lemon-world1

[lemon-world1]

There are fics that bring comfort in just a few hundred words. Some lift your mood, brighten your day, and stay with you for a moment or two.

And then…there’s Alana.

Her stories are long enough to lose yourself in for hours. Chapters that reach in and touch something deep. Every word feels intentional, every sentence crafted with care. Honest, raw, and utterly genuine. These fics don’t just linger for a day, they stay with you, echoing long after the final scroll.

No shade to any other writer - there’s incredible talent all around. But with Alana, we’ve got something rare. A little genius in our midst.

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@foxtrology 🤍 Thank you

it ain't me babe (2)

joel miller x reader

series

ao3 link

warnings: no y/n, smut, fluff age gap, female reader.

word count: 15.k

─────

Six months.

It had been six full months since that night on the porch—since the snow, the whiskey, the ache. Since she’d asked him if it was one-sided, and Joel had looked at her like the truth might kill them both.

It’s not, he’d said. And then nothing had happened.

Not in the way people might’ve expected. There was no kiss. No grand confession. No tangled sheets or impulsive mistakes. Instead, something quieter took root. Something steadier.

They fell into a rhythm.

Mornings meant breakfast at the mess hall—her, Joel, and Ellie sitting in their usual corner table. Ellie griped about early patrol shifts while poking at eggs with a fork, Joel drank his coffee like it was penance, and she—well, she watched them both with a quiet kind of fondness she’d never known how to name.

After breakfast, it was patrol. Joel paired with her every time, without question. They rode side by side through snow-packed trails and frozen rivers, never needing to talk much, though sometimes they did.

She told him about the horse she’d trained to recognize clicker sounds. He told her about a guitar he used to play—used to, because the sound made him too damn sad now.

Afternoons, he’d show up at the stables. Said he was just “helpin’ where help was needed,” but she knew better. He helped muck stalls, repair fences, haul hay bales like they weighed nothing. Never hovered. Never gave orders. Just…showed up.

And when he left, he always found Willie and gave him a quick scratch behind the ears. The dog adored him now—probably more than anyone else in Jackson, aside from her.

Their conversations grew longer. Their silences more comfortable. They began moving through the world like a unit—not loudly, not publicly, but with an understanding that didn’t need spelling out.

And her father hated it. He hadn’t said it outright. He didn’t need to.

It was in the way his jaw locked whenever she returned home late from patrol with Joel.

The way his fingers twitched when Joel’s name came up at dinner.

The way he stood just a little straighter when they passed each other in the street, like he needed to remind everyone—including himself—who she belonged to.

“You’re riding with Jack tomorrow.”

The statement came over stew. Blunt. Cold. She looked up from her bowl, spoon frozen halfway to her mouth.

“No, I’m not,” she said.

Her dad’s eyes were level. “Already cleared it with Tommy.”

“You what?”

“Joel’s off patrol. Jack’s taking his place. You’ll be riding the south route.”

She set the spoon down with a soft clatter. “You don’t get to do that.”

“I do, actually. And I did.”

Her voice dropped, flat and dangerous. “You went behind my back.”

He didn’t flinch. “You’ve been spending too much time with him.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And?”

“And you’re not thinking straight.”

“Oh, right,” she snapped. “Because I must’ve lost all sense the second I let a man speak to me.”

His mouth tightened. “I’m protecting you.”

“From what? Joel? He’s not a threat.”

Her father’s voice rose for the first time.

“He’s everything I ever taught you to avoid. Older. Hard. Violent. That man has a trail of bodies behind him longer than the Snake River.”

“He also fixed my trough last week,” she shot back. “And brought a heater during the blizzard. And makes sure I eat when I forget to.”

“That’s not love,” he said, low. “That’s penance.”

She stared at him. Her chest hurt.

“You don’t know him,” she said.

“I know men like him.”

She stood, chair scraping against the floor. Willie lifted his head from where he laid under the table.

“I’m not a child,” she said. “You don’t get to control who I ride with.”

“I’m not controlling you. I’m reminding you who you are. What you’ve survived. And who you owe that survival to.”

She froze. The words sliced deeper than he intended—and from the way his expression shifted, he knew it.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” she said, grabbing her coat. “You always do.”

And then she left. Willie followed silently, tail low.

The next morning, she showed up at the stables before sunrise, saddle already over her shoulder. She could see Jack near the gate, rubbing his gloved hands together, clearly waiting for her.

But Joel was there, too—leaning against the barn, one boot braced against the wood, coffee in hand.

She didn’t speak. Just walked past Jack and tossed the saddle onto her horse’s back with more force than necessary.

“You’re not paired with him,” Jack called.

She didn’t look at him. “That so?”

“Tommy said—”

“I don’t care what Tommy said.”

She mounted the horse in one smooth motion.

Joel stepped forward. Quiet. Watchful.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

She met his eyes. “I ride with who I trust.”

He didn’t smile. But his gaze softened.

She turned the horse toward the gate. “You coming, or what?”

Joel swung up onto his mount without a word, and together, they rode out before anyone could stop them.

By noon, the snow was falling sideways.

They took cover near an old ranger’s outpost, the kind built back when the woods had still been part of a national park. Inside, the floor was littered with leaves and mouse droppings, but it was dry. Sort of.

She sat with her back to the wall, arms crossed. Joel crouched near the door, scanning the trees like the storm might spit out clickers just for fun.

“Your old man’s not gonna be happy,” he said finally.

She snorted. “He hasn’t been happy in years.”

Joel didn’t answer. Just looked at her.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just thinkin’.”

“That’s dangerous.”

He huffed. “You and him ever fight like that before?”

“All the time. Just not about you.”

His brow furrowed. “So I’m the problem now?”

She rubbed her hands together for warmth. “No. The problem is that you’re not the kind of person he can control.”

Joel didn’t respond.

“But you don’t try to control me, either,” she added. “That’s why he doesn’t trust you. And why I do.”

Joel glanced down at his gloved hands.

“People talk,” he said after a moment. “About me.”

“I know.”

“They say things. About what I’ve done. Who I’ve been.”

She looked at him. “I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I do care,” she corrected. “But not in the way you think.”

He shifted against the wall. The silence stretched, long and brittle.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted, finally.

“Neither do I.”

“But it’s...somethin’.”

She nodded.

“Yeah. It is.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her. Just looked like he wanted to. She sat still, heartbeat loud in her ears.

“I ain’t good at this,” Joel said. “I never was.”

“You don’t have to be good at it,” she said softly. “You just have to show up.”

“I'll show up whenever you want me to,” he said.

She smiled, small and real. “I know.”

Outside, the wind screamed against the cabin walls. But inside, it was quiet. And warm enough.

By the end of the week, Maria got involved. She cornered her outside the stables, one hand resting on the curve of her pregnant belly like a shield.

“We need to talk,” Maria said.

She wiped her hands on her jeans. “About what?”

“Joel.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You always this subtle?”

Maria didn’t blink. “Your father’s concerned.”

“Of course he is.”

“And I’m concerned, too.”

She crossed her arms. “Why?”

“Because Joel’s a threat.”

“No,” she said. “He was a threat. There’s a difference.”

Maria’s expression didn’t change. “You’re young. And he’s Joel.”

“And you don’t like him,” she said.

Maria didn’t deny it.

“I’ve known men like him. My whole life. They only love in moments of calm, and they burn everything when things get hard.”

She nodded once. “Well, I’ve known men like my dad. Who protect so hard they forget how to let go. Who teach you not to trust anyone until you don’t even trust yourself.”

Maria went quiet.

“I’m not asking you to like him,” she said. “But don’t treat me like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Maria’s voice softened. “He’s not going to give you what you want.”

“I’m not asking him to.”

“You will.”

That, she didn’t have an answer for.

That night, Joel fixed her tack room door. It had been creaking for weeks. She hadn’t asked. But she found him there anyway, kneeling in the dark, screwdriver in hand.

She stood behind him, arms crossed, “You always break in like this?”

“Door was open,” he said.

“It’s always open.”

He glanced up. “That ain’t safe.”

“I know.”

She stepped inside, closed the door behind her. He stood. Dusted off his hands. The space between them felt thinner than usual. Closer.

“They’re going to keep pushing,” she said.

“I know.”

“They want me to stop seeing you.”

His jaw tightened. “That what you want?”

“No.”

He looked at her like that meant something he didn’t know how to handle. She stepped closer. Just a little.

“I don’t scare easy, Joel.”

“I know that too.”

She was inches away now. He didn’t move. Didn’t touch her. But she felt him anyway. That quiet heat. That slow, aching want he didn’t know what to do with.

“You ever gonna kiss me?” she asked.

Joel swallowed. And then—finally—he did. It was slow. Careful. Like he thought she might shatter.

She didn’t. She leaned in and kissed him back like she’d been waiting two goddamn months. And maybe she had.

When they pulled apart, they didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He touched her cheek once, soft. And she let him.

Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, the world held still.

The air between them was warmer now—like the kiss had ignited something neither of them wanted to name yet. Her eyes were still closed, her breath caught halfway in her throat.

Joel hadn’t moved away. Not fully. Just hovered there, gaze flicking between her eyes and her lips like he wasn’t sure if one kiss had been a mistake or a beginning.

Then—

Willie barked. Not once. Not twice. A full, echoing string of sharp warnings from just outside the barn.

Both of them jerked slightly—guilt and tension crackling between them like live wire.

The tack room door creaked open with a creaking groan, and then—

“Oh my god, finally.”

Ellie stood just inside the doorway, eyebrows halfway up her forehead, mouth open like she’d stumbled into a crime scene.

Willie trotted in behind her like he’d done his duty and was now ready for his treat.

Joel took one step back from her, rubbing the back of his neck in that guilty, awkward way she was starting to recognize. His cheeks flushed with unmistakable red, jaw clenched tight as he looked everywhere but directly at Ellie.

“Jesus, Joel,” Ellie deadpanned, “you look like I caught you watching old people porn.”

Her mouth fell open.

Joel groaned, low and pained. “Ellie…”

“What?” Ellie said, spreading her hands like she was the picture of innocence. “I’m just saying, I knew something was going on. I’ve seen the way you two hover around each other. The glances. The weird carpentry flirting. It was just a matter of time.”

“I don’t hover,” Joel grumbled.

“You are the definition of hovering,” she shot back. “You probably invented hovering.”

Joel muttered something that might’ve been a curse.

Willie barked again and padded over to sniff Ellie’s boots before flopping down on a saddle blanket like he was bored of all of them.

She couldn’t stop the laugh that rose in her chest—not the full kind, just a huff, but it cracked the tension wide open.

Ellie pointed a thumb over her shoulder. “Anyway, I was sent to get you two for dinner before I walked in on your moment. So let’s go. I’m starving and Tommy said if Joel doesn’t show up soon, he's feeding his stew portion to the sheep.”

Joel blinked. “He’s not—”

“He is. I asked.”

The walk to the mess hall was quiet at first—mostly because Joel didn’t say a word, and she couldn’t stop replaying the feel of his lips against hers.

It hadn’t been dramatic. It hadn’t been desperate. It had just…been. And that was somehow worse. Because it meant it was real.

She didn’t know what it meant for tomorrow, or next week, or what she’d say to her father when he inevitably found out, but in that moment, she let herself feel it.

The quiet buzz beneath her skin. The warmth lingering behind her ribs. The small, strange twist in her stomach when she saw how Joel’s fingers still hovered near hers, like he wanted to reach for her and didn’t quite know how.

Ellie, walking ahead with Willie bouncing beside her, didn’t let the silence last long.

“So, what’s the plan now?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder with that trademark glint in her eye. “Gonna get married in the greenhouse? Willie can be the ring bearer.”

Joel let out a long sigh.

“Dina can officiate,” Ellie continued, undeterred. “She’s got a great voice.”

“You need to stop talkin’,” Joel muttered.

“You’re blushing,” she pointed out gleefully. “Oh my god, you are actually blushing. This is the best day of my life.”

“Ellie,” he warned, voice gravel and threat.

Ellie turned to look at her. “Can I be the flower girl?”

She grinned. “Only if you promise to wear the dress.”

“Gross! No!”

Joel stopped walking. “No one’s wearin’ a dress.”

Ellie and Willie both ignored him.

The mess hall was warm, loud, and full of the usual clatter of evening routine. Kids darted between tables. Someone had rigged a record player to spin an old folk album in the corner, the scratchy notes of a guitar weaving under the din.

As soon as they stepped through the doors, she saw them—her father and his old friend Jack, sitting at their usual table near the north wall. The second Joel entered behind her, both men straightened, shoulders tightening like they were preparing for a fight.

Willie, oblivious to the tension, trotted directly over to them, tail wagging, ears up. He sat politely by Jack’s knee, earning a scratch behind the ears, then nudged his nose toward her father’s hand with quiet expectation.

Her father didn’t pet him at first. Then, after a moment, he gave one short scratch behind the ear. It was muscle memory, not affection.

Jack whispered something to him, and both men’s eyes tracked her across the room like spotlights. She didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Just kept walking toward the far end of the room where Ellie and Dina had already claimed a table.

Joel hesitated behind her for half a second before following.

Dinner was stew. Again. Joel said nothing about it, but she noticed the way he always stirred it clockwise, slow and deliberate, like his thoughts were louder than his appetite.

Ellie, on the other hand, had no such distractions.

“So,” she said between spoonfuls, “Dina and I were talking, and we decided we’re forming a community watch group for your relationship.”

She blinked. “A what?”

“A watch group,” Dina chimed in, grinning. “To monitor and track all romantic developments in this emotionally repressed post-apocalyptic will-they-won’t-they we’ve been forced to live through.”

Joel groaned. “Christ.”

“Language,” Ellie teased. “You’ve got children present.”

“You are the child,” he muttered.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

“I mean, it’s not like we’re judging you,” Dina continued, spoon tapping against her bowl. “We’re just… observing. For science.”

“This ain’t science,” Joel said, exasperated. “It’s harassment.”

“Only if we write it down,” Ellie said. “Right now it’s just casual undercover work.”

Joel glared at her.

Dina shrugged. “Also, your kid’s been beaming all evening. Pretty sure that’s a good sign.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “I’m not his kid.”

Joel looked like he was about to argue, but stopped. Something passed over his face—a flicker of something unspoken and fragile.

