an awful lot like a compliment.

And you just grinned, the wind catching your hair, the cold forgotten entirely. Because for once, Joel Miller didn’t look like he wanted to disappear into the night.

He looked like he might actually be willing to stay.

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i wont be doing a tag list angels, im sorry it gets so confusing and messy for me !!! hope you understand xx

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joelsrose · 13 days ago

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The Materialists Review

no plot spoilers but my opinion on the movie and characters!!

guys… i just watched The Materialists and i’m honestly so disappointed 😭

i’ve been looking forward to this movie for so long — like, it was one of my most anticipated.

the aesthetic was gorgeous, and the cinematography was stunning. dakota looked beautiful, obviously, but her acting felt so monotone it was hard to stay connected.

i found her character so unlikable — and not in a complex or compelling way, just flat. her connections with harry and john felt so surface-level and empty. and she didn’t really have a personality outside of money and value. i get that was part of the point, but still????

i wanted to love this movie so bad 😩

what did you guys think about it ?

#the materialists #yap

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joelsrose · 14 days ago

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For the Hour - Part 2

part 1

warning: 18+ only MDNI, literally porn with a plot, oral (female receiving) angst (duhhh), age gap? (reader is grown tho) sex work, probably more tbh.

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You sat at your small dining table, the one by the window that caught the late morning light just right, your legs crossed and bare beneath the hem of the thin cotton dress you’d slipped on after your shower, the fabric shifting with every small movement as steam from your mug curled upward and disappeared into the stillness. The book in your lap was open, held lazily in one hand, but you hadn’t turned the page in ten minutes.

It had been two days since Joel had come over.

Two days since he’d stood stiff and uncertain in your doorway, thick fingers twitching at his sides, eyes too soft for a man so guarded, jaw clenched like he was waiting to be turned away.

And God, when you’d touched him, when you’d kissed him, when you’d spread your thighs and whispered it’s okay, let me take care of you—he had melted.

Right there in your hands, against your mouth, inside your body, he had unraveled with the kind of desperation that didn’t come from hunger but from starvation.

He’d stayed for hours afterward, tucked against your chest, his hand resting at your hip like he wasn’t quite sure if he was allowed to hold you but couldn’t stop himself.

You’d held him without saying a word, feeling the tension drain from his limbs minute by minute, until all that was left was the slow rise and fall of his breath against your skin.

There was something almost boyish in the way he curled into you, in the way he reached for your hand and kept it over his heart, like he didn’t know what to do with kindness that didn’t cost him anything. He had been quiet. Tender. So careful, as if moving too quickly might shatter the moment.

Only when the sun had dipped behind the trees had he finally stirred, mumbling something about Ellie, how he hadn’t meant to take up your whole day.

He’d stood awkwardly by the door, clothes half-buttoned, hair still mussed from your fingers, eyes flicking to you like he didn’t know if goodbye meant the end or just a pause. And you—you’d kissed him again. Slow. Soft. Not part of your services, not part of anything but instinct. Because you could see it in his face, the way he flinched when he looked at you like he didn’t know how to be wanted.

And then he was gone.

Now, two days later, your hair still damp from your morning shower, wrapped in a towel that dripped softly against your shoulders, you sat in the quiet hum of Jackson morning—safe, still, yours.

You loved this time of day. The slowness. The way the light filtered through the window and warmed the floorboards. The way the silence felt more like peace than loneliness. There was no client scheduled, no knock expected, no reason to think anyone would come.

Which was why, when the knock came, you froze mid-sip.

Your mug paused at your lips, brow furrowing as you stilled in place, your heart skipping once—not with fear, but with that curious flicker of something.

You racked your brain, trying to remember if you’d forgotten a booking, a visit, anything at all. But there was nothing. No name. No time. No one expected.

The knock came again—this time softer.

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You pulled the towel from your hair as you crossed the living room, squeezing the ends of your damp strands and dragging the soft cotton down until the tips clung to your shoulders in dripping curls.

You tossed the towel onto the back of the couch, pushing aside a few folded clothes and a half-finished book in a weak attempt at tidying, like straightening the space might somehow make you feel more prepared—less caught off guard.

The knock came again, softer now, almost hesitant.

You moved to the door barefoot, the floorboards cool beneath your feet, your dress swishing low against your thighs as you undid the latch. And when you opened it—heart skipping in that strange, fluttering way it always did when the quiet was interrupted—you found a familiar face waiting on the other side.

Tommy.

Handsome in that easy, sunworn way he always was, jaw shadowed with stubble, brows slightly furrowed like he was mid-thought. He stood with his hands braced on his hips, elbows out, chest rising slow beneath a worn white singlet that clung to him from beneath his unzipped jacket—like he’d thrown it on without thinking.

“Tommy,” you said, the word escaping in a breath of surprise, soft and warm. Then, instinctively, you stepped aside, pushing the door open a little wider. “Hi.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, and the sound of it—sweetheart, like it belonged to you—rolled off his tongue with a kind of easy fondness that made your stomach flip.

You smiled, a flush creeping across your cheeks as you reached up to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “I didn’t know you were coming over,” you said, voice airy with the kind of nerves he always seemed to stir without trying. “I would've gotten ready.”

Tommy’s eyes dropped.

Just for a second.

But you saw it.

The way his gaze flicked down your frame—your still-wet hair clinging to your collarbones, the slope of your neck bare, droplets of water catching the light where they slid along your skin.

His gaze lingered on your legs, smooth and freshly lotioned, bare beneath the hem of your soft cotton dress, thighs he’d seen bare and trembling more times than he could count.

And God, he felt it—that same ache rising up in him like it always did when he looked at you. Because you weren’t just beautiful—you were real. Soft. Familiar. A body he knew, a voice he craved, a face he could trace with his eyes closed.

“You don’t need to get ready,” he murmured, his voice a little rougher now, lower in his throat. “You’re beautiful like this.”

You blinked at that, warmth spreading beneath your ribs, the compliment catching you off guard—not because it was the first time he’d said something like that, but because this time, it felt heavier. Slower. Like it came from somewhere deeper than flirtation.

But before you could respond, his jaw flexed slightly, and he looked away—toward the inside of your home, like he was trying to collect himself. “Actually,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’m not here for that.”

You raised a brow, smile tilting with quiet mischief. “Oh?” you asked, stepping back toward the doorframe and crossing your arms gently under your chest. “Have I been replaced?”

He huffed, exaggerated and playful, rolling his eyes with the kind of ease only he could pull off—casual and familiar—but his smile didn’t quite reach the corners of his eyes. “Nah,” he said, voice low and a little rough, “I don’t think that’s possible.”

And just like that, he was already inside.

Moving through your doorway like he belonged there. Like this was just another morning or another slow afternoon where his boots tracked dirt across your floorboards and his voice filled up the quiet corners of your house.

He didn’t ask, didn’t pause, didn’t hover at the threshold—he just stepped in, shoulders relaxing the moment he passed through, like the air inside was easier to breathe.

This wasn’t the first time Tommy had wandered into your kitchen after a patrol, or passed through your living room with dried blood on his knuckles and exhaustion in his spine, his voice rasping with something half-guilt, half-need. He came here often—sometimes late at night, sometimes before the sun even rose—and every time, he said it like a joke, like it didn’t mean anything.

But you both knew it did.

Because he could’ve gone anywhere. He could’ve gone home.

And yet—he always came to you.

You closed the door behind him with a soft click, the sound oddly final in the quiet, like you were sealing something in.

Tommy glanced over his shoulder, catching the faint hiss of the kettle starting to warm. “You makin’ coffee?” he asked, like he already knew the answer.

You arched a brow, amused. “Yeah,” you murmured, brushing past him gently, the scent of your lotion still clinging to your skin, the hem of your dress brushing his jeans as you passed. “C’mon.”

You reached out and tapped his arm as you moved toward the kitchen, and even though the touch was light, brief, playful, he followed like gravity had pulled him in your wake.

You poured a second mug without asking—because of course he wanted one—and handed it to him wordlessly, your fingers brushing as you passed it over, the warmth of the ceramic nowhere near the warmth simmering between your skin.

Tommy took it with a small nod of thanks, then leaned back against the counter like it was something he’d done a hundred times, eyes dragging slowly over your space—the lived-in quiet of it, the faint scent of soap and sunlight and whatever perfume still lingered on your damp skin.

You sat down in the exact spot you’d been in before the knock came, folding your legs beneath you, the curve of your thigh peeking through the soft drape of your dress, your book still open and waiting on the table.

Tommy watched you for a second too long, fingers curled tight around the coffee mug, his knuckles pale beneath the weight of it.

The steam rising between you curled lazily in the air, but his gaze didn’t waver. It lingered on the damp tendrils of hair still clinging to your neck, the sheen of lotion catching the light along your thighs, the soft flush warming the tops of your cheeks. And you didn’t look away. Didn’t shift. Didn’t hide.

You tilted your head instead, smile curling at the edges, teasing just enough to break the tension. “Sit,” you said, patting the chair beside you with an exaggerated flourish. “You’re making me anxious, standing there all brooding like some moody gunslinger.”

“I don’t brood,” he said, but his voice was low and amused as he stepped forward, the words lacking any real heat. He pulled out the chair and lowered himself into it without resistance—because the truth was, he’d do anything you asked. Had always done anything you asked.

“Sure,” you said, drawing out the word with a smile as you brought your own mug to your lips. “How are you?”

He shrugged, sipped, looked down into the swirl of coffee like it might give him something else to say. “I’m alright,” he answered finally. Then, quieter, more hesitant: “Actually, I’m here to… check in on you.”

You arched a brow, feigning surprise. “Wow. Look at that. Real customer service.”

He huffed a soft laugh, and you saw his shoulders ease just a little, the corners of his mouth tugging up despite himself.

Then—casual, like he was just making conversation, like it hadn’t been burning a hole in his chest since the moment he stepped through your door—he asked, “How was Joel?”

Ah.

So that’s why he was really here.

You set your mug down gently, the sound soft against the wood.

His voice came again, a little rougher this time, scraping the edge of something vulnerable. “I mean—was he good to you? Not too…” he cleared his throat, glanced away for a second like it hurt to look at you while he said it, “not too rough?”

You blinked, the question catching you somewhere between tenderness and disbelief. And for a moment, all you could do was watch him—watch the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers curled a little harder around the handle of the mug, the flicker of something wounded in his eyes that he was trying very, very hard to hide.

“He was sweet,” you said, voice soft, thoughtful. You weren’t smiling exactly, but something warm passed across your face—like remembering something delicate, something still hanging in the air. “Like he didn’t know how to take more than a few steps toward me without apologizin’. Like he thought being touched would break him open too fast.”

Tommy nodded once, slow, his mouth pressing into a thin line, and you didn’t miss the way his jaw shifted—just slightly, just enough to betray how that made him feel.

You glanced at him, amused now. “I still can’t believe you told him I was a masseuse.”

That earned you a laugh—short, low, rough at the edges.

Tommy leaned back a little in the chair, his fingers still curled loosely around the coffee mug. “Yeah, well,” he said, shaking his head, “what was I supposed to say? ‘Go see the girl who gives real good head? Didn’t think that’d go over too well.”

You huffed, a surprised little sound, shaking your head as you looked down into your mug. “Jesus,” you muttered, your lips curving despite yourself as you took a slow sip, the warmth of the drink grounding you even as something in the air shifted—again.

Tommy was watching you closely now. Not in a hungry way, not yet. Just… watching, the kind of look you’d grown used to from him, like he was trying to read between the lines of your voice, your eyes, the softness in your shoulders.

Then, quiet—so quiet it almost didn’t reach you:

“Did he…” Tommy started, voice lower now, roughened like it scraped its way out of his throat, uninvited.

There was a pause—sharp, deliberate. Then—

“Did he make you cum?”

You choked on your sip, nearly spitting into your mug as your eyes snapped up in disbelief.

“Tommy,” you said, shocked, your voice jumping up a note, disoriented by the sudden shift in tone—how quick it turned from easy warmth to something heavier, more personal, more his.

He didn’t flinch. Just shrugged, far too casual for the heat in his eyes. Like the question hadn’t just dropped into the quiet like a stone into still water. Like it hadn’t just exposed something raw between you both.

You blinked down into your lap, the words stammering at the back of your throat. “I—I mean… no,” you muttered eventually, your voice quieter now, searching for the right shape. “But that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t about that.”

“It was more about letting him feel wanted. Giving him something kind. Something soft. Making him feel good without needing anything in return.”

The truth of it sat there between you—quiet and solid, like it belonged.

Tommy’s jaw clenched, the muscle twitching once beneath the rough stubble, and he looked away for the first time, like the answer had cost him something he hadn’t prepared to give.

You watched him, eyes narrowing slightly, and the question came before you could stop it, gentle but firm.

“Why are you asking me all this, Tommy?”

Your voice was soft, but not fragile—measured, steady, the kind of question that pressed for truth, not deflection. And maybe that’s what made it land the way it did. Maybe that’s why Tommy didn’t answer right away.

He shook his head, a slow, worn-out gesture, like the thoughts behind it were too tangled to say aloud.

His eyes flicked around your space, scanning the soft curve of the room he knew too well—your home, the safe little corner of Jackson that somehow always smelled like clean linen, candlewax, and something sweet.

His gaze caught on the blanket draped over the back of the couch, the coffee cups still warm on the table, the towel drying by the door—signs of you, everywhere.

And the thought of another man—let alone his brother—standing here, sitting where he’d sat, walking barefoot on these floorboards, having you in the way Tommy had… it struck him like a body blow.

A visceral, curling wave of nausea rose in his chest, sharp and sudden, almost enough to make him reach out for the edge of the table to steady himself.

He’d told himself it didn’t matter.

That what you two had was just business—sweet, messy, stolen little hours that didn’t belong to anyone but the moment.

But now, standing here, imagining Joel touching you with the same reverence Tommy had held in his hands so many nights before—it made his breath catch in his throat. It made the room feel too small.

You said his name again, gentler now, a thread of concern woven through it. “Tommy.”

He blinked hard, swallowing past the tightness in his throat.

“I don’t know,” he muttered at first, voice rough, like it scraped its way out. Then—clearer, more broken—“I don’t know, I just… I keep thinkin’ about him here.”

He gestured vaguely to the space between you, but you knew what he meant.

“I keep seein’ it,” Tommy said, his eyes flicking toward the chair where you sat, the late morning light glinting softly off the curve of your collarbone, the shine of your still-damp hair, the bare stretch of your legs folded beneath you—legs he’d kissed, held, bent, worshipped. “Him here. Lookin’ at you the way I do. Havin’ you the way I have.”

His voice caught on the last word—have—like it was too big, too personal, too revealing. Like saying it aloud turned everything you’d been pretending into something far more dangerous.

“Tommy,” you said quietly, setting your mug down, your voice steady but touched with disbelief. “You’re the one who wanted me to see him.”

“I know,” he said quickly, the words rushing out as if he could get ahead of them, stop them from settling in the space between you. “I know, it was stupid. I should’ve never—”

He cut himself off, the sentence fraying at the edges, and suddenly he stood, the legs of the chair scraping softly against the floor as he rose too fast, too sharp, like he needed to move before something inside him split open.

“Tommy,” you said again, this time firmer, a note of warning buried inside it, but he wouldn’t look at you.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice thick, eyes focused on anything but your face—on the window, the door, the wall, the floor, as if they might offer him a way out of whatever this was. “I shouldn’t’ve come. I should go.”

He turned, already halfway to the door.

And the silence that followed was loud—louder than anything either of you had said.

Because it wasn’t just about Joel.

It never had been.

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You’d spent the entire morning trying to make sense of what Tommy had said—turning over every word, every look, every silence he’d left behind.

Your heart fluttered each time you replayed the way his voice cracked, the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes, the way he’d stood so suddenly like the room was choking him.

You’d picked at the memory like a loose thread, hoping if you tugged just right, it might unravel into something clearer—something simpler. Something that told you if he’d meant more than what he said.

Half of you had expected him to come back.

Had imagined it more than once—he’d knock, all fidgety hands and breathless apologies, muttering something about being stupid, about not knowing what he was saying. Maybe he’d kiss you too hard at the door, maybe he’d push you against the wall, try to fuck it out of his system like he had before—try and forget what he said, only to remember it even louder in the silence after.

You didn’t even hear the knock at first.

You were wiping down the kitchen counter, your thoughts miles away, your hair now dry and curling softly at the ends, falling in the way it always did when you let it air out.

And for a split second, your heart leapt.

You thought—Tommy. You thought he came back. But when you opened the door, it wasn’t him.

It was Joel.

He stood there on your porch, eyes shy beneath the brim of his jacket hood, one hand scratching the back of his neck in that same bashful way he had when he wasn’t sure how welcome he was.

In the other hand, he held a small bundle of wildflowers—mismatched, a little uneven, clearly plucked from some overgrown edge of Jackson, their stems wrapped in a scrap of twine.

“Joel,” you said softly, the surprise slipping through your voice before you could catch it. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he said, voice low, his fingers fidgeting where they clutched the flowers. “I, uh… wasn’t sure if you were seein’ anyone today. Didn’t wanna intrude. I can come back if you’re with someone or—”

“No,” you said quickly, stepping back instinctively to make space that you hadn’t decided to give yet. “No, I was just cleaning.”

Your eyes flicked to the flowers, to the gentle way he held them—like they were fragile, or maybe like he didn’t quite believe he had the right to be offering them at all.

“Those are pretty,” you murmured, the words quiet but sincere, your voice softening as it slipped between you both.

“Oh,” Joel said quickly, as if remembering himself, as if realizing he was still holding the wildflowers like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

He stepped forward slightly, offering them out toward you, awkward but earnest. The bouquet looked small and delicate in his large, calloused hands—the same hands you’d guided over your chest just two nights ago, when he was trembling and quiet and nearly too gentle to bear, fingers hesitant and reverent as if every inch of you might vanish beneath his touch.

“They’re for you,” he murmured, his voice low, almost sheepish. “You got a bunch out on your porch already, so I figured… well, you might like some fresh ones.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself, a warmth blooming at the base of your throat, your cheeks heating as you reached out to take them. “You’re so sweet,” you said, almost under your breath, the words brushing past your lips like a secret you didn’t quite mean to say aloud.

Joel ducked his head slightly, eyes flicking away like he wasn’t sure what to do with praise that didn’t come laced in sarcasm. He stood there, still fidgeting slightly, like he was waiting for permission to go or stay—like he hadn’t expected to get this far.

You hesitated for just a breath, then stepped back, your fingers curling around the edge of the door as you pulled it open a little wider.

“Did you wanna come inside?” you asked, the question light on your tongue, casual on the surface—but it carried a thousand undertones neither of you dared acknowledge.