He didn’t correct her. But he also didn’t deny it. She caught the shift. Stored it away. Something in her chest tugged a little harder.

Across the mess hall, she could feel her father’s stare like a second spine. She glanced up once—just briefly—and met his eyes.

Hard. Unblinking. Jack was whispering something again, and her father didn’t blink.

She felt Joel shift beside her. His body didn’t move much, but his attention did. Like he could feel it too.

When dinner was over, Ellie and Dina walked ahead, heading towards her home, already planning something chaotic for the next day. Joel and her hung back by the door.

Willie returned to her side, brushing against her leg. She didn’t say anything. Neither did Joel.

Outside, the air was biting. The wind had shifted direction, blowing off the mountains, colder now.

She paused just outside the mess hall. Joel did, too.

“You feelin’ watched?” he asked, quiet.

“I’m always watched.”

He didn’t look at her. Just scanned the street.

“You think he’s gonna say somethin’?”

She shrugged. “He already did.”

Joel’s jaw worked for a moment. “You want me to back off?”

She turned to face him.

“No,” she said. “I want you to stay.”

He looked at her then. Really looked. His eyes were tired, but not unsure.

“I ain’t gonna make this easy,” he said.

“I didn’t survive this long looking for easy.”

A long pause. Then, “You wanna come by?” he asked, voice low. “I got coffee. Better than the bark stuff.”

Her heart skipped. She didn’t answer. She just started walking in the direction of his house, Willie trotting beside her.

Joel followed. And somewhere in the dark, behind windows and whispers and flickering porch lights, she knew people were watching.

But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t care. Because tonight, the snow was falling quiet again. And she wasn’t walking alone.

Joel didn’t say anything as they moved through the snow-covered street, his footsteps falling into rhythm with hers like it had always been this way. Willie trotted beside them, his nails clicking on the wooden porch when they reached Joel’s house.

The wind howled around the corner of the street, whipping at her flannel, tugging strands of hair loose from her braid. Joel stepped up behind her and opened the door without a word, holding it just long enough for her to pass through before following behind and closing it against the cold.

Inside, everything felt...still.

The house was dim. Warm. Smelled faintly of wood smoke and old coffee grounds. A low fire crackled in the hearth, half-burned logs glowing faint orange. Joel dropped his coat onto the back of the chair, his boots thudding gently as he kicked them off. She followed suit, letting the silence settle, comfortable now. Familiar.

Willie padded straight for the fireplace, circled once, and flopped onto the worn rug with a dramatic huff, nose between his paws.

“You want coffee?” Joel asked after a moment, voice low.

She nodded. “Only if it doesn’t taste like bark.”

A hint of a smile touched his face. “No promises.”

He moved into the kitchen while she wandered the room, taking it in slowly—she’d been here before, once or twice, but never long. Never like this. The place was clean in that practical, utilitarian way—everything had a purpose. A place. But there were little things too, a chipped mug resting on the windowsill, an old paperback tucked spine-up under a pile of tools, a photo frame turned face-down on the table near the window.

He didn’t talk about the past. She didn’t ask. But the ghost of it lingered everywhere, like woodsmoke clinging to the walls.

Joel returned with two mismatched mugs, steam curling from the surface. He handed her one without a word, then lowered himself onto the couch, settling in with a tired exhale. She joined him, tucking her legs beneath herself, mug cradled between her palms.

They sat in silence for a while, sipping. The only sound was the soft crackle of the fire, Willie’s low breathing, and the occasional creak of the floorboards settling.

“You ever think about what normal used to be?” she asked quietly, voice half-lost in the rim of the mug.

Joel didn’t answer right away.

“Used to,” he said eventually. “Stopped. Hurts too much.”

She nodded.

“I don’t remember much of it,” she said. “Bits and pieces. Cartoons on TV. My dad cussing at traffic.”

Joel huffed a breath. “Traffic.”

“Right?” she smiled. “Feels made up now.”

He glanced at her, something softening behind his eyes. “You were just a kid.”

“So were you,” she said. “Just... a bigger one.”

That made him chuckle. A real sound, low and rough.

“You tryin’ to call me old?”

“I don’t have to try.”

He gave her a look. She grinned into her cup.

After a while, she leaned into the back cushions, her shoulder brushing his. He didn’t move. Just shifted slightly, enough for their arms to touch.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

She looked at him. It wasn’t about her safety. It wasn’t about patrol, or her dad, or the town. It was just him, asking if she was okay. Right now. In this moment.

And she nodded.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m good.”

The words lingered in the air between them, soft and real. Joel’s eyes dropped to her mouth. Her breath caught.

She leaned in first. Their second kiss wasn’t like the first. It wasn’t careful. It was hungry.

A slow, burning press of lips that deepened too fast, like they’d been holding back too long. Joel’s hand came to her cheek, his thumb rough with callus, palm warm. Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt, grounding herself.

He made a sound low in his throat, the kind that went straight to her chest and rattled loose something she hadn’t realized she’d been locking away.

She shifted closer. Into his space. Onto his lap, knees bracketing his thighs as she straddled him without hesitation.

Joel froze for a second. Not because he didn’t want it—God, he did—but because of how much he wanted it. His hands found her hips, firm but not possessive. Guiding. Steady.

She kissed him again. And again. His scruff scraped her jaw in the best way, grounding and raw, his mouth tasting like coffee. She buried her hands in his hair, tugged just enough to make him groan into her mouth.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Every kiss was a confession.

Her hips pressed against him, her chest flush with his, and he kissed her like he was memorizing every second of it. His hands slid beneath her flannel, fingertips brushing her back, but never moving further than that—like he needed to hold her close but was afraid of pushing too far, too fast.

She broke the kiss first, barely, her forehead resting against his, breath ragged.

“I don’t wanna stop,” she murmured.

“I know,” Joel said, voice rough, trembling against her mouth. “I know, darlin’. But…”

His hands slid to her thighs, holding her there like an anchor.

“I wanna do this right,” he said. “Wanna do you right.”

She blinked.

He swallowed hard. “You matter to me. More than I know how to say. And I ain’t gonna mess this up by rushin’ into somethin’ and makin’ it feel like it don’t matter.”

She touched his face. Soft. “It already matters.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I need to go slow.”

She nodded. Pressed a kiss to his cheek, then his jaw. Slid her arms around his shoulders and tucked herself there, breathing in the scent of him—something undeniably Joel.

Willie lifted his head from across the room, let out a soft sigh, then dropped back down with a thump. Joel chuckled.

“He your chaperone?”

“He's judgmental,” she mumbled into his neck. “Keeps me humble.”

Joel wrapped his arms around her fully then, pulled her close until her chest was pressed against his and her breath warmed the hollow of his throat.

They stayed like that for a long time. Just breathing. Letting it be quiet. Letting it be enough.

Eventually, her breathing evened out. Her arms went slack. She shifted once in his lap and mumbled something unintelligible into his shirt. Joel looked down and found her asleep.

Her face softened in sleep, all the fight and fire melting into something quiet and safe. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, then ran a hand slowly down her back.

“Jesus,” he whispered to himself. “What are you doin’ to me.”

He sat there for a moment longer, just holding her.

Then, slowly, gently, he stood. She stirred in his arms, murmured something, but didn’t wake. Her head tucked into the crook of his neck, her hand still clutching a fistful of his shirt.

He carried her upstairs. His knees popped once on the landing, and he muttered, “Fuck,” under his breath, even though Willie was the only one awake enough to hear.

He nudged his bedroom door open with his foot, crossed the room, and pulled back the blankets with one hand. Laid her down like she was made of glass.

She curled into the pillow immediately, one hand searching. Joel stood for a moment, watching. Then he leaned down, brushed his lips to her temple.

“Sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll be right here.”

Willie padded in and laid down at the foot of the bed, ears flicking once before he sighed and settled.

Joel sat in the old armchair near the window. Stared out at the snow falling under the moonlight.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel the need to run. Didn’t feel the weight of what was behind him. Only what was here. What was coming.

He looked back at the bed, at her curled up with the covers tangled around her jeans. And for once, the ache in his chest didn’t feel like grief. It felt like hope. And that scared the hell out of him.

Joel sat in the old armchair near the window, boots off, elbows braced on his knees, hands loosely clasped in front of him. The snow outside fell in thick, slow flakes, heavy enough to mute even the wind. The kind of snow that blanketed everything until it looked soft—peaceful. Clean.

He’d always hated how quiet winter could be. Made it too easy to think. Too easy to remember.

The fire downstairs had burned low by now, and the house had taken on that particular kind of stillness that only came in the dead of night. Upstairs, the only sounds were the occasional creak of the wood beneath them, the whisper of her breath as she slept in his bed, and the slow, rhythmic thump of Willie’s tail every time she shifted under the covers.

Joel watched her. Curled up in a tangle of blankets, mouth slightly parted, one arm reaching for something even in sleep. She looked young. Soft. Peaceful in a way he’d never seen on her face before—like some part of her had finally stopped bracing for the next blow.

And that did something to him. Twisted up something he’d buried so deep it had almost turned to bone.

Sarah. The name alone was enough to hollow out his chest.

She would’ve been in her thirties now. A grown woman. Might’ve been a mother herself. Might’ve had her own porch, her own slow mornings, her own dog sprawled on the rug like he owned the place.

Instead, she was a ghost. Still thirteen in his head. Still asleep in that pink hoodie, curled up against the passenger seat, trusting him with everything.

Still dying in his arms while the world burned around them.

Joel dragged a hand down his face. It didn’t stop the ache. Never had.

He hadn’t let himself think about Sarah—not deeply, not honestly—in a long time. Couldn’t. Because thinking about her meant remembering what it had felt like to lose her. And remembering that felt like trying to breathe underwater.

But tonight, with her—this woman wrapped in his sheets and tangled up in his chest—it was harder not to think about Sarah. About the difference.

About the similarities.

Joel had known her father carried his little girl into the apocalypse. Had watched that little girl grow up in the kind of world no child should. Watched her learn how to hold a knife and set a trap and smile without softness.

Her father had kept her alive. Joel hadn’t. That truth stuck like glass in his throat.

No matter how much good he tried to do now—no matter how many fences he fixed, patrols he ran, meals he shared—it never changed the fact that his daughter had died in his arms, and he hadn’t been able to stop it.

But her? She had made it. Not just survived—but lived. That meant something.

She stirred under the blankets, murmured something incoherent, and rolled over, one hand stretching toward the empty space beside her.

Joel’s heart gave a slow, painful thump.

He stood. His body was stiff—back aching, joints creaking like old wood—but he moved slowly toward the bed. The sheets rustled as he sat on the edge, watching her face for any sign that she’d wake.

She didn’t. Just made a small sound in her sleep and shifted closer.

Joel hesitated only a moment more before slipping under the covers beside her.

The bed dipped beneath his weight, and she immediately moved toward the warmth, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder like she’d always belonged there. One leg slung across his. Her arm curled against his chest, fingers resting just over his heart.

He froze. Then breathed. His hand came up slowly—tentatively—and settled against her back. He could feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing. The weight of her. Real. Alive.

He closed his eyes. And tried not to fall apart. She didn’t know what this meant to him. Not yet.

She didn’t know how long it had been since he’d shared a bed with anyone. Not for sex, not for convenience, not for heat—but just to be near. To be held. Even in sleep.

She didn’t know how deeply she was undoing him. Didn’t know that part of him—the one that had been cold and locked up for twenty years—was slowly beginning to thaw in her presence. That she was rebuilding things in him he hadn’t thought repairable.

He didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know how to deserve it. But she was here. In his bed. In his life. And for tonight, that was enough.

Joel pressed a soft kiss to her temple. Closed his eyes. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he let himself fall asleep with something warm in his chest.

Not fire. Not grief. Something gentler. Something dangerously close to love.

That was what settled in Joel’s chest as her breathing warmed his collarbone, her leg still draped across his hip.

The early hours of morning crept in slow and gray, winter’s hush resting heavy against the windows. She slept like someone who hadn’t in a long time—deep, weightless, unguarded. And he held her like he knew the truth, that trust like this was a rare, fragile thing. Not a gift, but a risk.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep with her in his arms. Hell, he hadn’t meant to let her fall asleep at all. Not here. Not in his bed, tangled up in him like she belonged there.

But she did. She did, and now he couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to wake up without her.

And then someone started banging on the goddamn door.

Joel’s eyes flew open, muscles tensing as he jolted upright halfway, hand instinctively going for the pistol he kept under the side table. Beside him, she flinched, groaning into his shoulder, already stirring.

The knocking didn’t stop. It was angry. Sharp.

A fist slamming into wood like the person on the other side wasn’t just impatient—they were furious.

Joel was already sliding out of bed, careful not to jostle her too hard.

“What—?” she murmured, voice thick with sleep, blinking blearily as Willie jumped to his feet at the end of the bed, growling low in his throat.

Joel peeked through the slat in the curtains. His stomach dropped.

“Shit.”

“What?” she asked, sitting up, rubbing her face. “Who is it?”

Joel turned, jaw tightening. “It’s your dad.”

That woke her up real fast. She pushed the blankets off her, already climbing out of bed, hair a mess, flannel wrinkled, socks half off her feet. “Fuck.”

The knocking turned into pounding.

Joel moved fast. Fixed his wrinkled shirt. He didn’t want to open the door, didn’t want to deal with the man who looked at him like he was one wrong breath away from being put down—but he also wasn’t about to let him wake the whole town.

He opened the door. The man standing on the porch wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t red-faced. He wasn’t even speaking. But he was seething.

Her father stood there like a storm barely holding itself together, coat half-buttoned, gloves stuffed into one hand like he’d left in a hurry. His mouth was a hard, straight line. His eyes—

They were looking past Joel. Straight into the house.

Joel barely got a word out before the man pushed past him into the living room.

She had just reached the bottom of the stairs, one sock on, flannel buttoned, her jeans—

Unbuttoned. She blinked at her father. He blinked back.

Then his gaze dropped. Saw the undone fly of her jeans. The bare strip of her stomach. The bed-rumpled hair. Joel standing half between them, tense, protective.

And something inside him snapped.

“Are you kidding me?” her father hissed. “This is what you’re doing now? This is who you are?”