Joel’s gaze lifted to yours, and he nodded once, slow and a little uncertain, his voice gravel-soft. “Yeah,” he said. “If that’s alright.”

And you stepped aside.

And he came in.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

Joel sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped as though they couldn’t quite decide what to do with themselves.

His water sat untouched on the table beside him, condensation slipping lazily down the glass, forgotten.

His eyes drifted across the room as you moved about with quiet grace, placing the wildflowers in a vase with care, fingers gentle even as you fussed with the stems like it mattered how they stood.

When you finally came to sit across from him, legs curled beneath you, the silence that lingered between you was thick—not uncomfortable, but expectant, like something was waiting to be named.

You tilted your head, eyes glinting just a little. “How’s your back?” you teased, your voice light and playful, the smallest smile tugging at your lips.

Joel let out a soft, surprised laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, and you saw the tension ease just slightly from his shoulders. “It’s, uh… surprisingly better,” he said, gaze darting down toward the floor, “though I’m not sure it was the massage that did that.”

His ears flushed red as he said it, and his hands twitched in his lap like he didn’t know whether to shove them in his pockets or fold them tighter.

You laughed then—low, breathy, a little caught off guard by his shyness—and it was such a sweet, easy sound that Joel felt it sink right into his chest, warm and dangerous. He wanted to hear it again. A hundred times. A thousand.

“I hope it was good for you,” you said gently, your voice softer now, more sincere. “I hope you felt good.”

Joel’s expression shifted. He looked up at you, eyes troubled, then looked away again, his foot bouncing slightly against the floor.

“That’s actually why I’m here,” he said, the words stumbling out in pieces. “Shit—it’s just, it’s been a long time since someone… since I’ve…”

You moved without thinking, your body carrying you forward like instinct, and sat beside him, close but careful, your thigh brushing against his. You reached for his hand, your fingers curling gently around his, warm and grounding, your voice low and steady.

Joel swallowed hard, breath catching in his throat.

“Go on,” you said.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been with someone like that,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. “And I’m still—” He hesitated, jaw working. “I’m still upset with myself.”

Your brows furrowed, eyes narrowing slightly with concern. “Upset?” you echoed. “Why?”

He looked at you then, really looked, like the words cost something just to say aloud.

“I didn’t make you feel good,” Joel said, his voice low and heavy with something sharp, something shameful. “Not really. Not the way you deserve. I didn’t—God, I didn’t even think to…” He broke off, his voice cracking around the edges, his hand tightening where it rested uselessly on his thigh. “You gave me everything, and I just—took it.”

And oh God, he looked so broken.

Nothing like the man Jackson whispered about behind closed doors.

Nothing like the sharp-eyed patrol leader with a rifle slung over his back and a permanent scowl carved into his brow.

He looked at you like a man wearing his heart too far outside his chest, like it might split open if you so much as blinked too hard.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice barely above breath as your hand reached for his forearm, your fingers stroking over the worn fabric of his shirt, grounding him. “I wasn’t keeping score,” you said, soft and sure. “That night—it was about you. And you did make me feel good. You just don’t realize how much.”

He shook his head slowly, brows furrowed in disbelief, voice hoarse and threaded with that gentle Southern shame he’d never quite grown out of. “Not in the way I should’ve. My mama raised me better than that.”

You smiled, faint and wistful, your thumb still circling over his skin, and for a moment neither of you spoke.

Then his voice came again—quieter, rougher, barely more than a breath.

“I wanted to make it up to you.”

Your eyes flicked up to his, your heart thudding once, hard.

“Make it up to me?” you repeated, the question curling at the edge of something warmer, heavier.

Joel nodded once, slow and careful, like the moment might shatter if he moved too fast.

And then—your gaze dipped, caught by the unmistakable shape pressing against the front of his jeans, thick and straining beneath the denim, his body betraying just how deeply he meant it.

The sight made your breath hitch, your thighs shift, your body answering his want with a sudden swell of your own.

“If you’ll let me,” he said, voice low and reverent, eyes dark with need but soft with sincerity, “can I taste you?”

The question wasn’t crude.

It wasn’t cocky.

It was humble.

His hands were already moving, large and warm and trembling ever so slightly as they slipped beneath the hem of your dress, pushing the fabric upward in slow, reverent strokes.

His palms coasted along your thighs, the calluses catching gently against your skin as inch by inch, he revealed the soft cotton of your panties—already damp, already clinging to you in the most obscene way.

And still, his touch stayed careful, like he was unwrapping something precious, something he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to see again.

You watched him, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and awe—the same man who’d trembled in your arms two nights ago, who’d needed your guidance and tenderness just to feel safe enough to fall apart, was now beginning to take some of that control back.

But not forcefully. Not rough. Just… sure. Steady. Like he'd made up his mind that this time, you would be the one held. Worshipped. Undone.

“You can,” you whispered, voice breathless, your chest rising with the weight of the moment. “If you kiss me first.”

Joel’s eyes flicked up to yours, something impossibly soft blooming behind the heat there, and he smiled—a crooked, quiet thing that made your chest flutter. “Yeah,” he murmured, reaching up, cupping your jaw with one rough, stubbled hand. “I can do that.”

He leaned in, and when his lips met yours, you whimpered—honest and involuntary, the sound catching at the back of your throat like surprise.

His stubble scratched lightly at your skin, grounding you in the realness of him, the solidity of his body pressing closer. The kiss was warm and deep and unhurried, and you tasted something in it you hadn’t expected—gratitude, maybe, or hunger wrapped in guilt, in reverence.

And God, it did something to him.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, like the taste of you knocked the air out of his chest.

He broke away with a groan, thick and low in his throat, and then—without a word—he sank to his knees in front of you, the motion stiff but sure, the kind of groan a man makes when his bones don’t bend easy anymore, but he’ll get on the fucking floor if that’s where you are.

Instinctively—without thought, without hesitation—you opened for him, your legs parting wider like your body had already decided what came next, like it had been waiting for him.

He exhaled shakily, eyes flicking between your face and the place between your legs like he couldn’t decide where to look, like both were too much and not enough.

His hands—those hands—were warm and large and trembling slightly as they slid up your inner thighs, engulfing the soft flesh there, pushing gently until you were spread for him completely. The pads of his thumbs brushed over skin that had never felt so exposed, so seen, and his gaze was reverent, locked between awe and disbelief.

“Can I take these off?” he asked, voice low and almost hesitant, nodding toward the thin fabric still clinging between your legs. “Wanna see all of you.”

“Yeah,” you breathed, barely above a whisper, the word escaping like it had been plucked from somewhere deep inside your chest.

Joel moved carefully, slowly, like undressing you was an act that required gentleness. His fingers hooked into your panties, and he slid them down inch by inch, his eyes never leaving you, his breath uneven as he exposed more of your skin. And when they slipped past your ankles, one leg still hooked loosely over his shoulder, he didn’t toss them aside—he kissed the inside of your calf, lips brushing against your skin like a thank you, like a prayer.

And then he saw you.

Really saw you.

His breath caught, sharp and audible, and he went utterly still.

Because he’d seen you the other night—but not like this. Not on his knees, not up close, not when you were already so wet for him you glistened in the low light. Your folds were soft and flushed and soaked, your slick painting your thighs, and the sight alone wrecked him. His lashes fluttered, and he let out a quiet, reverent sound—somewhere between a moan and a gasp, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, voice cracking like the words cost him something. Slowly, with a tenderness that made your stomach twist, he reached out, and let his thumb drag a single, deliberate stroke through your folds, collecting some of the slick that had already begun to drip down the curve of your pussy.

His thumb stilled, glistening with the proof of your want, and when he looked up—eyes wide, lips parted, breath completely stolen—he stared at you like he was seeing something sacred. “You’re this wet for me?” he whispered, the words catching like gravel in his throat, his voice wrecked beyond recognition.

You nodded, your breath shivering out of you, but before you could speak, his hand drifted higher—past the curve of your slick folds to where soft curls framed your mound like something delicate.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he murmured, voice low and broken, like he didn’t even mean to say it aloud.

You tilted your hips forward slightly, your thighs twitching with anticipation, your voice a velvet hush. “Taste me,” you breathed, eyes dark and glassy, mouth parted in need. “I want your mouth.”

Joel let out a low, choked noise—a sound that came from deep in his chest—and nodded once, fast and fervent, like he was afraid if he hesitated you’d take the offer back.

And then he was in it.

His mouth closed over your core like he’d been waiting his entire life to taste you. His tongue licked a long, slow stripe from your dripping entrance all the way to your clit, and when he felt your thighs tense around him, heard the gasp that stuttered out of your lungs, he moaned into you. Low, guttural, helpless.

He let you move against him.

Let your hips roll forward, needy and desperate, and he took it—his mouth open, his tongue pliant, letting you grind against his face like you owned him. And maybe you did. He didn’t hold your thighs down, didn’t try to control the rhythm—you were the one with your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging and guiding, and every time you did, he rutted against the floor, his cock straining against the fabric of his jeans, aching for friction.

Because this wasn’t about his pleasure.

It was about yours.

He sucked gently at your clit, then flattened his tongue against it, letting you ride the pressure, and when you cried out his name—high, breathless, broken—he groaned again, louder this time, his hands fisting like he was trying to hold himself together.

Your thighs began to tremble.

The tension in your belly coiled tight, and Joel felt it—he knew it—and he didn’t stop. His mouth moved faster, wetter, messier, like he was trying to pull the orgasm from you with his tongue alone.