Joel stepped forward, voice low. “Look—”

“No,” her father snapped, rounding on him. “Don’t you fucking speak to me.”

“Then don’t come poundin’ on my door at six in the goddamn morning—”

“You son of a bitch—”

“Hey!” she cut in sharply, stepping between them, hands up like she was breaking up two dogs on the edge of a fight. “Stop. Both of you.”

Her dad looked at her like he couldn’t recognize the woman standing in front of him.

“You spent the night here?” he asked, voice too quiet now. Too cold.

“Yes,” she said.

“You slept in his bed?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head, already spiraling, “And what, you just couldn’t wait? Had to—what? Throw everything away for a warm body?”

Joel stiffened behind her. Her mouth fell open.

“Are you fucking serious?” she barked. “You think I’m that stupid?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” he snapped. “I find out from Esther, of all people, that you didn’t come home last night. She saw you sneaking into his house—”

“We weren’t sneaking!” she shouted. “Jesus, Dad—do you hear yourself?”

“You’re in his bed—”

“Because I fell asleep.”

He scoffed. “With your pants undone?”

Joel stepped forward again, voice low but hard. “You might wanna stop talkin’ to her like that.”

Her father’s eyes cut to Joel, and the air snapped tight between them. “Don’t act like you’re not loving this. You’ve been sniffing around her since day one. You think I don’t see it?”

“I never touched her without her say-so,” Joel said, jaw clenching. “Never crossed a line.”

“You think that makes you good?” he sneered. “You think that makes you different from the men who came before you?”

Joel’s face darkened, but he didn’t respond. Her voice cut the tension clean in half.

“I undid my jeans,” she said, voice flat, arms crossed. “Because I was sleeping in fucking jeans, and I wanted to breathe. That’s it. I didn’t sleep with him. We didn’t even take our clothes off.”

Her father’s mouth opened—then closed again. The silence that followed was brutal.

She stared at him, tears burning hot at the corners of her eyes. Not because of shame. But because she knew this wasn’t about Joel. Not really. It was about control. About fear. About her growing into someone her father couldn’t protect from everything anymore.

She turned on her heel, “I’m going home to take a shower,” she muttered.

Willie immediately rose to his feet and followed.

Joel stood frozen in the doorway as she brushed past him, barely catching her sleeve. “You okay?”

She looked up at him. And nodded.

“Thanks for not yelling,” she said softly.

He gave her a tired smile. “Didn’t mean I didn’t want to.”

Her eyes flicked back to her dad—still standing in the middle of the room like he wasn’t sure whether to hit something or collapse.

Then back to Joel.

“See you later?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice gentle. “You will.”

She left. The cold slapped her cheeks as she stepped outside, but it felt good. Grounding. Willie padded beside her, ears flicking, nose twitching at the air.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t yell. Didn’t even curse. She just walked. Because there were things she couldn’t fix right now.

Her father’s fear. Joel’s guilt. The parts of herself still learning how to be wanted without being someone’s responsibility. But this? This was hers. And she’d made her choice.

Back inside Joel’s house, the silence was thick. Her father hadn’t moved.

Joel rubbed a hand down his face, then walked to the front door.

“You ever raise your voice at her like that again,” he said, quiet, dangerous, “we’re gonna have a real problem.”

Her father said nothing. Just stood there, shoulders square. Joel didn’t press. Didn’t push. But he meant it. He always would.

Because whatever this was between them—it wasn’t just about kisses on a couch or coffee and half-smiles.

It was about her. And Joel wasn’t going anywhere. Not this time. Joel meant it.

He meant every damn word, even as her father turned slowly to the door, not saying a thing. Just stared at Joel with a glare that could’ve split ice, shoulders rigid, fists clenched like he was still deciding whether or not to take a swing.

Joel didn’t move. He just looked back. Calm. Solid. And then her father spoke, low and cold,

“You touch her wrong. You hurt her. You make her cry one time—I will kill you.”

Joel didn’t blink. “Wouldn’t expect any less.”

Her father stared for one more long second—then turned and walked out without another word. The door slammed behind him.

Joel stood there, shoulders tight, breath slow.

The sound of her fading footsteps down the snowy road still echoed in his ears. And something in his chest felt a little emptier than it had before. Not because she was gone. But because she’d walked out carrying pain she didn’t deserve.

And that? That tore him apart. She didn’t cry on the way home. Didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look back.

But by the time she made it to the porch, her jaw was locked so tight it hurt, her fingers half-numb from how hard she’d clenched her fists.

Willie waited quietly as she opened the door, his tail flicking gently, eyes on her like he could feel it—like he knew something inside her had cracked.

She stripped off her flannel, tossed it onto the kitchen chair, and didn’t stop until she was in the bathroom, steam already clouding the mirror.

The shower was hot. Too hot. She didn’t care. She stood under the spray, hands braced on the tile, eyes closed, chest heaving.

It wasn’t just her dad. It was Esther.

Fucking Esther.

Who the hell did she think she was? Running her mouth to him of all people. Just because she saw her walk into Joel’s house and didn’t see her leave?

She scrubbed her skin harder than necessary, dragging her nails down her arms like she could scrape the frustration out of her bones.

Esther had been circling Joel since the day he arrived in Jackson—always lingering too long at the gate, always talking just a bit too sweet whenever she handed him a plate at the mess hall. She was kind, sure. Capable. The kind of woman who got along with everyone. But he had said it himself,

“I’m not interested.”

He’d said it weeks ago. Quiet and certain, when they were sitting on his steps, sharing jerky and silence like it meant something.

And she’d believed him. Still believed him.

But Esther didn’t know how to let go. And now she’d run to the one man she knewwould go ballistic.

She turned off the water, furious all over again. The towel she wrapped around herself felt suffocating. So did the house. So did the thoughts racing like wildfire in her head.

She needed to work. She needed the barn.

The air smelled like hay, cold metal, and horse musk—the kind of grounding, raw scent that reminded her where she came from. What she’d built.

She got to work without saying a word. Shoveled feed. Replaced water buckets. Brushed out dried mud from hooves, oiled leather reins, unlatched stalls and mucked out shit with a rhythm that felt damn near religious.

Willie laid in the hay beside the mare she liked best—Sparrow, a stubborn gray with more attitude than sense. He didn't bark, didn’t move. Just watched her with those solemn eyes that always made her feel like he knew.

She didn’t want to cry. But her hands shook.

And when she dropped the bucket and it clattered loud against the wood, she whispered a sharp, “Fuck,” and bent down fast, pressing her forehead to the cold side of the stall, eyes shut.

She didn’t even hear the barn door open. But she felt him. His presence always arrived like a change in the air. Subtle but weighty.

She didn’t turn around. Didn’t speak.

Joel stopped a few feet away. She could hear his breath. The soft shift of his boots on straw.

“I didn’t invite you here,” she said, voice flat, still facing the stall.

“I know,” he said quietly.

She stayed still for a long moment. Then turned.

His eyes were already on her. Not angry. Not expectant. Just... watching. Waiting.

She wiped her hands on her jeans and picked up the bucket again.

“I’m working,” she muttered.

“I can see that.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

He nodded once. “Didn’t come to talk.”

“Then why are you here?”

He hesitated.

“Wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I’m fine,” she said too fast.

Joel just looked at her. It made her stomach twist. That goddamn soft patience in his eyes. Like he could see through every wall she’d built and was willing to wait on the other side.

She turned back to the stall. He walked in farther. Slowly. Like approaching a wild animal that might bolt if he moved too fast.

“You’re mad at me.”

“No,” she said. “I’m mad at Esther.”

He blinked. “Esther?”

“She’s the one who told him I didn’t come home,” she said, slamming the latch harder than necessary. “Probably because she saw me go into your house and assumed the worst.”

Joel frowned. “Why the hell would she—”

“Because she likes you,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Everyone knows that.”

His brows pulled together. “I don’t give a damn what she wants. I told you—”

“I know,” she cut in.

The silence hung heavy for a moment. She dropped the bucket in the feed room and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“I just… I’m tired,” she said quietly. “Of being watched. Of being treated like I don’t know what I’m doing. Like I’m some idiot kid who can’t handle her own heart.”

Joel stepped closer.

“You’re not a kid.”

She looked at him, eyes hot. “My dad—he looked at me like I betrayed him.”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “He was wrong.”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “But it still fucking hurt.”

He didn’t touch her. Just stood close. Like a shield.

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation,” he said. “Not me. Not him. Not Esther.”

She looked up at him, and for the first time since she left his house, her shoulders relaxed.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted.

Joel’s expression didn’t change. But his voice softened.

“I don’t either.”

That cracked something open. Because there was something about hearing him say it—this man who had seen the end of the world and walked through hell and back—that made her feel less alone in her own confusion.

“I keep thinking about what it would’ve been like if the world hadn’t ended,” she said. “If I’d been... normal. Had a mom. A real childhood. If he hadn’t had to give everything up to keep me alive.”

Joel’s face twisted. Just slightly.

“And then I think about you,” she added, voice barely a whisper. “What you lost. Who you were before. And I just…”

She stopped. Joel stepped closer. Close enough to reach her if he wanted.

“I look at you,” she continued, “and I see someone who’s still standing. Still showing up. Even when you’ve got every reason not to.”

He didn’t speak. He just reached out and cupped the side of her face, thumb brushing lightly over her cheekbone.

“You’re worth showing up for,” he said simply.

Her breath caught. And then she leaned into him, forehead resting against his chest, arms coming around his waist.

Joel held her. Held her like she was something fragile and real and his.

Not because she asked. But because he wanted to.

Outside, the wind howled. Inside, the barn stayed warm.

They didn’t kiss. Not this time. There was no heat between them in that moment—just something softer.

He stayed while she finished her chores, silent except for the occasional question.

He handed her tools when she needed them. Held a halter while she tightened the buckles. Rubbed Sparrow’s neck while she brushed her out. Even fixed the crooked hinge on the tack room door without being asked.

Willie followed them everywhere. She didn’t talk much. Neither did Joel. But it was the easiest silence she’d known in weeks.

And when he finally left—after squeezing her shoulder once, firm and warm—he didn’t say goodbye.

Just said, “See you later.”

And for once, she believed it. And she let herself breathe. Just for a minute.

She believed him.

The morning after felt warmer. Not just in the way the sunlight cut through the bedroom blinds, or how Willie laid curled like a living furnace at the foot of her bed—but something deeper. Something steadier.

Maybe she hadn’t fallen asleep in Joel’s arms again.

But she had walked away from him knowing she could walk back.

And that meant something.

Until a loud, violent banging rattled the front door, followed immediately by Willie barking like the apocalypse had come back for round two.

She shot upright in bed.

“Jesus fuck—”

Willie launched off the mattress, bolted toward the stairs.

More pounding.

“Hey! Open up! I know you’re in there! You’re not dead, are you?”

Ellie.

She stumbled out of bed, half-blind with sleep, grabbing for yesterday’s flannel and barely jamming her arms into it as she headed down the hall.

Willie barked again—excited now, more tail-wag than threat.

The banging returned.

"I swear to god—"

“Ellie, stop!” she yelled, just as she missed the last step and nearly pitched forward in her socks. She caught herself on the banister and muttered, “Mother—fuck—”

Willie sat by the door, looking far too proud of himself.

She yanked it open with one hand and blinked hard at the daylight slicing through her skull.

Ellie stood there, fully dressed, grinning like she was on something.

“Wow,” the kid said, stepping inside without invitation. “You look like you just fought a horse in your sleep.”

“I am asleep,” she grumbled. “Or I was. What time is it?”

“Like nine.”

She groaned.

“It’s patrol shift changeover,” Ellie said, dropping onto the couch like she lived there. Willie immediately jumped up beside her, tail thumping, tongue out. “So I figured, why not go bother the only person in this entire town who tolerates me.”

She flopped into the chair across from them, rubbing her eyes. “I don’t tolerate you. I endure you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ellie said, already scratching behind Willie’s ears. “He missed me.”

“He was asleep.”

“He lives to see me.”

“Okay, settle down.”

There was a beat of silence before Ellie said, offhanded, “Joel let you be his patrol partner pretty fast.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Just saying,” Ellie said, voice casual, eyes still fixed on Willie. “You two were barely talking, and then suddenly, boom, you’re his patrol partner, you’re eating with us, and now he’s all”—she waved her hands vaguely—“emotionally available.”

She laughed, surprised. “You think I made Joel emotionally available?”

“I mean,” Ellie shrugged, “you kinda did. He talks to you. Listens to you. You’re like—Joel whisperer or something.”

“I don’t control him, Ellie.”

“Yeah, but he loves you,” Ellie said.

The words hit like a gunshot. Not a loud one. Not violent. But sudden. Sharp.

She stilled. “What?”

Ellie looked up, brow raised like duh. “He loves you. I mean, maybe he hasn’t said it. Joel doesn’t really say things. But it’s obvious.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Ellie—”

“He won’t let me go on patrol,” Ellie interrupted. “Still. After all this time.”

She blinked. “He’s just being protective.”

“Yeah,” Ellie said. “Of me. Which is nice, or whatever, but I’m not a little kid. And he won’t even talk about it. If I ask, he just shuts down. Like I said something bad.”

She leaned back in her chair, exhaling.

Ellie’s tone softened. “I thought maybe… since he listens to you, maybe you could say something.”

There was something raw behind the request. Not whining. Not pushing. Just longing. For trust. For independence. For the kind of respect Joel was afraid to give because it meant letting go.

“I’ll think about it,” she said finally.

Ellie grinned. “That means yes.”

“No,” she said, standing. “That means get up. I’m taking you to breakfast. You broke into my house like the cops and now I need caffeine.”

The sun had risen higher, casting a weak gold across the snow. Jackson buzzed with usual morning movement—kids dragging buckets of feed, older folks de-icing steps, the smell of smoke and fresh bread trailing from the mess hall chimney.

They were halfway down the path when they turned the corner—

—and there they were.

Joel. And Esther.

Side by side. Next to the patrol horses.

She stopped walking.

Ellie looked up, squinting. “Is that—?”

Joel noticed them first. His eyes immediately locked on hers. His shoulders stiffened like he’d just walked into a trap, and for a split second, she saw the flash of something like guilt flicker across his face.