And then—

You shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you like lightning, white-hot and consuming, your back arching, your cry muffled by your own hand as you came against his mouth, soaking him, your thighs trembling around his face as your hips bucked and rolled and he didn’t stop. He moaned through it, kept licking, like he couldn’t bear to stop tasting you even as you came apart above him.

Only when your legs started to twitch with overstimulation did he finally slow, his mouth softening, tongue giving one last tender lick before he let out a shuddering breath and pressed his face into your thigh.

He stayed there.

Just… stayed, his cheek resting against your skin, his lips still brushing your inner thigh, eyes fluttered shut like he was trying to memorize this moment, like he couldn’t quite believe he’d made you come like that. He didn’t move to get up. Didn’t ask for anything. He just held there—breathing you in.

You were still trembling when you reached down for him, your body buzzing, your chest fluttering with aftershocks that hadn’t yet settled into stillness.

Your fingers threaded through his hair gently, tugging—not to guide him this time, but to bring him closer. Joel looked up, dazed and flushed and glistening at the mouth, lips swollen and chin slick with you. There was something wrecked in his eyes, something unsteady, as if he wasn’t quite sure if he was allowed to rise from his knees.

“Come here,” you whispered, voice rough with bliss, breathless from the high of it. You tugged again, and he followed instantly, like it wasn’t even a choice.

He rose slowly, his knees stiff from where they’d pressed into the floor, groaning just a little with the movement, and you met him halfway, hands cradling his face the moment he was close enough.

Your palms cupped his jaw, thumbs brushing over his stubble, and when your eyes met his, they were full of heat and adoration, soft and deep and real.

“You’re perfect, Joel,” you murmured, your voice the gentlest thing he’d ever heard.

He whimpered.

A tiny, broken sound escaped him before he could catch it—raw and completely involuntary—as if the words shattered something inside him that had been holding on far too long.

His eyes closed for just a beat, like he couldn’t bear to see the truth of your face while hearing that, and then you leaned forward and kissed him.

You tasted yourself on him—warm, sweet, slick—and moaned quietly into his mouth, your fingers still buried in his hair, tugging softly as his breath hitched against your lips.

Joel kissed you back slowly. Gratefully. He didn’t push—didn’t deepen the kiss like a man trying to take. He just let you have him, mouth parting when yours did, lips moving in sync like he didn’t know what else to do but follow your lead.

When you pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours for a moment, breath shaky, and then he nuzzled softly into the curve of your jaw—slow, needy, like an animal finding warmth. He didn’t speak. He just breathed you in, his nose brushing beneath your ear as he melted into your skin, letting you cradle him while his chest heaved softly, still recovering from what he’d just done to you.

You stroked your fingers through his hair, slow and rhythmic, your other hand trailing down the back of his neck, and he stayed right there—face buried against your throat, hands unsure, but present, like he’d stay in your lap forever if you let him.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

It had been hours since Joel left—hours since you’d come undone on his tongue, since his face had pressed into your thigh like he didn’t know how to leave you, like he didn’t want to.

Now, the room was quiet, the night creeping in slow and soft, the kind that settles behind your ribs and makes everything feel a little heavier.

You’d eaten dinner in silence, washed the dishes with trembling hands, gone through the motions of a routine you didn’t feel inside your body.

And now, tucked beneath the weight of your blanket, the hum of the lamp casting a warm pool of gold across your skin, you stared at the ceiling and let your mind spiral—because of all the things today could’ve been, this wasn’t what you’d expected.

You were still thinking about it. Still playing it all back. Joel’s voice. His mouth. His hands. His trembling apology. And Tommy—that morning—asking if Joel had made you cum, like some part of him already knew what the day would become.

You shook your head softly, a bitter little breath escaping your lips. Whatever this was, whatever it was becoming, it was getting harder to define.

You reached to flick off the lamp, your hand brushing the switch—

But then a knock.

Not loud. Just… there.

You groaned quietly, rubbing at your eyes with the heel of your hand as you pulled yourself from bed. You reached for your robe, tugging it quickly over your pajama shorts and singlet, tying it loosely at your waist, the soft cotton brushing against the bare skin of your thighs as you padded barefoot toward the door.

And when you opened it—

There he was.

Tommy.

Looking like he’d walked all the way from his house in the dark just to lose sleep over something he couldn’t name. His hair was a mess, shoved half-heartedly back into the low ponytail he always wore to bed, strands curling wild around his temples. He was still in his pajama pants, a flannel shirt unbuttoned and hanging open over a thin tank that clung to his chest, like he’d thrown it on at the last minute in a rush to be anywhere but alone.

“Tommy?” you said, brows furrowed, voice soft with confusion. “What are you doing here? It’s late.”

He didn’t answer.

Because the moment his eyes landed on you—really landed—he knew.

He stepped forward without a word, one hand rising to your face, fingers warm against your cheek, calloused palm cupping your jaw like instinct. And he saw it—all of it. The soft flush still lingering on your skin, the dreamy haze in your eyes, the way your lips looked just a little too kiss-bruised, your hair just a little too tangled.

He knew that face. Knew it too well.

Your post-orgasm glow was something he’d memorized over countless mornings, late nights, lazy afternoons—back when your body still sang under his hands.

And then— His gaze slipped past you.

To the flowers.

Sitting in a small glass vase on the table just behind your shoulder, their stems uneven, their petals a little wild and lopsided—but unmistakable. The same kind that grew along the fence outside Joel’s place.

And Tommy's stomach dropped.

He didn't say a word.

But he didn’t have to.

Because you were standing in your doorway, robe loose and soft over your thighs, the faint scent of lavender still clinging to your skin, and you looked beautiful. Unfairly beautiful. Devastatingly fucked-out and glowing, all flushed cheeks and parted lips, your breath catching like you didn’t know how to explain it, like maybe you didn’t.

And Tommy?

He just stood there.

Mouth parted. Eyes stunned. Chest heaving like he’d taken a hit.

Because the pieces had clicked. And they clicked hard.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

hope you enjoyyyyeedddddd

are yall team tommy or joel... 👀

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joelsrose · 15 days ago

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joelsrose · 16 days ago

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hey angels, i'm back! here is part 3!

i'm so sorry but i wont be doing a taglist because it gets so confusing!!! hope you understand

im so glad everyone is enjoying this series so far and i had so much fun writing it. part 1 and part 2 are here!

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Joel woke the next morning already muttering under his breath, half-formed curses strung between his teeth as he sat on the edge of the bed and yanked his boots on with more force than necessary, like the act of getting dressed itself was an inconvenience, like the cold floorboards and the memory of what he’d said weren’t already chewing at his thoughts.

“This is stupid,” he grumbled to the empty room, rubbing a hand over his face, jaw still clenched from a restless night. “Ain’t nothin’ to fix.”

But still—he tugged his jacket on.

Still—he grabbed the folded cloth bundle off the counter, the one with the damn bread he made that morning even though he told himself it was just habit, just something to do with his hands.

And still—he left the house, boots crunching against gravel, the sky above streaked with soft clouds, pale light pouring through the breaks like the morning itself hadn’t quite decided what kind of day it wanted to be.

He didn’t know exactly what he was going to say. He never did.

But he walked anyway.

Down the worn trail between cabins, past the little wooden fence where Benji’s toys were still scattered in the dirt from yesterday’s visit, past the quiet murmur of townsfolk just beginning to stir.

His shoulders were hunched slightly against the cold, but his hands were steady, and his steps had that slow, stubborn rhythm—the kind he got when he was doing something he didn’t want to admit he cared about.

He knew where you’d be.

You always helped unload the greenhouse supply crates on Wednesdays, that gentle routine of yours as predictable as sunrise.

He imagined you there now, bent slightly at the waist, sleeves pushed up as you wiped your hands on your apron, maybe tucking that strand of hair behind your ear the way you always did when you were focused—so damn kind it irritated him, so soft he wanted to look away from it but never could.

And as he reached the edge of the garden path, his boots just shy of the gravel turn where your shadow flickered against the greenhouse wall, Joel took a breath that felt too tight in his chest, cleared his throat like he could clear the guilt right along with it, and prepared himself to do the one thing he hated more than almost anything else.

Try.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You didn’t see him at first—not until you turned, arms full of empty baskets, ready to head back toward the shed and put some space between you and the ache still lingering at the edge of your chest—and there he was.

Joel.

Standing awkwardly at the far end of the garden path, backlit by the pale morning sun, looking far too large for the little patch of earth beneath his boots, with a bundle clutched in his hands like he wasn’t sure whether he meant to offer it or throw it away.

His shoulders were stiff, like they hadn’t decided whether this was worth the embarrassment, and his mouth was set in that same unreadable line that had pushed you away the night before.

And your first instinct—stupid and human and wholly unprepared for this—was to turn.

To leave.

To slip out of reach before he could speak, before he could say something else that might finish what yesterday’s silence had started.

You mumbled something half-formed, barely audible—“I should—sorry, I didn’t realize—” and took one uncertain step backward, your gaze fixed somewhere near the dirt, anywhere but his eyes.

But his voice stopped you.

Low. Rough. The kind of quiet only a man like Joel could make sound like a command.

“You don’t gotta run.”

The words landed soft but heavy, like the earth had exhaled with him.

You froze, your fingers tightening around the handle of the basket, not out of fear—but out of that unbearable vulnerability, the kind that comes when someone you want to care has already proven they can hurt you.

He took one step forward, not enough to close the space, but enough to be noticed.

“I, uh…” he started, then paused, his eyes dropping to the bundle in his hands like maybe it could speak for him. “I made this. S’just bread.”

You looked up slowly, cautiously, as if any sudden movement might shatter the moment between you—and sure enough, in his hands was a folded cloth, still faintly steaming at the corners, the scent of rosemary and flour curling into the cold morning air like some kind of truce.

“I ain’t…” he tried again, then cleared his throat. “Ain’t good at talkin’. Or… at fixin’ shit I broke.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched long and uncertain but didn’t hurt the way it had the night before.

You stepped forward, just slightly, just enough to meet him in the middle, your voice smaller than usual but steady.

“Is this an apology?” you asked gently, a ghost of something like hope threading through your words.

Joel exhaled through his nose, eyes dropping to the ground, jaw tight.

“It’s bread,” he muttered.

You bit your lip, fighting a smile you hadn’t expected to feel.

“Okay,” you said, reaching out to take it from him, your fingers brushing his just slightly, like the contact didn’t mean anything and meant everything all at once. “I like bread.”

He nodded once, then again, like maybe twice would make it feel less like something important had just happened.

You stood there for a long moment, two people surrounded by garden beds and quiet things beginning to grow.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You two were back at yours now, the walk from the garden long enough for the silence to soften into something companionable, almost shy, like neither of you quite knew how you’d gotten here but both were willing to let the moment stretch a little longer just to see where it went.

Joel had never been to your house—not that there’d ever been a reason for him to be—and yet the second he stepped through the door, he felt like he was intruding on something tender and private and irrevocably you.

There were wildflowers tucked into jars on every windowsill, their petals curling toward the sun like they belonged in your palms; a pink throw blanket draped over the arm of the couch; a little ceramic dish shaped like a heart filled with gold rings and mismatched earrings by the sink; and the faint scent of rosewater and vanilla that hung in the air like a whisper of someone who believed—deep down, in spite of everything—that love was still something worth inviting in.

It was small, sweet, soft around the edges in a way Joel had never let his life become.

And now he sat awkwardly at your tiny coffee table, a mug between his hands that read “love you, mean it” in swirling cursive, drinking coffee that was far too sweet, far too creamy, far too… you—and yet he didn’t complain, didn’t grimace, didn’t say a word.

He just sat there like a piece of furniture out of place, this broad, battle-worn man folded into your dainty, lavender-drenched kitchen like someone waiting for a punchline.

You watched him from across the table, cheeks warm with amusement, lashes fluttering as you stirred a second sugar cube into your own mug—your voice soft and curious when you finally spoke.

“So…” you said, cocking your head to the side just slightly, like you were trying to see if the light would hit him differently, “what made you change your mind?”

He didn’t answer right away—just sighed, long and low, like the breath had been sitting in his chest for years, waiting for the right moment to leave.

His thumb ran over the rim of the mug, slow and absent, eyes fixed on the table, not yours.

“I didn’t,” he muttered. “Not really.”

You blinked, heart skipping once, but said nothing.

Joel shifted slightly, his broad shoulders hunched in on themselves like he was trying to make himself smaller in a space too delicate to hold him.

“I just figured…” he continued, voice rough but quiet now, “if it meant you’d stop lookin’ at me like I kicked your damn puppy... I’d let you try.”

Your lips twitched, a laugh almost escaping—but it caught in your throat, tangled in something softer, something more fragile, because there was a flicker of something beneath his words. You could’ve pushed. Asked again. Called out the lie—because you knew Joel Miller didn’t change his mind for no reason, especially not about something as small and inconvenient as feelings. But instead, you let him sit in it. Let him keep his pride. Let him lie.

“Well,” you said, wrapping your hands around your mug and letting your thumb trace the rim the way he had, “I promise not to pair you with anyone who hates dogs.”

Joel huffed a low breath through his nose.

“Okay,” you said brightly, already shifting into your element, that familiar spark lighting up your features as you leaned forward and reached into the woven basket beside your chair.

Joel watched you warily as you unfolded your reading glasses—thin, gold-rimmed, delicate little things that perched on your nose like they belonged in a much gentler world.

And then—like magic, like some conjurer of hearts and chaos—you pulled a small, worn notebook from seemingly nowhere, its edges dog-eared, spine cracked, and corners filled with little stickers and loops of hearts, as if you couldn’t quite help decorating love wherever you touched it.

Joel blinked at the sight, his frown deepening.

“The hell is that?” he asked, suspicion laced thick in his voice, like you’d just pulled a grenade pin instead of a spiral-bound pastel journal.

You flipped it open with a satisfying little flutter of paper, your fingers brushing gently across the pages like they were sacred, until you landed on one in particular—a page that had clearly seen better days, with a name at the top that had been written in bold cursive, then scratched out, rewritten, circled, underlined, and scratched out again in a mess of exasperated swirls.

“It’s my matchmaking journal,” you said sweetly, tapping the page with your pen as if that explained everything.

Joel squinted. “Your what?”

“My matchmaking journal,” you repeated, pushing your glasses up your nose in that distracted, charming way of someone who was already too deep in thought. “It’s where I write down all my pairings, compatibility theories, failed first dates—oh, and moon sign clashes. That’s a big one.”

Joel just stared. At the journal. At you.

At his name, scratched out no less than three times.

And then back at you again.

“You’ve got moon signs in there?”

“Mhm.”

“And me.”

“Yes.”

“Scratched out.”

You blinked innocently. “You weren’t very cooperative.”

Joel leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and let out a low, grumbled exhale—the kind that said this is ridiculous.

“You’re serious about this?”

“As a heart attack,” you said brightly, flipping the page and clicking your pen like a surgeon preparing for something far more dangerous than romance. “Now, let’s start.”

Joel muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

But he stayed.

And you smiled.

And maybe—just maybe—this was going to work.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You started off simple—careful not to spook him, not to dive too deep too fast. The page, faintly crinkled from how many times you'd opened it, bore his name in bold ink: Joel Miller, underlined twice, as if writing it down could make sense of him.

You chewed the end of your pen for a moment, eyelashes fluttering in thought before you began speaking aloud, mostly to yourself but loud enough that the grumpy man across from you could hear every word.

“Joel Miller,” you read softly, tilting your head. “Fifty-six years old… former contractor… current grumbler…”

Joel shot you a look. “What?”

You smiled sweetly, tapping your pen against your chin. “Nothing. Just jotting down your strengths.”

He raised a brow. “That’s a strength?”

You nodded, scribbling something else down. “You’re consistent. Consistency is a green flag.”

He scoffed. “That what passes for romance these days?”

“Oh, I never said you were romantic,” you hummed, flipping the page to one with a soft pink sticky note that read Miller, Joel – High risk / High reward? in your looping script. “But that’s what I’m here for. We build from the rubble.”

Joel looked like he might argue. Or leave. Or groan loud enough to shake the walls. But he didn't, the calloused pad of his thumb brushing along the handle of his mug, saying nothing.

“Okay,” you said brightly, flipping a fresh page in your notebook, pen poised like you were about to solve a case. “Let’s start with something easy. What are some of your hobbies?”

“I ain’t got hobbies,” he muttered, not even bothering to look up from the swirl of black coffee in his cup.

You frowned, nose scrunching slightly as you tapped the pen against the notebook. “That’s not true. Everyone has hobbies.”

“Not me,” he said again, firmer this time, like the topic was already closed.

You exhaled through your nose, more amused than frustrated, and scribbled something down anyway.

Joel squinted across the table. “What’re you writin’?”

“Just… that your hobbies include cooking.”

“That ain’t a hobby,” he grunted, frown deepening.

“Yes it is,” you insisted sweetly, lips quirking as you glanced up at him. “And you’re good at it.”

He shifted slightly in his chair, the faintest twitch of discomfort in his jaw. Joel Miller was not a man used to compliments—at least, not the kind that came with soft smiles and genuine warmth. He grumbled something incoherent under his breath, but you caught the way his ears turned a delicate shade of pink, like embarrassment blooming just beneath the skin.

You smiled to yourself and closed the book gently. You met his eyes then—steady and warm—and tilted your head.

“Okay. How about we try this instead,” you said, voice softer now. “What do you look for in a partner?”

Joel’s sigh was long and heavy, dragged from somewhere deep in his chest like it hurt to even entertain the thought. He rubbed a hand down his face, fingers catching on the roughness of his stubble.

“I ain’t lookin’ for a partner,” he said finally, voice low, like he meant to end the conversation right there.

You exhaled softly and gave him a small, patient smile and said, “Joel. You said you’d do this. So if you’re going to—if you’re really going to—we might as well try.”

Joel just sat there in the soft golden quiet of your kitchen, shoulders hunched slightly forward, eyes fixed on the coffee in his mug like maybe it held a better answer than he could ever offer. The silence stretched for a moment too long, not tense exactly, but brittle.

“If it’s easier,” you offered gently, tilting your head, your voice that same calm lilt you used with nervous couples on their first matchmaking visit, “what kind of women did you used to date? You know… before all of this.”

He finally looked up, brows tugging together in a way that made the lines on his forehead deepen, like they’d been carved there by years of grief and sleepless nights. He squinted at you, skeptical. “You mean like… twenty years ago?”

You nodded, lashes fluttering once as you rested your chin in your hand, the pen still tucked between your fingers like you were ready to write down anything he might dare to say.