Esther, ever smooth, said something with a smile and handed her reins off to the stablehand. Her hand brushed Joel’s sleeve. Brushed it.

And that was it. Her stomach twisted.

Joel took a hesitant step forward. “Hey—”

She didn’t stop walking. Just kept going. Right past him.

Didn’t break stride. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t even flinch.

He called her name—low, like he was trying not to make it a scene. She didn’t answer.

Ellie blinked, half jogging to keep up. “Uh… should I ask?”

“No,” she said.

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

“You’re walking really fast.”

“I do that sometimes.”

“Not usually while breathing fire.”

She pushed open the mess hall door with more force than necessary. The warm air inside hit her hard. Bread, eggs, chatter.

Ellie followed, slightly out of breath. “Okay, so we’re mad.”

She didn’t respond. She just grabbed a plate and moved through the line like a soldier, jaw clenched, hands tight.

Joel hadn’t done anything. Not really. He wasn’t cheating. He wasn’t even flirting.

But Esther’s touch… the way she smiled… the way he’d let her...

It felt like the universe was laughing in her face. He hadn’t even fought for her attention. Just let her walk past like he didn’t know what to say.

And maybe he didn’t. But that hurt more.

They ate in silence for a while. Ellie kept looking at her out of the corner of her eye.

“So,” she said finally, “want me to put a dead rat in Esther’s laundry bag?”

She blinked. Then let out a laugh. Short. Sharp. Real.

Ellie grinned. “I’ll do it. You know I will.”

“No rats,” she said. “Yet.”

Ellie leaned on the table. “You want me to talk to Joel?”

“No.”

“You sure? Because I’m really good at guilt-tripping him.”

“I’m sure.”

Ellie looked at her like she was studying a creature in the wild.

“You love him,” she said.

She stared at her tray. “I don’t—”

“You do.”

Silence.

Then, quietly, “I think I do,” she admitted. “Or I’m about to.”

Ellie’s voice was gentle for once. “He’s scared too, you know.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“Just don’t make him chase you too long.”

She sighed. “I’m just… tired of being made to feel less than. Of having to compete for something that already hurts to want.”

Ellie reached across the table and stole her toast.

Then said, “Yeah. But you’re not less than. You’re the only one who ever made him smile.”

And that? That meant more than she'd admit. She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t slow. Didn’t blink. Just walked past, flannel sleeves pushed up, eyes forward, boots cutting sharp lines in the snow like she couldn’t feel the weight of his gaze trailing behind her.

Joel opened his mouth to call her name again. But stopped. Because the way she didn’t look at him?

That said more than any words could. And it hurt more, too.

“Everything okay?” Esther asked, voice sweet and lilting behind him, like she hadn’t just brushed his sleeve with her hand two minutes ago.

Joel didn’t answer.

He turned back toward the horses, jaw tight, throat thick with everything he didn’t know how to say.

Esther had already mounted. Her bay mare flicked its ears as Joel swung up onto his own saddle, the leather groaning beneath him. He adjusted his gloves. Kept his eyes on the trail ahead.

They were heading west today. Scouting route seventeen. Same one he used to ride with her. Familiar snowdrifts, twisted trees that looked like skeletal hands in the winter light. Empty cabins and frozen creeks.

Joel didn’t speak for a good twenty minutes. Didn’t need to. Esther, though—she always needed to.

“I don’t think she likes me,” she said lightly.

Joel didn’t look at her. “Don’t see how that’s my business.”

“She glared at me,” Esther added. “Twice. And I’m very sure it wasn’t because I had something in my teeth.”

Joel gave a noncommittal grunt and tugged the reins to guide his horse through a patch of ice.

“She’s young,” Esther said then, her tone shifting—less breezy now. A little too knowing. “How old is she again? Twenty-five?”

Joel didn’t answer.

Esther smiled faintly. “You know she was five when it happened, right? The outbreak. Just a baby. And now she’s…”

Joel glanced over.

Esther trailed off. Shrugged. “I don’t know. I just worry about you, Joel.”

He stiffened. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Well, someone has to,” she said. “Maria said you don’t exactly make good choices when it comes to... attachments.”

Joel stopped his horse.

Right there on the trail, frost-laced trees on either side, wind blowing gentle through the brush.

He turned to look at her. Slowly. Eyes hard. Dark.

“You got somethin’ you wanna say?”

Esther’s mare sidestepped, sensing the shift in his posture.

Esther didn’t back down. She never did.

“I’m just saying maybe you don’t realize what people see,” she said. “An older man. A girl half his age. Alone together. In his house. In his bedroom.”

Joel’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

“She’s not a girl,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “She’s a woman. A goddamn survivor. Smarter than most people in this town. Stronger than all of ‘em.”

Esther blinked. He had raised his voice before. But not like this.

“And you,” Joel continued, cutting his words sharp and clean, “you don’t get to talk about her like she’s some helpless thing. Like she don’t know her own mind.”

Esther’s expression flickered—surprise, maybe. Then something colder.

“Joel,” she said, voice softer now. “I was just looking out for you.”

“No,” he said. “You were lookin’ down on her. And I’m not gonna sit here and let you do it.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Then Joel clicked his tongue and spurred his horse forward, leaving her behind on the trail without another word.

The wind was colder than before. He didn’t feel it.

Didn’t feel the weight of his pack, or the ache in his knees, or the saddle digging into his lower back. All he felt was the burn in his chest. The kind that didn’t come from cold or pain—but from regret.

Because he hadn’t gone after her.

Hadn’t grabbed her hand, hadn’t said, “It’s not what it looks like. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want her there.”

He hadn’t told her the truth.

That he only said yes to the patrol with Esther because Maria asked, and he didn’t want to cause a stir. That he’d barely said a word all morning. That all he’d been thinking about was her. The way she’d walked away.

The way her voice trembled last night when she said, “I’m tired of being treated like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Joel had made a life out of silence. Out of staying still until danger passed.

But this? This wasn’t survival. This was her. And he didn’t want to survive her.

He wanted to keep her.

They reached the checkpoint an hour later. Joel didn’t speak. Just logged his name, scoped the ridgeline, did the job.

Esther tried twice to start conversation. He ignored both. On the way back, she didn’t try again.

By the time they reached the gates of Jackson, the silence between them was bitter.

Joel dismounted. Handed off his horse. Nodded to the guard. Started toward the stables.

He didn’t even say goodbye. Didn’t look back.

The barn was empty. He stepped inside anyway.

The smell hit him first—dust and hay and her. A little saddle oil. The warm scent of animals and earth and life.

Willie sat by the feed room door, ears pricking up when he saw Joel. He stood and padded over, tail thumping once.

Joel scratched his ears. “She here?”

Willie gave a soft whine. Turned toward the back stalls. Joel followed. And there she was.

Brushing Sparrow’s flank, back turned to him. Flannel sleeves rolled up, hands moving with practiced ease. She hadn’t seen him yet.

He watched her for a second. Just stood there and watched.

He never believed in miracles. Not since Sarah.

But this woman—this strong, stubborn, loyal, blinding woman—was the closest thing he’d seen to one in twenty years.

And he’d let her walk past him without a word.

He stepped forward.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

She paused. Didn’t turn around.

He swallowed. “Can we talk?”

Silence.

Then she said, “You busy with Esther?”

The words were quiet. But sharp. Joel flinched.

“I didn’t ask to ride with her,” he said.

She kept brushing. Slow. Even.

“Maria assigned it. I didn’t want it. Didn’t talk much. Just did the job.”

Still brushing.

“She say something?” she asked, voice tight.

Joel hesitated. “Yeah.”

She stopped. Turned. Eyes cool. Distant.

“What’d she say?”

Joel looked at her. Really looked.

And said, “Didn’t matter. She’s wrong.”

She folded her arms. “Try me.”

He stepped closer.

“She said she worried about me,” he said. “Said you were young. Implying things. Said people might think I was takin’ advantage.”

Her jaw clenched.

Joel’s voice softened. “I told her to stop. Told her you’re the strongest person I know.”

She blinked. Slowly. Joel took another step.

“I don’t care what people think,” he said. “I care what you think.”

A long pause.

Then—

“I think you should’ve come after me,” she said. Quiet. Honest. “I think you should’ve stopped me.”

Joel’s heart broke a little.

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

“I did.”

He nodded. Painful. Slow. She looked at him like she didn’t know whether to cry or swing.

“You let her touch you.”

“I didn’t want her to.”

“But you let her.”

“I froze.”

She turned away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know that don’t fix it. But I am.”

She didn’t move for a long time.

Then said, “I believe you.”

He closed his eyes. Exhaled. And for the first time all day, something inside him settled.

Not all the way. But enough.

Willie laid down at their feet with a sigh.

Joel reached out, tentative. She let him touch her hand. And that? That was everything.

The way she let him touch her hand—quiet, small, steady—it unraveled something in Joel’s chest so slow and deep it almost hurt.

Not pain. Something else. A loosening. Like he didn’t need to hold his breath anymore.

She didn’t say anything. Just stood there with him, surrounded by horses and soft golden dust, the early afternoon light filtering in through the warped wooden slats of the barn. Sparrow shifted her weight in the stall behind them. Willie let out a groan from the hay and laid his head back down.

Joel didn’t let go of her hand. He couldn’t. And for once, she didn’t pull away.

She exhaled quietly, shoulders dropping from where they’d been hitched near her ears for most of the morning. The flannel she wore was worn through at the elbows, and he could see the faint line of a scar on her forearm—white and thin, like a whisper from another life.

He wondered what she’d had to survive to earn it. He wondered how many more there were. And he hated that there’d ever been a world where she had to.

“Listen,” he said, voice low, thick with gravel and hesitation, “I’ve been thinkin’—”

She gave him a look. “That’s dangerous.”

He huffed. “Let me finish.”

She arched a brow. “You’re finishing a lot of sentences lately. That’s suspicious.”

Joel gave her a pointed stare. “You want me to say it or not?”

She smiled—small, but real. “Say it.”

Joel rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. His hands were rough, but he was careful with them.

“I was wonderin’ if maybe you’d wanna come by tonight,” he said. “To mine.”

She tilted her head.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll cook. You eat. Willie sleeps on my couch. That sorta thing.”

She blinked. Paused.

Then, “Wait.”

Joel froze. “What?”

Her smile deepened. “Is this a date?”

Joel went quiet. Very quiet. His fingers tightened slightly in hers, but not unkind.

She watched him shift on his feet, and then—just as she suspected—he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. Eyes narrowing, jaw working like it betrayed him to even think about being vulnerable.

She laughed. “Oh my god. It’s a date.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You said dinner. And cooking. And Willie sleeping on the couch, which means I’mnot.”

Joel sighed. “You are the most insufferable woman—”

“You are blushing,” she grinned.

“I’m not—”

“You are. It’s adorable.”

Joel glared at her.

She leaned in slightly, still holding his hand. “You do realize I’ve slept in your bed, right? That ship has sailed, Miller.”

He groaned and muttered, “Lord help me.”

She laughed, loud this time, and Willie thumped his tail on the hay in approval.

Joel stared at her for a long second, expression softening.

Then, quieter, “I’d like to cook for you. Yeah. Like a date.”

She tilted her head, pretending to consider. “Do you know how to cook?”

“Yes,” he said too quickly.

She squinted.

“You’re lying.”

“I ain’t.”

“You absolutely are.”

Joel sighed, hand still on the back of his neck. “I can…make things.”

“Like what?”

“Things that go in a pot.”

“Oh my god,” she said. “Joel.”

“It’ll be fine,” he said. “I got a recipe. Or somethin’ close to it.”

She was grinning now. “You’re gonna poison me.”

“You’ll live.”

“We’ll see.”

They stood in the barn for another few quiet minutes. And then—like gravity pulled them toward it—he leaned in.

She met him halfway. The kiss was slow. Soft. Warm. Different from the hungry, breathless ones before.

This one said I missed you. This one said I’m still here.

His hand found her cheek again, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw, fingers sliding gently beneath the curve of her ear. She felt her knees loosen, the ache in her chest ebb. Her fingers curled into the collar of his jacket.

When they finally pulled apart, her breath came soft against his mouth. She didn’t let go. Neither did he.

She looked at him and whispered, “I’ll come over tonight.”

Joel nodded. Once.

His voice was soft. “Ellie’s staying with Kat.”

She raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Wasn’t my idea,” he muttered. “Maria’s makin’ her do a girls’ night.”

“She’ll hate that.”

“I know.”

She smiled. “So we’ll have the place to ourselves?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her.

Something in his face changed then—something soft and weathered and a little raw.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Just us.”

She leaned her forehead against his chest, let herself stand there for another breath or two.

The barn creaked gently around them. The smell of hay and leather filled the air. Willie gave a soft, approving grunt. And for a moment—just a small one—it felt like the world hadn’t ended after all.

She pulled away first, but only just.

Joel didn’t move—not right away. Just watched her as she stepped back, her fingers lingering in his for one more second. The light outside was softer now, dusk beginning to settle. The kind of quiet that made everything feel more real.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough, soft. “You will.”

She turned to go. And then—almost like he couldn’t help it—he reached out and caught her wrist gently, tugging her back just enough to steal another kiss.

This one was quick. But it lingered.

She smiled against his mouth. “You’re greedy today.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “You got no idea.”

Then she was gone. Willie at her side.

And Joel Miller was left standing in the middle of the barn like someone had just struck him over the head and handed him a second chance at life.

Which meant now he had to figure out how the hell to cook dinner.

The kitchen looked like a crime scene.

Joel stood at the counter, arms braced on either side of a wooden bowl, staring down at a pile of possible ingredients like they might start a fire if he looked away.

There was a can of tomatoes from last month’s ration rotation. A jar of dried basil that Ellie looked at in disgust. A sealed bag of pasta—thank god—from a trade he’d made with the supply team. A block of cheese that was hard enough to build a house with. And something that might have been garlic, but was currently fighting for its identity as “aggressive winter root.”

Joel scratched his jaw. He hadn't cooked in a long time. Sure, he’d boiled meat over fire. Fried beans in old pans on the road. Made tough coffee. But dinner?

A real one? With flavor? With a tablecloth? That was new.

He looked at the stove. Looked at the tomatoes. Then looked at the sad little saucepan Maria had given him in the welcome basket six months ago.