Joel exhaled, low and rough. “Jesus,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Ain’t thought about that in a long time.”

You stayed quiet, letting him take his time.

He gave a small shrug, eyes drifting toward the window. “Guess I used to go for women who didn’t take shit from me. Strong. Didn’t scare easy. Had their own lives, their own jobs… smart, too. I liked that.”

You smiled softly, already scribbling something in your notebook - something along the lines of - Looking for someone strong. Opinionated. Doesn’t back down. Smart. - Sally from the infirmary maybe???

He glanced at you, almost defensively. “That don’t mean I’m lookin’ for anyone now.”

“I know,” you said, that little smile still playing on your lips. “But it helps. Just paintin’ the picture.”

Joel grunted again—his signature form of communication, really—but it wasn’t the sharp kind anymore. More like a low, irritated rumble that said I’m only tolerating this because you made the coffee. He scratched at the side of his jaw, where the stubble had turned nearly silver, and narrowed his eyes at you as if you’d just asked him to solve advanced calculus.

“Okay,” you said, undeterred, pen poised above the notebook with a hopeful gleam in your eyes, “do you have any deal breakers? Like kids? Pets? A specific age range? Blondes? Brunettes? People who clap when the plane lands?”

That earned you a look. Flat, squinting, vaguely appalled.

“I ain’t orderin’ off a damn menu,” Joel muttered, leaning back in the tiny kitchen chair that looked about two seconds from surrendering under his weight. “This ain’t the goddamn Cheesecake Factory.”

You bit back a giggle, twirling the pen between your fingers. “So… no preference?”

He gave you a long, unimpressed stare. “My preference is peace and quiet.”

You gave him a look then—not judgmental, not pushy, just something warm and amused beneath your lashes, the kind of expression that made people feel safe enough to say things they didn’t mean to.

You tucked your pen behind your ear like you’d done this a hundred times before, and folded your hands in your lap, watching him with that unshakable patience he found both infuriating and disarming.

Joel exhaled through his nose, slow and rough, eyes dropping to his coffee as if it might offer him a way out.

The silence stretched between you for a beat, maybe two, and just when you thought he might clamp down entirely, he spoke—gruff, honest, voice low like he didn’t much care to hear it out loud.

“Someone kind,” he muttered. “Someone who doesn’t—doesn’t need me to be anything more than I am. Ain’t lookin’ to be fixed. Just… someone real. Good with quiet. Good with… mess.”

Your gaze softened, a small shift in your posture like you were trying to absorb the weight of what he’d said without frightening it back into hiding.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t tease, didn’t scribble it down like you had the other answers. You just looked at him, like maybe you understood the kind of ache he carried.

Joel cleared his throat then, uncomfortable with the silence, with your eyes on him like that. “But I still don’t want no one clappin’ when the plane lands. That’s just—hell no.”

You laughed, and it was light and musical and so very you, and for the first time since walking through your door, Joel didn’t feel like bolting.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

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joelsrose · 22 days ago

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hey guys

recently (as in the last day 😭) I’ve been getting a few negative inbox messages and I’ve honestly never received anything like this before.

honestly it’s really put me off writing for the moment (I’ve legit felt nauseous all day because of it 😭😭) and I hate that I’m this sensitive and letting it overcrowd the hundreds of positive messages I get from you guys

so that being said I’m taking a little bit of a break from writing

hopefully I’ll be back soon but for me this tumblr and writing is all for fun and I get so much enjoyment from seeing you guys enjoy the stories I post, but opening the app and seeing messages like that takes all the fun out of it

Sorry for the long message 😭😭😭 and I hope you guys understand💕💕💕

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joelsrose · 23 days ago

Text

harry castillo | Materialists (2025)

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joelsrose · 23 days ago

Note

hii. will there be more chapters of tangled in paradise?

I get asked this question every other day 😭😭😭 and yes!! I’m definitely planning to continue it — I haven’t abandoned it, promise.

But being real, it’s kind of on the back burner at the moment just because I’ve got a lot of ongoing fics right now that I’m juggling!!! 💕

#tangled in paradise #asks

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joelsrose · 23 days ago

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A/N I'm so glad yall enjoyed part 1 ! made me so happy seeing all the comments, hope you enjoy this part x

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You adored Tommy and Maria. That was no secret. Their house felt like a second home—the door always open, the hearth always warm, baby Benji always giggling in your arms like he knew something the rest of the world had forgotten.

You were there often enough that your teacup had a place on the shelf, your name was a murmur in bedtime lullabies, and your laughter belonged to the walls.

But Joel? Joel was different.

Despite your closeness with his brother and Maria, you and Joel had never been anything more than… polite shadows crossing paths. A nod at the gates. A quiet "morning" when your boots passed on the trail. He never stayed long enough for more.

Everyone in Jackson knew it—felt it. He carried himself like a man built from silence and steel, like someone forged in grief and never fully cooled. Where Tommy was sunlight, Joel was shadow. And not the soft kind, either. The kind you noticed in your peripheral vision—unavoidable, unmoving.

You didn’t need to know his story to recognize the shape of it. You saw it in the way he moved: cautious, careful, like the earth beneath him might give way if he stepped wrong.

You saw it in the tension that never left his shoulders, the way he never lingered, never asked questions he didn’t need answered. His eyes held the look of someone who had loved and lost so deeply he’d buried the whole concept beside whatever grave he no longer visited.

And he was, quite plainly, the last man in Jackson you’d ever try to matchmake.

Not because he didn’t deserve love—but because he didn’t want it.

Your methods weren’t scientific, but you had instincts. You always asked yourself the same quiet questions before setting anyone up:

What are they seeking?

What do they need?

And are they open to love, truly open?

Joel Miller failed the last question before it could even be asked.

He didn’t strike you as someone waiting for anything.

He struck you as the kind of man who’d wake up before dawn just to be alone with his coffee and the sound of his own breath. The kind who preferred the ache of his joints to the vulnerability of comfort. The kind of man who built his world out of habit, routine, and distance—and kept it that way because it hurt less.

He didn’t smile at people. Didn’t linger in town square to chat. Didn’t extend kindness unless necessity forced it from him. He wasn’t polite. He wasn’t soft. He was older, rough-edged, and entirely uninterested in being understood.

That was the truth of it.

So when Tommy leaned back in his chair that day, voice teasing but eyes glinting with something deeper, and said, “Find Joel someone,”—you knew exactly what he was doing.

He wasn’t asking. He was testing you. He had picked the one man in Jackson who didn’t want to be chosen.

And maybe… maybe he thought you’d fail.

But something about that challenge stuck in your ribs.

Because while Joel wasn’t looking for love—while he’d built his life so carefully around the absence of it—you couldn’t help but wonder:

What if he used to believe in it? What if he still did, quietly, deep down, in a place too bruised to admit it out loud?

And worse—what if the only reason he didn’t believe anymore was because no one had looked at him like he was worth choosing?

Not until now.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The first time you tried to bring it up, he was in Tommy and Maria’s kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something that smelled like heaven and looked like effort.

The scent hit you before you saw him—garlic, thyme, maybe something smoked. It wrapped itself around the room like a warm quilt, rich and unexpected. Joel stood over the stove, jaw tight in concentration, a hand towel slung over one shoulder like it belonged there. His brow was furrowed, focused, almost peaceful in that gruff, guarded way of his.

You hovered in the doorway, heart thudding traitorously in your chest.

You were used to being approached by people who wanted your help—who smiled too wide, who leaned in eagerly, who whispered, “Do you think there’s someone out there for me?” Not… this.

Not trying to coax someone toward the idea of love like it was medicine he’d refuse to take.

He didn’t look up when you entered. Or if he noticed, he didn’t acknowledge you.

You lingered by the counter, clutching the edge like it might give you courage. The silence felt loud. You hated that it made you feel twelve years old.

He finally glanced over, barely. “You need somethin’?” His voice was flat, more gruff than unkind, but still edged like a warning. You were an interruption.

“Oh. No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “Just—this smells amazing.”

He grunted. Actually grunted. Like a bear in a flannel.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes and instead muttered something under your breath—something like “charming” or maybe just “Jesus Christ.”

You cleared your throat. “So… do you like cooking?”

He turned his head a fraction, enough to eye you sideways. “It’s food.”

You blinked. “That wasn’t really an answer.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I cook. So I can eat.”

You gave him a flat look, but he was already turning back to the pot, stirring like you hadn’t said anything at all.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Dinner at Tommy and Maria’s was always warm—familiar, comforting, threaded with laughter and the scent of something slow-cooked—but tonight, it buzzed with a quiet, unbearable tension.

Joel’s food was, of course, incredible.

Rich and rustic, seasoned to perfection, made with the kind of care he’d never admit out loud. But he ate like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t spent hours making it. He was already halfway through his plate by the time you’d taken your second bite, chewing in near silence, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for a storm no one else could feel.

You sat across from him, napkin folded delicately in your lap, heart tapping anxiously against your ribs.

Tommy was loving this. His smirk was nearly unbearable—eyes flicking from your face to Joel’s with all the subtlety of a man watching live theatre. He knew exactly what you were trying to do. He could see the way you kept glancing down, folding and refolding your napkin, trying to find the perfect opening to ask a question you weren’t even sure Joel would let you finish.

You took a breath, then another.

Wiped your mouth—gently.

“This is delicious, Joel,” you said, hoping your voice didn’t betray how hard your palms were sweating. “Really. It’s… so good.”

He nodded once, without looking up. “Mm.”

That was all.