“All right,” he muttered. “Let’s make somethin’ edible.”

The sauce was the first problem.

He opened the tomatoes with a dull pocketknife because he couldn’t find the can opener. Half of it sloshed out wrong. Missed the pot. Landed on the floor. Joel swore under his breath and grabbed an old towel from the drawer. The dried basil came out in a clump. He tried to stir it in. It just... floated.

Joel stared down into the red mess, watching the leaves sit stubborn and wrong at the top of the watery sauce. He picked up the maybe-garlic and sniffed it.

Immediately regretted it, “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

He chopped it anyway. Because he didn’t know what else to do. Scraped it into the pot with the side of the knife like he remembered someone doing on a cooking show in the late ‘90s.

The smell hit his face like a punch.

“Yeah,” he said to no one. “That’s flavor, all right.”

The pasta boiled over. Twice. He swore again. Louder. Dropped a wooden spoon on the floor. Burned his hand grabbing the pot handle without a towel.

And that’s when Ellie walked in. She stopped in the doorway, a bag slung over one shoulder, winter beanie sliding half off her head. She blinked once.

“Holy shit,” she said. “Is this... are you cooking?”

Joel didn’t turn around. “Don’t start.”

Ellie stepped farther in, nose wrinkling as she approached the stove. She sniffed the pot. Peered into it.

“Is that... even edible?”

“Go away.”

“Dried leaves?” She leaned closer. “Oh my god. Is that the weird basil I told you not to use?”

“I said go away,” he grumbled, trying to stir the sauce.

She looked around the kitchen. Then looked back at him.

Her eyes went wide. “Oh my god. Is this for her?”

Joel didn’t answer.

Ellie gasped dramatically. “You’re making her dinner. You’re making her dinner?!”

He finally turned. “Ain't you stayin’ with Kat tonight?”

Ellie ignored him entirely. “You stole the tablecloth from storage, didn’t you?”

He glared. “Borrowed it.”

“That’s the one with the little blue flowers!”

Joel said nothing.

“You said hate the little blue flowers when I tried to bring it home.”

“I hate you right now.”

Ellie walked over to the table, which he’d spent nearly an hour wiping down and setting with two salvaged plates and three mismatched forks, just in case. She touched the fabric, grinning.

“You even folded the napkins,” she said. “You’re so in love with her.”

Joel grabbed the pot off the stove and turned away. “That’s none of your damn business.”

“Can I stay and watch?”

“No.”

“Can I hide in the pantry?”

“No.”

“Can I leave you a note to read her?”

“Out.”

Ellie raised her hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll go. But this is adorable and I am going to make fun of you for it for the rest of your life.”

He turned. “Ellie.”

She met his eyes.

Then, more quietly, she said, “She makes you better, you know.”

Joel’s expression softened.

“I see it,” she added. “You’re... calmer. Less grumpy. You don’t stand like someone’s always about to punch you.”

He exhaled. “You sayin’ I used to be worse?”

“Oh yeah. You were the worst. Now you’re just... mildly awful.”

Joel shook his head.

Ellie smiled. “She’s good for you.”

Then she grabbed her bag, shoved a piece of bread from the counter into her mouth, and said around it, “Good luck, Romeo.”

He heard her boots clomp out the front door. And the house fell quiet again.

Joel stood there in the middle of his kitchen, tomato sauce on his sleeve, steam rising from a pot that smelled vaguely of regret, and looked around at the space he’d tried to make nice.

The tablecloth. The mismatched forks. The wine bottle he didn’t know how to open sitting unopened on the counter.

He hadn’t dated. Not really.

Not even Sarah’s mother. They’d been kids, trying to do right by a baby they hadn’t expected. And after the world ended... there was no room for courtship.

No room for dinner. For flowers. For trying to be something to someone.

Until now. Until her.

Joel looked at the clock. Thirty minutes until she showed up.

His hands trembled a little. He rinsed them, ran a comb through his hair, and changed into a flannel that didn’t smell like sawdust.

Then he stood by the door. And waited. Heart thudding slow and scared in his chest. Because this time? This time he wanted to get it right.

So he stood there, heart quietly thudding behind his ribs, fingers twitching at the seam of his shirt as he watched the clock tick closer to evening.

The sun had dipped low by now, throwing long, amber lines across the hardwood floor. The fire in the hearth was crackling low, flickering against the walls. The scent of tomato, basil, and something vaguely herbal hung in the kitchen like a nervous fog.

He adjusted the table again. Then adjusted the chairs. Then turned the record player back on, because the silence had gotten too loud.

It was an old Johnny Cash album—scratched slightly, but still warm. Familiar. Something he remembered his mama humming in the kitchen back in Texas, long before the world went to hell.

He moved into the kitchen. Checked the pasta again.

Still warm. Still... edible? He hoped.

He hadn’t tasted it. Too nervous. Too focused on making sure the table was clean and the napkins were folded right and the goddamn wine bottle had a corkscrew, it didn’t—he had to jab it with a knife and now it leaked.

Then—

He heard Willie’s bark. Soft, friendly, two doors down. His breath caught.

And there she was.

She walked slow, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, her shoulders relaxed in a way they hadn’t been in days.

The street was quiet except for the wind gently tugging at the trees and the crunch of snow under her boots. Willie padded beside her, tail swishing, nose pointed toward Joel’s porch like he already knew where they were going.

She wore a knit sweater—deep green, the kind that made her eyes look brighter in the winter light—and jeans tucked into worn leather boots. Her hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands blowing in the breeze. She looked warm. Comfortable.

Joel stared through the window like a man watching something sacred approach.

He opened the door before she could knock.

Her eyes flicked up. “Eager?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Just didn’t want you waitin’ in the cold.”

Willie trotted past him into the house like he owned the place.

She stepped inside, brushing snow from her shoulders. Her eyes scanned the room—the flickering firelight, the table—neatly set, if a little lopsided, the record player humming soft country from the corner.

Her lips curled into a smile. “You got a mood going.”

Joel shut the door behind her. “Tryin’.”

She looked at the table. Then at him.

“Did you steal that tablecloth from the mess pantry?”

Joel narrowed his eyes. “Borrowed.”

She laughed. God, he loved her laugh. It wasn’t always easy. She didn’t offer it freely. But when it came, it was whole. Real. Like it didn’t know how to lie.

“You smell like tomato,” she said, pulling off her coat.

Joel took it from her automatically, hanging it on the hook near the door. “Might’ve boiled over once or twice.”

“Mmhmm.”

She turned to him fully. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” he said too quickly.

She tilted her head.

Joel sighed. “A little.”

She stepped closer, hands brushing lightly down his arms. “It’s just me.”

“I know,” he muttered. “That’s the problem.”

She laughed again. And he felt his lungs finally expand.

Dinner was ready—if by “ready” you meant slightly overcooked pasta with a sauce that almost looked intentional.

Joel ladled it into mismatched bowls, wiping his hands on a towel. She helped grab the utensils without being asked, setting them out with a quiet ease that made the space between them feel lived-in.

Willie laid by the fire, already half-asleep.

She sat at the table, hands folded neatly, watching him with something that looked suspiciously like adoration.

Joel sat across from her. Fidgeted. She lifted her fork.

He cleared his throat. “If it’s bad, don’t lie.”

She tasted it. Chewed. Swallowed.

Then looked him dead in the eye and said, “Joel. This is amazing.”

He blinked. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’re smilin’.”

“Because it’s good!”

He gave her a long, skeptical look.

She twirled her fork through another bite. “It’s warm. It has flavor. That’s more than I can say for anything we’ve eaten in weeks. You didn’t burn it. There’s no ash. And I didn’t chip a tooth.”

Joel smirked. “High bar.”

“I’m serious,” she said, softer now. “You did good.”

Something in his chest unwound. They ate slowly. Talked quietly.

She asked about the patrol routes he used to run with Tommy before winter made everything unpredictable. He asked about how the pregnant mare was doing—restless, cranky, almost definitely a boy. She teased him about the crooked shelf in the hallway, and he told her how Ellie once filled it with jars of dead insects as a prank.

They drank two fingers of wine each—her idea of moderation—and halfway through her second glass, she looked at him and said,

“You built this table, right? Ellie mentioned it.”

He nodded. “Got tired of eatin’ hunched over the counter.”

Her gaze softened, “You built this for her, didn’t you?”

Joel stilled. Didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly, “Yeah. Thought she deserved better.”

She reached across the table and laid her hand on his.

“You deserve better.”

Joel looked at her hand. Then at her. And said, “I don’t know how to do this.”

She squeezed his fingers. “You’re doing it.”

Joel looked down at their hands. His thumb brushed her wrist slowly.

“This ain’t how I used to be,” he said.

“I know.”

“Wasn’t soft. Wasn’t... kind.”

“I know that too.”

“But I want to be,” he said. “With you.”

Her breath hitched.

They sat like that for a while, fork abandoned in tomato-stained bowls, the fire cracking low behind them, and Johnny Cash still humming from the corner like the world was trying to lull them into believing it wasn’t broken anymore.

She stood up. Walked around the table. Joel turned in his chair, looking up at her. She sat on his lap without asking. He wrapped his arms around her waist like he’d been waiting for it all night.

She kissed him—soft, slow, with that kind of certainty that made time slow down. He kissed her back like it was the only thing that still made sense.

And as the snow fell softly outside, and the fire died low behind them, Joel Miller rested his forehead against hers and whispered,

“I don’t want this to end.”

She whispered back, “It doesn’t have to. I want this. I want you”

The second she said it, something changed behind Joel’s eyes.

Like a switch flipped. Like the dam cracked open after months of barely holding.

He kissed her again—harder this time. Like he meant it. Like he’d been starving for it. And he had.

His hands gripped her hips like he didn’t know whether to pull her closer or crush her, but god, he needed her close. He needed to feel her. The solid weight of her in his lap. The warmth of her thighs wrapped around him. The way her fingers fisted in his shirt like she didn’t ever wanna let go.

She gasped into his mouth when he rolled his hips up. He growled.

“Jesus, baby,” he breathed. “You got any idea what you do to me?”

Her only answer was a moan—soft, breathy, and so fucking desperate it made Joel’s cock twitch.

He kissed down her neck, dragging his mouth slowly along her jaw, then down to the hollow of her throat. She tilted her head for him without thinking, baring it like she wanted to be marked. Wanted to be taken.

Joel groaned low. “You’re killin’ me.”

He stood—lifted her clean off his lap like she weighed nothing, one arm braced under her thighs. She gasped again, arms flying around his neck, legs instinctively locking at his waist.

“I got you,” he rasped. “Always got you, baby.”

He carried her up the stairs, boots thudding heavy against the wood. She could feel the tension in him—his hands trembling slightly where they held her, his breathing shallow like he was trying not to lose it too fast.

She’d never seen him like this. So unguarded. So hungry.

He kicked the bedroom door open with his foot, stepped inside, and set her down on the bed like she was breakable.

Then just looked at her. Long and quiet. Like he needed a second to believe she was really there.

That she wanted this. Wanted him.

“Joel,” she whispered, voice shaking.

He reached out and cupped her cheek.

“You say the word,” he said roughly. “And I’ll stop.”

She shook her head. “I don’t wanna stop.”

His jaw clenched. Hard. Like he was holding back years of need.

“You sure, baby? You know I’m older. You know I’m not—fuck—I’m not gentle. Not all the time. Not when I want it this bad.”

She leaned into his palm. And kissed his hand.

“I don’t want gentle,” she said. “I want you.”

And that? That broke him.

Joel kissed her like a starving man. Like he was trying to memorize her. His hands pushed up under her sweater, palms rough as they traced over her waist, her ribs, up to her bra. He groaned when he felt her breasts beneath the fabric, full and warm under his hands.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Look at you. Goddamn. You’re so fuckin’ pretty.”

She whined softly when his thumbs brushed her nipples, already hard beneath the lace.

He looked up at her, “Off,” he said.

She raised her arms, and he pulled the sweater over her head, tossing it somewhere behind him. Then the bra. Then nothing.

Just her. Laid out on his bed like a fucking prayer.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

She went to cover herself, but he caught her wrists.

“No,” he said softly. “Don’t hide from me. Don’t you ever hide from me.”

He kissed her chest, her ribs, the curve of her stomach. Worshipped her with his mouth like he had all night.

She arched up when he took a nipple in his mouth, tongue circling it slow, then sucking just hard enough to make her gasp. One of his hands slid down between her thighs, still covered by denim, and he groaned when he felt how warm she was.

“Fuck. You’re burning up.”

She squirmed, and he growled.

“Tell me what you need, baby.”

“You,” she whispered. “Need you to touch me.”

He sat back on his heels and dragged her jeans down her legs, slow, savoring it. The way her thighs shook.

The way her breath hitched when he reached the edge of her panties. Lace. Black. His fucking weakness.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

He pulled them down, slow and reverent. And when she was bare for him, all flushed and wet and ready—

He just stared. Then let out a broken groan.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice gravel and heat, “you’re soaked.”

She blushed, but he was already leaning in.

“Been thinkin’ about this since I laid eyes on you,” he said, kissing her inner thigh. “Wonderin’ what you sound like when I put my mouth on this pretty pussy.”

She gasped.

“Guess I’m about to find out.”

He dragged his tongue through her folds, slow at first. Just a taste. Then another.

Then his mouth was on her—firm, hungry, good. His tongue lapped at her clit, slow and steady, until her back arched and her hand flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands.

“Fuck, Joel—”

He groaned against her. “That’s it. Let me hear you, baby. Let me taste how good I make you feel.”

She was already shaking, thighs trembling, voice breaking apart with every swipe of his tongue. He sucked gently, then harder, then eased a finger inside her—slow, careful, thick and perfect.

“Shit,” she cried. “Oh my god—”

Joel smiled against her.

“Thought about this every night since that night in the barn, you up against me—holding that knife against my throat,” he said, voice thick. “Thought about you spread out for me. Drippin’. Beggin’. Let me hear it, baby. Don’t hold back.”

She came with a cry, thighs clenching around his head, hands gripping the sheets so hard her knuckles ached.

Joel didn’t stop until she was gasping. Didn’t stop until she was trembling. Didn’t stop until she was his.

He kissed her thigh one last time. Then crawled up over her, kissing her again—this time deep and slow, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

“You still sure?” he whispered. “’Cause if I take you now, baby, I’m not lettin’ you go.”

She pulled him in.

“Take me,” she said. “I’m already yours.”

Joel growled.

Ripped his shirt off in one motion. She gasped—Jesus, he had scars and solid heat and muscle, and somehow still soft in the places that mattered. The kind of body built for surviving. The kind of body she wanted over her.

He undid his jeans, cock thick and heavy in his hand, already leaking. He lined up with her, but didn’t push in yet—just rubbed the tip through her slick folds, watching her face.

“Look at me,” he said.

She did. And he pushed in. Slow. Thick. Stretching.

“Fuck, baby— so tight,” he groaned. “Takin’ me so good. Shit. That feel good?”

She nodded, eyes wide, mouth parted. “S-so good, Joel—feels so fucking good—”

“Yeah?” he rasped, hips grinding in deeper. “You want it slow, baby? Or you want me to fuck you like I’ve been dyin’ to?”

“Fuck me,” she said.

And that was it. Joel snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt.

She cried out, and he moaned like she’d just saved him.

His thrusts were hard, deep, controlled—like he was holding back a tidal wave, but barely.

“You feel that?” he growled. “Feel how deep I am? No one’s ever touched you like this. No one.”

She could barely breathe, let alone respond.

He pinned her wrists above her head, held them there with one hand, and fucked her deeper.

“I’ve been starvin’ for this,” he said against her throat. “You. This pussy. The way you fuckin’ whimper when I—fuck—yeah, just like that.”

She came again, harder this time.

Came around him, clenching so tight he had to bite his own lip to keep from losing it.

“Good girl,” he groaned. “Goddamn. So good for me. So fuckin’ good.”

She was shaking, body limp, but still whispering his name like a prayer.

Joel slowed down. Softened. Kissed her face. Her jaw. Her neck.

“Baby,” he said, voice breaking, “I can’t—I’m not gonna last. Not with you squeezin’ me like this—”

“Inside,” she whispered. “Please, Joel. Come inside me.”

And that? That ended him.

He buried his face in her neck and came hard, hips stuttering, voice a low, broken growl against her skin.

They laid like that for a long time. Panting. Sweating. Holding.

Joel stayed inside her until he softened, kissing her cheek, her hair, her shoulder.

Then pulled out carefully. She winced.

He kissed her again. “I got you. I’ll clean you up, baby. Just lay there.”

She did. And when he came back with a warm cloth and a glass of water, she looked at him like she was already half in love. Maybe more than half.

Joel tucked her into his side and kissed her forehead.

“Sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll be here.”

And she believed him. Because for once, Joel Miller wasn’t running.

He was home.

[lemon-world1]

@foxtrology Girl, you are on fire!!! 😍

This hit me so hard — I honestly felt like I was right there with them, living every second. The little moments between Joel and the reader? My heart was in my throat the entire time; I literally had to remind myself to breathe. You have such a gift for making every scene feel real.

I also just have to tell you how much I appreciate the length and depth of your fics — you put so much heart and detail into your writing, and it shows. It’s such a rare thing, and it means the world as a reader. Not to throw shade at other writers, but it can be a little disappointing when you wait a month for a chapter and it ends up being super short. You really go the extra mile for us, and I’m so grateful for that.

And the medical lingo?! Girl, you nailed it — you can tell how much thought and research you put into it. I love seeing that level of care and passion in your work. Thank you for sharing your talent with us. 🤍

saturated (1)

dr!joel x resident!reader

inspired by the pitt on hbo | series | ao3 link

notes: this took me way too long to write. but i had to. couldn't stop watching the pitt and thinking about our old man. joel is basically if dr robby and dr abbot had a morally complicated, emotionally constipated lovechild. also abby does not kill joel in this, everyone is friends! god bless america.

warnings: this contains intense and graphic deceptions of medical trauma, emergency room scenarios, death (including children), physical violence, workplace assault, substance use, bodily fluids, mass casualty events, and realistic portrayals of burnout, grief and PTSD in a high stakes-medical environment.

it also includes themes of misogyny, harassment, and implicit threats of sexual violence. reader discretion is strongly advised. please take care while reading--especially if you are sensitive to medical distress, depictions of pediatric injury or real-time crisis response.

word count: 15.k

─────

The morning of the Fourth of July in Austin, Texas, feels like a moment held in the lung, right before the exhale.

That breathless pause before fireworks, before the sirens scream and the ER radios stuttering with trauma codes and stroke alerts and the endless crush of the heat-baked, alcohol-soaked chaos that follows any major American holiday. It’s always the calm before the storm—if you could even call it calm.

You pull into the staff garage at 5:52 a.m. and sit in the car for a moment longer, letting the silence stretch. Black scrubs still freshly laundered, badge clipped, hair pulled back, and your shoes already forming to your feet like muscle memory. You reach for your tumbler, still warm from the coffee Joel handed you in the kitchen an hour ago, already half-drunk.

There’s that brief moment you consider calling out. Just for today. Just to stay in that house, in that bed with him, where he kisses your bare shoulder before telling you to be safe.

But you won’t. You never do.

Because no matter how bad the ER gets—and it always gets bad—this is the only place that makes any kind of sense to you.

Inside, the air conditioning hits like a slap, and you walk past the security station where Bill gives you a small nod, already sipping from his thermos like a man bracing for war.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says. His voice is gravel, his beard immaculate. “You ready for the circus?”

You offer a tired smile. “You know we don't get clowns. We get drunk uncles with bottle rockets.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he scans another nurse’s badge behind you. “Same difference.”

The ER already smells like overcooked coffee and sterile gauze, and the waiting room—visible through the thick glass partition—looks like an airport at Christmas. People slumped against the wall, some pale, some bleeding, some just desperate for help they’re not sure they need. A woman with a crying toddler in one arm and a vomit bag in the other is standing at the triage desk. Behind her, a man in a tank top clutches his ribs and moans like he’s in labor.

Inside the main ER pod, the low hum of monitors, pagers, and movement never really stops. Maria Miller stands at the hub, perfectly composed, her hands wrapped around a travel mug and a tablet tucked in the crook of her arm. 

“Six a.m. and already short three nurses,” she mutters as you step up beside her. Her eyes flick to you. “Happy Fourth. You look like hell.”

You arch a brow. “Why thank you, Maria.”

She smirks, amused. “I saw your name on the schedule and bumped Henry’s start time earlier. Figured you’d need someone to boss around.”

“Nice. Nothing says holiday spirit like free labor.”

Her mouth twitches into a smile before she heads off toward the trauma bay. You breathe in the scent of antiseptic and coffee. Your shift hasn’t even started, and already you can feel the heat pressing behind your eyes.

“Doc!” Jesse calls out, sliding past with an IV pole in one hand, his badge swinging. “Your favorite guy’s back. Bed three.”

“Which one?”

“Golf cart DUI. Same guy from last month. Says he’s got chest pain.”

You groan, snagging your stethoscope from your pocket and making your way toward the row of curtained bays.

“Hey, doc,” Marlene calls, intercepting you with a chart. “You’ve got a belly pain in seven. NPO since last night, vitals stable, but she’s already mad she’s waited an hour.”

“Great,” you sigh. “Let me guess—says she’s dying?”

“Says she wants to die,” Marlene says dryly. “Progress.”

Inside Bed 3, the familiar face of Mr. Golf Cart is flushed and sweaty, his eyes darting from you to the EKG leads on his chest. He tries to smile through chapped lips. 

“Hey there, doc. Long time no see.”

“It’s been three weeks,” you reply, glancing at the monitor. “You said chest pain?”

“Felt like a raccoon sittin’ on my sternum.”

You don’t bother asking how he knows what that feels like.

“I’ll get your labs and a troponin. Don’t eat or drink anything, and don’t try to leave AMA again.”

“Cross my heart,” he grins.

“You did that last time too.”

Outside the room, Tommy is coming in from the ambulance bay, gloved hands smudged with dried blood, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He spots you and tips his chin up.

“You get the kid with the fireworks burn?”

You didn't fucking get the people who lit up fireworks before the actual holiday.

“Not yet.”

He shrugs. “He’s all yours. Level 2, maybe deeper dermal. Holding it together, though.”

“Great,” you say, and Tommy claps you on the shoulder as he moves past, already shouting something to Frank who’s restocking their rig with trauma dressings.

Frank pauses to shoot you a quick smile. “Morning, doc.”

“You ready for hell?” you ask.

“Born in it,” he replies with a wink, disappearing into the supply closet.

By 6:40, the line to triage has doubled. You slip into Exam 7 where Abby and Mel are squinting at a portable chest X-ray.

“I think it’s a widened mediastinum,” Abby says, uncertain.

Mel frowns. “I think it’s a terrible film.”

You glance between them and sigh. “You’re both right. Let’s get a CT angio. Rule out dissection.”

Abby lets out a breath. Mel nods, jotting it into the chart.

You turn to leave, only to be stopped by Henry in the hallway.

“I finished my charting on the chest pain in four,” he says. “Do you want me to see the laceration in bed nine?”

You nod. “It’s a head lac. Two-centimeter frontal scalp. Walk-in. You can staple it.”

Henry brightens just slightly before hurrying off, excited to staple someone's scalp.

Kathleen stands at the nurse’s station, arms crossed, lips pressed into a line as she watches three nurses hustle to cover six rooms. She barely glances at you, but when she does, her voice is velvet over steel.

“You better love this job, sweetheart. Because it sure as hell doesn’t love us back.”

You offer her a tired grin. “I’m in a toxic relationship with medicine.”

“I’d say get out,” she murmurs, tapping something into the computer, “but I’ve been saying that for twenty years.”

You’re interrupted by Ellie appearing behind you like a caffeinated ghost, her voice quick and panicked. “I just had a guy vomit blood on my shoes and I don’t think that was in the orientation packet.”

You blink. “Was it a large volume?”

“Like a tarantula of blood exploded out of his mouth.”

“Sounds like a GI bleed. Grab Marlene and get him on O2, two large bore IVs, and get a CBC, type and screen, and a bolus of saline.”

Ellie stares at you, eyes wide. “...I love you.”

“You’ll hate me in two hours.”

Dina slides past a moment later, rolling her eyes as she scribbles a note onto a file. “You need me for the kid from the group home?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Bed twelve.”

“I’ll bring stickers,” she mutters, already moving.

You turn a corner to find Riley standing outside a room, fidgeting with her stethoscope.

“I tried to get a BP but the patient wouldn’t stop yelling at me.”

“Welcome to emergency medicine,” you say, opening the curtain.

The hours between 7 and 9 blur into a tangle of trauma activations, overdoses, and one elderly woman who insists she’s seeing angels. Joel appears somewhere around 7:30, silent and gruff, already charting by the trauma desk. His sleeves are rolled up, hair still damp from the shower both of you shared early this morning. He looks at you like he’s already tired for both of you.

You pass behind him and your hand grazes the small of his back, just enough for him to shift his weight and glance at you from the corner of his eye. That’s all. That’s enough.

He doesn’t need to say anything. Nobody talks about it, but everyone knows.

By 9 a.m., you’ve had three traumas, two psych consults, and a toddler with a swallowed battery. A man in a star-spangled bikini was just escorted to the waiting room by Bill, Ellie and Abby giggling in each other's arms watching the scene.

You think you might be sweating through your scrubs.

You duck into the breakroom, finally, and find Tess already in there, sleeves rolled, sipping black coffee and glaring at the microwave like it owes her money.

“Fourth of July,” she says without looking at you. “God bless America.”

You groan and collapse into the chair next to her. “How many stabbings so far?”

“Three. One with a fork. Guy said he was trying to get the last sausage off the grill.”

You snort, leaning back and letting the moment hold. Outside, another ambulance pulls into the bay. The day is only just beginning. And no one’s getting out early.

Just as you sat down, Ellie burst into the break room like her body was still moving faster than her brain could catch up. Her face was flushed with adrenaline, lips parted, hands trembling just enough to tell you this wasn’t a drill.

“Hey—hey—uh—can you—can you come? Right now. It’s that guy in Bay Two. He—he fucking lunged at me.”

Tess straightened up immediately, coffee forgotten. You were already on your feet, coffee sloshing onto the table as you moved past Ellie, her hand catching your elbow.

“I didn’t even touch him. I was just checking his vitals and he went off. Said women shouldn’t be in medicine, shouldn’t ‘touch him,’ called me a goddamn slut, and then he lunged. I didn’t—I mean I moved back—he didn’t land it, but—”

“I’ve got it,” you said, your voice already lowering, the calm hard edge setting in. “You’re okay. You did everything right.”

Tess looked like she wanted to follow, to keep an eye on things, but you shook your head. “Stay here. I got this.”

You headed for Bay Two with a kind of purposeful gait that had nurses flattening themselves against the wall. Marlene caught your eye from the main desk and gave you a look, sharp and knowing. She didn’t need an explanation.

The man in Bay Two was middle-aged, built like someone who spent more time drinking beer than going to the gym, his hands cuffed to the rails, red-faced and sneering. A big, mean, fleshy kind of guy with the kind of grin that made your stomach twist—not in fear, but in a deep, guttural revulsion.

“Here she is,” he crowed when he saw you enter. “Another whore with a stethoscope. They just handing out medical degrees to anyone with a pussy now, huh?”

Your heart didn’t even skip. You had heard worse. But not recently. Not in Joel's ER.

You approached, eyes flicking to the security strap readouts, the monitor, the vitals. Elevated BP, slightly tachycardic, but stable. You stood just out of reach, arms crossed, voice perfectly even.

“Sir, you’re in the emergency department of Austin General. My name is Dr. —”

“Don’t want your fucking name. Don’t want your hands on me either,” he snarled. “Get me a real doctor.”

“That would be me,” you said, unfazed. “You assaulted a medical student. You will now deal with me.”

“You little bitch. You think you got any right to—”

He spat. At you.

The glob landed on your scrub top just left of your collar, thick and glistening.

You didn’t flinch. You refused to give him that.

But when he jerked forward against the cuffs—catching you off guard with a sudden surge of movement—his nail scratched across the base of your neck. Not deep, but enough to burn. Enough to make Marlene, who had followed you at a distance, shout for security.