Tommy bit back a grin and reached for the bread.

You looked at him helplessly, and he looked about ready to combust from holding in his laughter.

You pressed your fingers to your water glass, steadying yourself. And then—“So,” you said, voice a little too bright, a little too casual, “do you cook often for other people? Or… someone in particular?”

Joel’s fork paused. Slowly, he looked up.

His brow furrowed, deep and unmistakable. That classic Joel Miller expression that hovered somewhere between mild confusion and why are you still talking to me?

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You tried to smile, but it landed halfway between charm and panic. “Nothing. Just… this kind of meal seems like something you’d make for someone special.”

He blinked at you. Once. Twice.

Then, “This a dinner or a damn interview?”

The words landed sharp. Not cruel, but cutting in that quiet, measured way only Joel could manage. Dry. Dismissive. Final.

It shut you up.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

After that night, after the dinner table rejection that hummed in your chest like an ache you didn’t know how to name, you decided there was no use in subtlety.

You had tried soft. You had tried polite. You had tried slipping things in like compliments folded into napkins, but Joel Miller was not the kind of man who read between the lines.

So the next time you saw him—three days later, tightening fencing wire behind the stables, sleeves rolled and brows furrowed in that eternal expression of someone perpetually unimpressed—you walked right up, leaned against the gatepost, and said, “Hypothetically… if someone asked you out, would you even go?”

He didn’t stop working. Didn’t glance at you. Just muttered, “Not interested in hypotheticals.”

You huffed, pushed off the post, and walked away.

Two days after that, you caught him hauling firewood into the school kitchen, face flushed from the cold, jaw tight. You handed him a cloth to wipe his hands and asked, “Would it kill you to let someone care about you?”

He blinked at you, deadpan. “You tryna get yourself assigned latrine duty with all these damn questions?”

You rolled your eyes and let the door shut behind you.

It became a pattern—awkward, pointed, persistent.

You asked him at the tool shed while he was oiling his shotgun, the scent of steel and turpentine between you, your voice feather-light but your eyes fixed carefully on his profile.

“What’s your type, anyway? If you had to pick?”

He didn’t even glance up. “People who mind their business.”

You tried again during patrol prep, the morning still damp with frost, his belt heavy with knives and yours with hope.

“You ever get lonely, Joel?”

He grunted without missing a beat. “You ever stop talkin’?”

After that, you told yourself you’d stop.

That maybe Tommy was right, maybe Joel Miller was the one locked door even your heart couldn’t open. You weren’t built to beg, and love shouldn’t have to be pried loose from someone like a tooth. So you promised yourself: no more questions, no more attempts. He didn’t want to be known.

But the promise frayed faster than you'd expected.

It had been a soft evening—one of those rare Jackson nights where the world felt quiet and intact, where the sun dipped low and golden behind the trees and the sky blushed lilac at the edges, and everything smelled faintly of woodsmoke and the promise of spring.

He was sitting on the porch steps outside the meeting hall, arms resting on his knees, posture taut like he was keeping the world at bay even while it softened around him.

You hadn’t meant to approach—not really—but something about the hush in the air and the loneliness curling at your ankles pushed you forward before you could stop yourself.

“Joel?” you asked gently, your voice low and full of something raw you didn’t try to hide this time.

He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t walk away either.

You sat down a few steps above him, enough distance between you to feel it. Enough hope left to try again.

“You really don’t think there’s anyone out there for you?” you asked softly, the words slipping from your lips like petals dropped into water, barely a ripple, as if saying it gently enough might keep it from shattering between you.

The air had cooled into dusk, the kind of quiet evening that made the world feel suspended—trees swaying in slow rhythm, the scent of smoke clinging to your clothes, light from the porch lantern casting golden shadows that didn’t quite reach him.

Joel didn’t answer right away.

He exhaled, slow and sharp, and the sound of it felt like something snapping—not loudly, not dramatically, just the quiet, unmistakable give of something that had been holding too much weight for too long.

And then, with his eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, his voice came low and flat and brutal.

“What I think,” he said, “is that you don’t know how to mind your own damn business.”

You blinked, lips parting just slightly, but he wasn’t finished. His gaze never touched yours, his jaw tight with the kind of bitterness that had lived in him too long to name.

“You wanna feel needed?” he continued, each word cut clean and cruel. “Go find someone who gives a damn. It ain’t me.”

And then—he looked away.

Not in shame. Not in regret. Just turned his head with the finality of someone who had decided you no longer existed.

Your breath caught in your throat, small and sharp like the echo of a sob that hadn’t made it out. You stood slowly, hands stiff at your sides, your body moving before your mind caught up, every inch of you suddenly aware of how foolish you must have looked—how fragile your hope had been.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly, but the words felt like they belonged to someone else. You didn’t even know what you were apologizing for—existing, maybe. Caring.

He didn’t look up.

You turned, your steps uncertain at first—just the gentle scrape of boots on wood—but soon they quickened, like maybe if you moved fast enough you could outrun the heat rising behind your eyes or the way your throat had gone tight and narrow, like your heart was trying to climb out of it. Your shoulders curled inward as you walked, a soft, instinctive folding—as if you could shrink yourself into something smaller, something less noticeable, something easier to leave behind.

By the time you reached the path, the sky had deepened to a bruised indigo, the sun swallowed whole behind the trees, and the wind that had once carried the scent of pine and firewood now felt sharp and cold against your skin, like it knew it had overstayed its welcome.

And Joel?

Joel just sat there.

Still. Silent. Staring at nothing like the world around him had gone quiet too.

He didn’t flinch when Ellie approached—her footsteps uneven, heavy with the kind of angry purpose only a teenager could carry—but he didn’t greet her either. Just kept his eyes on the dark horizon like it might tell him what he’d just done.

Ellie stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, her brows drawn so tight they nearly met.

“That was mean,” she said flatly, her voice cutting through the air like the crack of a branch underfoot.

Joel blinked, slow and deliberate, then rubbed a hand over his jaw, the scrape of his calloused palm loud in the silence.

“Ellie,” he muttered, low and tired, “how many times do I gotta tell you—it’s rude to eavesdrop.”

She rolled her eyes so hard you could hear it in her exhale.

“Yeah?” she shot back. “You know what else is rude? Being a complete asshole to someone who’s literally just tryin’ to care about you.”

He didn’t answer, just shifted slightly in his seat, his shoulders tight and his mouth pressed into a hard, straight line, like he was holding something back but wasn’t sure if it was words or regret.

“She wasn’t asking to annoy you,” Ellie went on, climbing the first step now, her voice lower but no less sharp. “She was asking ’cause she sees somethin’ in you. Which, frankly, is a goddamn miracle.”

Joel turned to look at her then—just barely, just enough—and the soft light caught the edge of his face, carved in angles and shadows, every line telling the story of a man who had carried too much for too long, who had forgotten softness because it had stopped surviving in his hands.

Ellie’s voice came quieter now, stripped of its usual armor, her hands still buried in her jacket but her posture more uncertain than defiant.

“You know I never met my mom,” she said suddenly, her eyes fixed somewhere beyond him, like the words were too fragile to look directly at.

Joel blinked, the shift in conversation jarring, his brow tightening in the center like something had caught him off guard and he didn’t quite know how to hold it.

Ellie shrugged, quick and small, like she regretted saying it the second it left her mouth. “I don’t know,” she added, voice softer now. “I guess I wouldn’t mind you… y’know. Finding someone.”

She said it like it was no big deal, like it hadn’t just cracked the air in two.

But Joel was still staring at her, still unmoving, still caught on that sentence—not the words themselves, but the space between them, the unspoken ache in her tone, the confession she hadn’t made outright but had wrapped in something lighter so it wouldn’t break the both of them.

“I mean,” she went on, her voice wobbling only slightly, “someone who’s good. Who could maybe… I don’t know. Be around. Help. Talk to me sometimes. If you weren’t. Not that I need it.” She swallowed. “Just… wouldn’t hate it, is all.”

The wind shifted again, cool and clean, brushing past them like it too was afraid to speak.

Joel looked at her like he hadn’t known—hadn’t let himself know—that there was a piece of her still searching for something she’d never had. Not just safety. Not just shelter. But softness. Guidance. A presence that could fill in the shape of something maternal, something gentle, something lasting.

Something like love.

And maybe, for the first time in a long while, Joel didn’t feel defensive. Didn’t feel the need to retreat behind some cold remark or hard silence.

He just sat there, staring at this kid—his kid—and realized with a slow, dawning ache that in all his effort to protect her from the world, he hadn’t stopped to think she might want more than just protection.

She might want family.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Tag List: (for future i think i will tag #cupidofwyoming for each chapter instead of a tag list because a lot of the time the tags dont work for some reason?! that way you guys can still find the chapters on my blog xx)

@joelmillerswife9 @meanderingcaptainswanmusings @mrfitzdarcyslover @noeeeeeeel @lostinthestreamofconsciousness

@fitzwlliamdarcy @mystickittytaco @millerdjarinn @missladym1981

@bardot49 @valkyreally @jeongiegram @fpsantiago @rattyfishrock

@wildthyng @quicax3 @alesomoza99 @sunfairyy @heartagram-vv

@4allthestars @vickie5446 @needz1nk @sadsydneystuff-blog @sunndroppp @kristinababy @cuteanimalmama @dailyobsession

@dulcebloodhnd @rigoler @brittmb115 @lizziesfirstwife @nandan11

@cinderblock24 @astroid-wanderer @ashleyfilm @lizzie-cakes

@sagexsenorita

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joelsrose · 24 days ago

Text

Harry Castillo was not a romantic man.

That kind of sentiment—tenderness, devotion, flowers in a vase and hands held in the dark—belonged to other people. Slower people. People with time to waste and hearts they hadn’t yet learned to bury. He didn’t believe in that sort of thing. Didn’t need it, didn’t want it.

Between back-to-back calls with global investors, restructuring a crumbling real estate portfolio in Madrid, and casually acquiring a hospitality group in Tokyo, he barely had time to breathe—let alone fall in love.

Romance, in Harry’s world, was a liability dressed in silk.

So when Simone—his brand manager-slash-strategic advisor-slash-occasional babysitter—slid into the leather booth across from him at Cipriani, her sleek iPad in hand and a pinched look between her brows, he already knew he wasn’t going to like what came next. She didn’t even bother with small talk. Just sighed and said, “Harry, they’re not buying it.”

He didn’t look up from his drink.

“They?”

“The Milan board. The family fund. The press. Take your pick.”

Harry finally raised his eyes, sharp and unreadable. “What aren’t they buying?”

Simone tapped the screen in front of her, flipping to a slide that showed his name in bold serif font, followed by the kind of clinical press buzzwords he hated—aggressive strategist, relentless closer, emotionally distant, unrelatable.

“Your image,” she said flatly. “They want values. Integrity. A personal narrative that feels... grounded.”

He snorted. “It’s private equity, Simone. I’m not auditioning for a Hallmark Christmas special.”

She didn’t laugh.

“This isn’t about Christmas. It’s about optics. You’re not just closing billion-euro deals anymore—you’re entering legacy circles. Old money. Philanthropists. They don’t want a stone-faced bachelor with a rotating door of models and no ties to anything but his profit margins.”

“So what,” Harry said, voice dry and razor-sharp, “I’m supposed to find God? Adopt a dog? Get a fiancée?”

Simone didn’t blink.

“Actually... yes. Something like that.”

He let the silence stretch between them like piano wire. Then, softly, like the thought bored him:

“You want me to find someone.”

“I want you to appear human,” she corrected. “Just for a little while. Just long enough to close Milan, ease the press cycle, and make people believe you’re not emotionally bankrupt.”

Harry swirled the amber in his glass, watching the light catch against the crystal like it might offer him an answer.

“And if I don’t?”

She shrugged one perfect shoulder. “Then you lose Milan. And probably Paris. And your seat on the Legacy Sustainability Board.”

He sighed, jaw clenching. The drink went untouched.

“Find someone,” he muttered. “Right. I’ll get right on that.”

୨♡୧

Simone sat across from him in his office, framed by the soft glow of the skyline bleeding in through glass walls that cost more than most people made in a year.

The space around them was sleek, minimal, intimidating—black marble floors polished to a mirror finish, matte leather furnishings that looked untouched, and shelves lined not with books, but with art pieces that whispered taste and capital in equal measure.

The air smelled faintly of oud and espresso, and outside the windows, Manhattan glittered like it belonged to him.

She was halfway through her third slide.

The woman on the screen was some up-and-coming socialite-slash-entrepreneur, smile manicured, hair glossy, bio packed with the kind of buzzwords you’d expect from someone who was born in the right zip code and never had to beg for relevance.

“Simone,” Harry said, glancing at the screen with the kind of disinterest usually reserved for corporate tax reports.

He checked his watch—Vacheron Constantin, silver, discreet, and brutally expensive. “This is ridiculous. I have a restructuring call with Zurich in fifteen, and I’m supposed to be in Tribeca for a closing by one. I don’t have time to audition fake girlfriends like it’s a casting call for a CW reboot.”

Simone didn’t flinch. She never did. She just raised an eyebrow and flicked to the next slide.

Harry sighed, leaned forward, elbows resting against the smoked-glass table, his voice dropping into something drier. “You said Milan wants legacy. Values. Family-oriented investment partnerships. These girls all look twenty years old and built for poolside brand deals. You think any of them screams stable, long-term commitment? They look like they still call their dads when they get parking tickets.”

Simone sighed, her perfectly lined eyes still fixed on the glowing tablet in her lap. “You’re right,” she said finally, flipping the screen closed with a dramatic little snap, her tone dry as gin.

“Fine. I’ll find uglier girls.” She stood with practiced grace, smoothing down her blazer, already mentally re-sorting her list of “acceptable human women to stand next to Harry Castillo and not look like paid PR.”

Harry chuckled, low and amused, the sound curling at the edges of his mouth as he leaned back in his chair, the faintest smirk playing at his lips. It wasn’t a laugh so much as an exhale laced with private amusement—the kind of sound that made people either fall in love with him or want to throw a drink in his face. Sometimes both.

As Simone turned to leave, she paused just before the door, fingers already tapping a reminder into her phone. “Oh—and don’t forget, you’ve got that charity art thing tonight.”

“What charity art thing?” he muttered, brow furrowing.

“The showcase. Big names. Private collectors. Bougie rich-people art and overpriced wine. You’re on the guest list and three donors specifically asked if you’d be attending.”

Harry groaned, pressing his fingers to his temple. “Fuck. Do I have to go to that?”

“Yes,” Simone said without turning around. “Because unfortunately, your reputation still depends on pretending you have taste and a soul.”

He sighed like it physically hurt him to care.

Harry Castillo was the kind of man who made Forbes lists before forty and never answered calls he didn’t initiate.

He wore bespoke suits like they were second skin and had a revolving door of romantic rumors without ever confirming a single one.

He was charm where it counted, cold when it didn’t, and entirely too busy turning collapsing portfolios into gold to bother with anything as trivial as attending art galas. But still—there was something about his presence that people craved, something that made rooms tilt just slightly when he walked into them.

He would go. He always did. He’d shake hands, sip something expensive, and pretend not to notice the cameras.

୨♡୧

You weren’t really meant to be here. Not in this world of glass flutes and gallery lighting, not among the crowd of socialites and billionaires pretending to care about postmodern sculpture just to have an excuse to sip overpriced champagne and discuss offshore accounts in hushed, knowing tones.

But your best friend Maddie ran the gallery—well, technically she managed it under some art foundation umbrella with a name that sounded more like a hedge fund than anything creative—and one of the servers had called in sick at the last minute.

So she called you, voice breathless and desperate, promising that you wouldn’t even have to smile, just walk around and hand out hors d’oeuvres and avoid eye contact with the guests unless absolutely necessary.

You were twenty-seven, broke, and running dangerously low on both rent and pride. You had exactly $114 in your checking account, your credit card had been declined at a bodega two nights ago, and the black flats you were wearing had a barely-there hole in the toe that you were praying no one noticed. Your dress wasn’t technically yours—it was a loan from Maddie’s closet, too tight at the bust and too loose at the hips, but it looked sleek enough under the gallery lights to pass.

The space was already buzzing by the time you arrived—wine glasses clinking, conversations murmured in that slow, affected tone of the elite, the kind where everyone sounded bored but somehow still competitive. The art on the walls looked like the kind of thing that could’ve been made with a blindfold and trauma, but people stared at it like it held the meaning of life.

You moved through the crowd with a silver tray balanced on one palm, offering truffle canapés and duck tartlets to people whose fake teeth probably cost more than your first car. A man in a velvet blazer took two and didn’t even look at you. A woman with a surgically perfect jawline asked if they were gluten-free and then scoffed before you could answer.

You didn’t belong here, not really—but you were good at pretending.

୨♡୧

After nearly an hour of weaving between white walls and sharper elbows, balancing a silver tray of wine and overpriced cheese, your feet ached in that dull, pulsing way that made you question every life decision that had led to this moment.

The gallery was crowded now, humming with the low, indulgent buzz of wealth disguised as sophistication—people discussing brushstrokes like they understood suffering, sipping champagne that probably cost more than your monthly rent, laughing politely at things that weren’t funny.

You turned on your heel, tray steady in your hand, and collided with someone—hard.

Nothing fell, thankfully, but the jolt sent a sharp sting through your wrist. You looked up quickly, already ready to mutter an apology, only to find that the man who’d bumped you hadn’t even paused. He was tall—taller than you expected—with broad shoulders framed by a suit so precisely tailored it had to be custom.

His jaw was sharp, his beard perfectly groomed, and set in a way that suggested he rarely, if ever, apologized for anything. Hair dark and curled at the nape, neatly swept back with just the right amount of effort, and his expression—flat, unreadable—didn’t shift as his eyes landed on you.

He didn’t say a word.

You blinked at him. “You could say excuse me, rich boy.”

He turned back to you, brows lifting slightly like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you correctly. “Excuse me?”

“There we go,” you said, giving him a tight, sarcastic smile as you adjusted the tray on your hand. “Wasn’t too hard, was it?”

For a moment, he just stared at you. Like you were some abstract painting he couldn’t quite make sense of. His gaze flicked down—not in the sleazy way you were used to from finance types at events like this, but in that calculating, assessing way that said he was categorizing you, fitting you into some quiet box in his mind.

He tilted his head. “Do you speak to all the guests that way?”

“Only the ones who think they’re too important to say sorry,” you replied, already stepping past him, voice airy. “Enjoy the cheese. It’s the only thing here worth what it costs.”

You didn’t look back. But if you had, you might’ve caught the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Not yet.

Harry Castillo didn’t usually get spoken to like that.

And suddenly, he wanted to know exactly who the hell you were.

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