Enough for Joel, who’d been passing by and caught the tail end of that violent motion, to come to a dead stop at the doorway like a goddamn thundercloud.

“What the fuck did he just do?” Joel’s voice was low, calm. Terrifying.

You blinked, your hand gently coming up to feel the small scratch. Warmth there. Nothing that needed more than a Tegaderm. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

You turned to him, quiet, eyes locking. It was one of those moments where a single breath passed and everything unsaid between you stood on the edge of a blade.

“Let me treat him,” Joel said, stepping closer. His voice wasn’t a request.

“Joel.”

He turned to you—deliberate, slow. “You got a goddamn cut on your neck. You’re not treating him. You treat the people who deserve you.”

And then, to your absolute surprise, Joel stepped in.

The patient was smirking again. “Oh, now we got a real man in here,” he said, a mocking grin. “What are you, her boyfriend? Fucking lucky bastard.”

Joel didn’t say a word. He just walked over, gloved up in one fluid motion, and began to examine the man with a detached, surgical coldness that sent chills down your spine.

“What, she send you in ‘cause she can’t handle me? Tch. Figures. You look like the type to put a leash on your bitch, huh?”

Joel wrapped the BP cuff tight—too tight.

“You son of a—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Joel said evenly.

The man froze.

Joel leaned over the bed, voice low and sharp as a scalpel. “You don’t talk to my staff that way. You sure as hell don’t touch anyone. And if you so much as blink wrong again, you’re not gonna like how I handle it. You understand me?”

“You can’t talk to me like—”

Joel pressed the cuff bulb once more. The man hissed in pain.

“I asked if you understood.”

The man’s breath was shallow, face flushing again. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Jesus. Fine.”

You stood just outside the curtain, your jaw tight, watching Joel work with a professionalism sharpened by fury. You’d seen him rough before—on the job, during trauma—but never like this. Never with his jaw clenched like that. Never with his hands steady as stone but his body bristling with quiet rage.

Kathleen appeared beside you at some point, arms crossed.

“Jesus,” she muttered, watching through the curtain. “What happened?”

“He assaulted Ellie,” you said. “Tried to hit me.”

Kathleen’s eyes flicked to the small scratch at your collar. Her mouth went tight. “Should’ve let Bill loose on him.”

Joel finished dressing the man’s wound with the grace of a wolf playing surgeon. Then he turned, gloves off, and met your gaze. His face was unreadable. But his eyes told you everything.

He was done being polite. For the rest of the shift—and likely the day—he’d be wound tight. He would do his job. But that thin line he normally walked between professionalism and unfiltered rage? It was gone.

You met him halfway in the hall, his hand brushing yours for a second, a brief, nearly invisible contact.

“You okay?” he asked, low, barely audible.

“I’m fine.”

“He hurt you.”

“Barely. Joel—don’t do something that’ll get you written up.”

He exhaled slowly, jaw ticking. “Let ‘em write me up.”

You stared at each other in that fluorescent hallway, footsteps pounding, phones ringing, voices shouting. But all you heard was him.

Behind you, Ellie reappeared, her face tight and pale but determined.

“I’m okay,” she said quietly, more to Joel than you. “He didn’t land it.”

Joel nodded once. “You handled yourself.”

Ellie smiled, just barely. “You going to tell HR about your bedside manner back there?”

He didn’t even look at her. “HR can kiss my ass.”

The ER didn’t slow. The next wave of traumas rolled in before you could even sit. A car crash. A fireworks explosion that nearly cost a teenager his hand. Jesse passed you gauze with one hand and held pressure on a neck wound with the other. Frank and Tommy burst through the ambulance bay doors with another critical, blood on their uniforms, sweat streaking their faces.

The air smelled like burnt flesh and Betadine. The walls were closing in with noise and heat and the never-ending, never fucking ending churn of human pain.

You didn’t stop. You didn’t flinch. Joel didn’t leave your side for more than five minutes at a time. And no one said a word about it. But they all saw. They always did. Even when they pretended they didn’t.

Especially when it came to you and Joel. The glances in the hall, the stillness that took over his body when your name was called out overhead, the way his eyes always found you first, scanning for blood, for bruises, for the smallest fucking thing that might’ve happened in the last ten minutes he hadn’t been watching.

Everyone saw it.

And no one said a goddamn word.

Because Joel Miller didn’t take kindly to anyone prying. And more importantly—he was a better doctor when you were around. They all knew it. It made them like you more. It made them protect you, in a way. Quietly. Stealthily. With a kind of respect that was hard-earned in a place like this.

But respect didn’t stop the world from burning. The ER was a fucking pressure cooker by the time the sun hit its apex. And even though you couldn’t see it from inside—no windows, no light except the harsh fluorescents—the shift in the air was tangible. It was the crescendo. The peak.

The waiting room had filled an hour ago. Now it was bursting. You heard the shouting first. Low and muffled from behind the secured double doors, the ones that kept the main ED from descending into chaos every time someone with a sprained ankle thought they were dying. Then the angry thuds—boots on linoleum, chairs scraping, someone pounding their fist on the glass partition near triage.

You caught the tail end of it from the nurse’s station. Kathleen had her jaw set, arms crossed, standing like a statue of stone as she radioed for Bill. She didn’t flinch as someone outside yelled about waiting four fucking hours with a sick kid. About how the government should burn for the state of the American healthcare system. About how their taxes should be buying better care.

How fucking ironic telling a healthcare worker that.

Jesse muttered under his breath as he wiped his hands on a towel, “People think ERs are fucking drive-thrus now.”

“They’ve always thought that,” Kathleen snapped.

You heard the buzz of the security door unlocking and then saw Bill stride out into the storm, calm as a mountain, broad-shouldered and stone-eyed. The crowd parted enough for him to speak in that deep, measured voice of his. You didn’t hear the words, but the tone was clear—this isn’t a negotiation.

Someone pushed. Big mistake.

Bill moved faster than anyone expected, crowding the man backward with one hand braced on his chest, steering him toward the wall. “Don’t. Touch. My. Staff,” you heard him growl.

The man’s arms lifted—weak, blustering, drunk or angry or both—but Bill wasn’t even winded. He radioed for APD, kept himself between the chaos and the front desk, and when the doors buzzed shut again ten seconds later, the noise behind them didn’t stop—but it dulled.

“Fourth of fucking July,” Marlene muttered as she walked by. “Every goddamn year.”

The real storm, though—the one that mattered—was what came through the ambulance bay.

The first call came at 10:41. Child. Near-drowning. Backyard pool. No adult supervision. ETA: two minutes.

Then another. And another. And another.

You stood in Trauma One as Maria directed the incoming flow like a symphony conductor, her tablet clenched in her hand like a sword. “Put the six-year-old in Trauma Two. Get Pediatrics paged down here. Respiratory on standby. Tell CT we need head and C-spine for all drownings, intubate as needed.”

“Where the fuck are we supposed to put them?” Jesse asked, not even trying to hide his frustration. “We’re at max capacity!”

Maria’s voice sliced through the noise. “Make room. Stack if you have to. Double rooms. Trauma hall overflow. I don’t give a shit. We are not turning away pediatric codes.”

And you were moving before you even processed it. Pulling on gloves, snapping goggles over your eyes, shoving trauma shears into your pocket.

The first kid—boy, seven or eight—was cyanotic, limp, his chest rising only slightly under bag ventilation. Joel took point, barking orders with brutal precision.

“1 mg epinephrine IV push. Get ready to tube. Peds crash cart now. We need a line—Jesse, get that line. You, get that IO if you have to.”

“Got it.”

“Push faster.”

The parents were in the hallway screaming. You didn’t stop. There was no room for that. You could fall apart later.

The second kid—blonde, five, blue lips, vomit around her mouth—was rushed into your room. You caught her from the gurney mid-transfer, nearly dropping to your knees with the dead weight.

“Started CPR on scene,” Tommy said breathlessly. “No pulse for four minutes. They pulled her from the shallow end.”

You moved on instinct. “Start compressions. Get the crash cart. I need 0.01 mg/kg epi. Let’s go.”

You worked until your arms felt like jelly. Until sweat was dripping down your spine, soaking through your black scrubs. Until your fingers ached from bagging, from checking pulses, from writing code notes that your brain refused to absorb. You snapped orders, half-yelled at Abby for hesitating too long on a tube size, and didn’t even feel guilty.

These were kids. And they were dying.

By the time you got the third one—a boy, barely three—he was already cold. Tommy handed you the chart with blood on his cheek, his eyes hollow.

“Nothing in the field,” he said.

You stared at the kid. You didn’t say anything. You intubated anyway. You tried.

Joel came in halfway through and didn’t even look at the clock. He just picked up the ambu bag, his face carved from stone.

“Come on, baby boy,” he murmured, almost too quiet to hear. “Come on. Breathe.”

The rhythm of the bagging. The flatline. The futile compressions.

You heard Mel whisper, “He’s gone.”

But you kept going. Just long enough. Just to make sure.

When you finally called it—when the silence came—you felt it ripple through the room like a knife through skin.

Joel didn’t move. He looked down at the boy for a long time. Then up at you. His jaw clenched.

You looked away. You left the room. And still, the day didn’t stop.

Another crash. Fireworks embedded in a thigh. A man who’d tried to jump a fence with sparklers in both hands and shattered his femur on landing. Someone else with a roman candle burn across their cheek and no fucking idea how they got it.

Again. It was daylight. Why the fuck are people doing fireworks already.

You caught a glimpse of Ellie across the trauma hallway, covered in soot, helping Riley wrap a dressing. Her hands were steady. Her mouth was set.

Marlene passed you a water and said, “You need to drink something or you’re going to pass out.”

You didn’t even realize your hands were shaking.

By the time you made it back to Joel, he was standing at the med station with his palms flat on the counter, shoulders hunched, breathing slow and heavy like a man trying not to crack his ribs from the inside out.

You stood behind him. Quiet. Present.

“He was so young,” you said, voice hoarse.

He nodded once. “I know.”

“We did everything.”

“I know.”

You didn’t touch him. You couldn’t. Not here. But his hand brushed yours when you reached for the pen, just the smallest press of his pinky against your skin. It was enough.

You stayed like that for a breath. Then two. Then the radio crackled again. Another code. Another ambulance. No rest. Not today. And not now.

It was barely past eleven and the ER had transformed from a battlefield into something more biblical. Plagues of chaos. Floods of noise. Screams from the trauma bays, sobbing from the waiting room, blood on the linoleum, and no time to wipe it up before someone else was bleeding over it.

You were halfway through stitching up a forehead lac—nine-year-old girl, tripped chasing her older brother with a sparkler—when your pager buzzed again. Rapid succession. Three back-to-back calls.

You looked down at the kid, her tiny legs swinging off the gurney, lips trembling.

“You’re doing amazing,” you told her. “Almost done, sweetheart. Just five more.”

She gave a brave nod, but her chin wobbled anyway. Jesse handed you the next suture without speaking, the tension behind his eyes saying more than words ever could.

The second the stitches were in, you stripped your gloves and tossed them toward the bin, already moving. The noise hit you in waves as you emerged back into the hallway. Another stretcher wheeled past, pushed by Tommy and Frank, both breathless.

“Sparkler injury!” Frank shouted. “We’ve got a foreign object in the left orbit. Firework’s still in the goddamn eye!”

You blinked. “Still in?”

“It’s lodged. Like a fucking spear.”

They wheeled the teen—maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen—into Trauma Four. Blood was pouring from the socket, and he was screaming loud enough to rattle your skull. The jagged metal tip of a bent, burnt-out sparkler jutted from the flesh where his eye should’ve been. His hands were tied down. One eye wide with terror.

“Why the fuck are people lighting fireworks before the sun even sets?” you muttered, pulling on a fresh gown.

“Because Americans are stupid,” Marlene said flatly, handing you saline flushes.

It was chaos in the room. Abby tried to push meds, but the kid kept thrashing.

“Stop, stop, stop,” Abby shouted. “I can’t get the vein!”

“Hold him down,” you snapped. “Get a sedative on board. Joel!”

He was already beside you, steady hands gripping the boy’s shoulders, voice firm and low, “You gotta stay still, kid. We’re gonna fix you up. Just hold still.”

“But my eye! My fucking eye—!”

“We see it,” you said. “You’re not gonna lose more if you let us help. We’ve got you.”

Blood ran down your gloves. The sparkler was still hot when Tommy pulled it from the wound—safely, slowly, with Joel guiding the angle—and the kid passed out from the pain.

You stepped back, adrenaline crashing into your bloodstream. No time to breathe. No time to break. The second you stepped out of Trauma Four, Ellie sprinted up, pale and winded.

“There’s a kid in triage with full-body hives,” she gasped. “Face is like—bad.They think it’s an allergic reaction. Face paint.”

You blinked. “Fucking face paint?”

“Red, white, and blue stripes,” she said, still panting. “Apparently it was ‘organic.’ Mom said he’s never had allergies before.”

“Where is he?”

“Exam 6. Jesse’s already pushing Benadryl but he’s wheezing. He’s scared.Like full-on panicking.”

You followed her down the hall, cutting through noise and stretchers and the rising scent of blood and chlorine and burning hair. The kid was around six, covered in angry red welts, his face ballooning, lips beginning to swell.

His mom was sobbing.

“I didn’t know—oh God, I didn’t know—I thought it was just paint, it was from Whole Foods, it said natural—”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, crouching down. “Hey buddy, can you take a deep breath for me?”

He tried. It wheezed out in a thin rasp.

“Epi,” you said. “Right now. Auto-injector to the thigh. Push fluids. O2.”

Ellie already had the mask on him. Jesse handed you the pen.You jammed the injector into his leg through his shorts. He jolted, eyes wide, and then started to cry. That was a goodsign.

“Good job,” you said, breathless. “You’re gonna be okay, kid. Just keep breathing for me, alright?”

A nurse from Peds rolled in with an Epi drip and you handed off. Your hands were shaking again. You didn’t even realize it until Jesse brushed his fingers against yours.

“You alright?”

You looked down at your scrubs. More blood. More paint. More fucking sweat.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

You were lying. Your stomach hadn’t stopped twisting since the last code. But you kept going. Because that’s what everyone here did.

You barely made it two steps out of the room before Henry came barreling up the hallway.

“Doctor!” he wheezed. “We’ve got a—uh—a patient from a hot dog eating contest! They—they passed out mid-competition. Obstructed airway, I think. They’re coding in Bay Eight.”

You ran. By the time you got there, Riley and Mel were already doing compressions. A man—mid-thirties, athletic build—was purple-faced and frothing at the mouth. His stomach was distended and there was a faint smear of ketchup across his cheek.

“Hot dog still in there?” you asked, snapping gloves on.

Riley nodded. “We tried Heimlich. Failed. We’re suctioning but it’s not clearing.”

You stepped up. “Forceps. Laryngoscope. Bag valve.”

You shoved the scope into his mouth, peered past the pink folds of tissue. There it was—a slick, greasy chunk of frankfurter lodged in the airway like a cork.

Joel appeared behind you.

“You good?” he asked.

“Hand me the damn forceps.”

He did. You fished for it—deep, too deep—and pulled it free with a sickening squelch. The hot dog thunked to the floor like something cursed. Mel jumped in with the ambu bag.

“Pulse is back,” she confirmed a moment later. “It’s weak. But it’s back.”

“Never,” Riley panted, sweat plastering her baby hairs to her face, “never fucking entering a hot dog contest. Ever.”

You were leaning against the wall now, chest heaving, and your neck throbbed where that earlier patient had scratched you. You’d forgotten about it. The pain was back now, a dull ache that pulsed with your racing heart.

Joel stood in front of you, brow furrowed. “You’re not okay.”

You looked up. “Neither are you.”

“I know,” he said. “But I’m not the one bleeding.”

You glanced down. The scratch had reopened, blood soaking the collar of your scrub top. Not much. Not dangerous. Just another wound in a long, long list.

You swallowed hard. “Just a scratch.”

Joel didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He just stood beside you as the chaos surged around you again.

Because there was no end to it. The doors would keep opening. The stretchers would keep rolling. And you’d keep going. Because no one else could.

That was the brutal, blistering truth of it.

You stood there—goggles tight on your face, blood crusted on your collar, gloves pulled on with a snap and your spine locked straight—not because you had some noble sense of duty or unshakable resolve, but because you couldn’t afford to stop. Because every time you even thought about sitting down, someone coded. Someone crashed. A kid stopped breathing. A man lost an eye. A woman sobbed over her infant’s tiny hand as the nurses tried to get a line in, whispering, “please, please, please” like a rosary.

And now, apparently, someone had blown themselves up in a fucking Porta-Potty.

"Incoming," Tommy said grimly, as the double doors from the bay burst open.

“Trauma One!” Maria barked from across the hub. “Now!”

Frank came in with the gurney, face tight, jaw locked. The smell hit first—burned fabric, scorched hair, shit. Literal human waste, clinging to the burned man’s clothes, his skin. His legs were torn up—open wounds studded with plastic and fragments of shattered porcelain from the toilet itself. One hand was charred black. His skin was red and sloughing, patches of it bubbling.

"Jesus Christ," Jesse muttered, yanking a mask up over his nose.

"Firework in a Porta-John," Tommy said as he wheeled the guy in. "M-80. Don’t ask me how."

"Someone fucking would on the Fourth," you muttered, snapping on another gown. “Where was it placed?”

“In the bowl,” Frank said. “He sat on it.”

“Of course he did.”

Joel was already across from you, snapping on a pair of surgical gloves with a sound that could slice through bone. His jaw was clenched, face unreadable.

"Vitals are trash," Mel said, sliding in with a monitor. "BP’s in the tank. O2 sat’s crashing. We need to intubate now."

You grabbed the laryngoscope while Joel prepped the tube. He was calm—dead calm—the kind of calm that comes before an explosion. His voice cut through the room with that hard, sharp edge.

“Lidocaine in. Cricoid pressure. Bag him.”

Jesse handed you the blade. You guided it into place, careful and precise. The airway was distorted but patent. Joel took over. The tube slid in on the first pass. Of course it did.

You looked down at the man’s legs, charred and littered with embedded shrapnel and what looked like wet confetti.

“Someone tell me that’s not toilet paper in his femoral wound.”

“Oh, it is,” Joel growled.

Marlene gagged.

“Flush the wounds. High-dose antibiotics. He’s septic already, or he’s about to be.”

You cleaned what you could while Kathleen handed you a syringe. “Chemical rash on his back. He landed in the tank.”

“Tank was full,” Tommy added helpfully, stepping out of the way.

“Jesus,” you muttered.

“He’s not gonna make it through the hour,” Joel said, bluntly. “Let’s get plastics and trauma surgery down here. He needs a burn unit bed but I’m betting San Antonio’s full.”

You didn’t ask how he knew that. You just nodded.

“Let’s call it in anyway.”

There wasn’t a single clear patch of this man’s skin left untouched. He looked like the Fourth of July had tried to swallow him whole and shit him back out.

You worked fast, coordinating with a speed that could only be honed by months—years—in this warzone of a hospital. Joel didn’t look at you once, not directly, but he moved around you like gravity, always one step ahead, always covering your blind side. He handled the patient with a kind of ruthless efficiency that others might’ve called cold.

You knew better. Joel wasn’t cold. Joel was focused. He didn’t waste softness on the people who didn’t deserve it. That man on the table? He might have deserved pity. He sure as fuck wasn’t getting it.

Joel tore his gloves off once the patient was stabilized enough for surgery and tossed them in the bin like they’d personally offended him. His hands shook once—barely noticeable—before he shoved them into his pockets.

“Fucking idiot,” he muttered.

You didn’t disagree.

And you didn’t stop moving.

Because the very next second, Ellie poked her head in.

“Uh, we’ve got a kid in Exam 3? Swallowed a toothpick? Like…a flag one. From a cupcake.”

You blinked. “A flag?”

“Yeah, like the American flag. From the dollar store. She’s five.”

“Is she choking?”

“No, but the family’s…a lot.”

“How a lot?”

“You’ll see.”

You left Joel in Trauma One and headed toward Exam 3. You could hear them before you opened the door.

The mother was sobbing. Loudly. Hiccuping breaths and wailing cries like she was auditioning for a soap opera. The father was yelling—at the kid, at the mother, at the air. Clearly drunk already, beer-breath sharp in the room.

“She’s gonna die,” the mom wailed. “My baby’s gonna die from a cupcake!”

“She ain’t fuckin’ dyin’,” the dad snapped, swaying slightly. “Y’all makin’ a big deal about nothin’!”

“Why did you even let her have the cupcake? You always do this—you don’t watch her!”

“She’s five, she can eat a goddamn cupcake! We all did when we were kids!”

“She swallowed a fucking flag, Kyle!”

In the corner, Grandma was sitting in a plastic chair, swaying gently and singing America the Beautiful off-key and with unnerving enthusiasm.

“O beautiful… for spacious skies…”

The child—the only reasonable person in the room—sat on the bed kicking her heels, totally unbothered.

“I feel fine,” she said. “Can I have another cupcake?”

Dina was already in the room, crouched next to the mother, talking in that soft, steady voice she used when everything was teetering on collapse.

“She’s okay,” Dina said. “She’s alert, she’s talking, she’s not choking. Let’s just take a breath, alright?”

The mom sobbed harder. You stepped in, hands in the air like you were entering a hostage negotiation.

“Hi, I’m one of the doctors. I hear we had a little cupcake situation.”

“She swallowed a flag,” the dad said proudly. “America!”

“She’s fine,” the mom cried. “But what if she’s not? What if it cuts her up on the inside?”

“Ma’am,” you said gently, approaching the little girl. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Kaylee.”

“Hi, Kaylee. Can I press on your tummy a little?”

She nodded solemnly. “You’re pretty.”

You smiled. “So are you.”

You examined her—no abdominal tenderness, no signs of perforation, vitals stable. You made a note to get an abdominal X-ray, just to make sure the damn flag wasn’t sharp enough to do damage. But this wasn’t a code. This was a circus.

Dina stood up slowly, easing the mom back onto the chair.

“She’s gonna be fine,” she said firmly. “We’re gonna monitor her and make sure everything passes okay. But you need to breathe.”

The grandma took that moment to hit a high note.

“...for purple mountain majesty…”

You looked at Dina. Dina looked at you.

“I’ll give them some water,” she muttered. “And maybe a Valium.”

You squeezed her arm gently. “You’re a national treasure.”

Dina smirked. “Someone has to be.”

You stepped out of the room and leaned your head against the cool wall for just a moment. Just a moment of silence. Of stillness. But there was no such thing today.

There were voices shouting again. Footsteps pounding. Another trauma called overhead. And Joel’s voice, snapping sharp in the distance—

“Get me a fucking gurney now or I’ll throw this guy over my shoulder myself!”

You straightened your spine. Wiped your hands. And ran toward it.

You didn’t know what room it was yet. You didn’t know who was bleeding, coding, or screaming—but the air in the ER had changed again, like it had decided to climb one more goddamn rung on the ladder to hell.

By now it had bled into noon, and that meant it wasn’t just a peak anymore. This was the full boil. No more build-up. No more lulls. Just the ER at its most unhinged, bloated with bodies and chaos and pain, stinking of chlorine and antiseptic and sunburned skin.

You rounded the corner, expecting another trauma code, expecting the worst—and instead, you got two teenage boys, one on a wheelchair, the other pushing him with the nonchalant energy of a kid who thought his own mortality was at least a decade away.

“We tried to do a Slip ’n Slide,” said the one in the chair, grinning despite the fact that his wrist was visibly fractured and his shoulder was dislocated at an angle that made Jesse wince. “It was sick.”

“We used trash bags and Dawn,” his friend said, absolutely proud of the decision. “It’s, like, eco-friendly, right?”

“Yeah,” the injured one added. “Until he slipped and hit the sprinkler head buried in the lawn. I thought his bone came out of his arm, but it was just soap and panic.”

“Yo, are you my doctor?” the boy said, eyes dropping to your badge, then slowly crawling back up to your eyes. “Because like…you’re so hot.”

You blinked. Behind you, Jesse choked on his laugh.

“Yeah,” the boy continued, winking despite his very obvious pain. “I think I just dislocated my heart.”

“Okay,” you said, stepping in. “We’re going to get your vitals, your arm back in its socket, and absolutely never talk like that to a medical professional again.”

“But if I die—”

“You won’t.”

“—will you come to my funeral?”

“I’ll resuscitate you just to kill you again.”

Jesse wheeled the kid into Exam 5, cackling.

“I love this job sometimes,” he muttered. “Teens flirting with trauma. Classic.”

You didn’t get far before Joel appeared. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

Just looked at the kid, then looked at you, and that single blink—slow and pointed—said all of it.

Joel was not the jealous type.

Joel was the territorial type. Like a wolf. Like a loaded weapon just waiting to be cocked.

“Relax,” you muttered under your breath as you passed him, shoulder brushing his. “He’s seventeen and concussed.”

Joel growled low in his throat. Actually growled. “Little bastard keeps looking at your ass, he’ll leave here with more than a cast.”

You fought back a smirk. “He’s barely out of diapers.”

Joel shot you a look like that wasn’t the goddamn point.

But then Tess was suddenly at your side, moving at speed, hair half-falling from her bun, eyes wild and voice sharp.

“Hey—Miller. You. Room 12. Right now. I don’t have time for this.”

“What is it?” you asked, already falling into step beside her.

She didn’t break stride. “Geriatric. Took too much THC lemonade. She thinks she’s ascending. I need backup before she climbs the fucking bed rails.”

You and Joel both followed.

Inside Room 12 was an elderly woman in a red-white-and-blue shawl, lying in a hospital gown with her arms stretched out like she was ready to be crucified.

“I hear the trumpets,” she whispered, eyes glassy. “They’re calling me home.”

Ellie stood nearby holding an EKG lead in one hand and what looked like an empty bottle of artisanal lemonade in the other. “Her granddaughter brought this,” she said. “She thought it was regular lemonade.”

“I thought it was an Arnold Palmer,” the woman corrected, voice dreamy. “It tasted like freedom.”

“She chugged half the bottle in the sun,” Tess explained. “Heart rate’s 140 and rising.”

Joel moved to the monitor, eyes flicking over the numbers. “BP’s shit too. You got a line?”

“Yeah,” said Mel, double-checking the drip. “But she keeps pulling at it.”

“Ma’am,” you said gently, approaching the bedside. “You’re not dying. You just had too much cannabis.”

Her eyes found Joel. They widened. “Saint Peter?”

Joel stared. “No.”

“Have you come to escort me?” she whispered, reaching out a hand.

Joel took a single step back. 

“I’m ready,” she continued, eyes glistening. “Take me into the light.”

“She needs Ativan,” Abby said, handing it off. “And maybe like…a priest.”

“Just keep her in the bed,” Tess said. “She keeps trying to crawl toward the halogen light in the ceiling.”

Joel turned away, muttering, “I fucking hate this holiday.”

You looked at him, lifting a brow. “You hate every holiday.”

“Yeah,” he said. “And this one’s the worst.”

It would’ve been funny, if the ER hadn’t chosen that exact moment to go off the rails again.

Marlene poked her head in. “You guys got a throat bleeder in Exam 2. Woman swallowed a metal bristle from a grill brush. Says she noticed halfway through her hot dog but didn’t wanna be rude.”

“What the fuck,” you muttered.

“She’s stable,” Marlene added. “But her sister’s already yelling.”

You and Joel exchanged a look. Of course.

You followed Marlene down the hall, Ellie falling in behind you with Riley trailing behind her, both clutching their tablets and trying to finish charting from the last five traumas. Henry passed you in the other direction, visibly sweating, muttering something about a broken ankle in the hallway again.

Inside Exam 2, the patient sat clutching her throat, blood on her napkin. Next to her stood a woman in her fifties with perfectly curled hair, a clipboard, and the righteous fury of a suburban mom who read one article once.

“She swallowed what?” Joel asked, arms folded.

“A grill bristle,” you said, eyeing the bleeding. “Probably from one of those wire brushes. They snap off sometimes. I read about this.”

The sister stepped in front of the bed like a lawyer at a press conference.

“This is why I tell everyone not to use metal tools when cooking. There are non-toxic options. Bamboo. Silicone. But nobody listens to me. And now this happens!”

“Ma’am,” Joel said flatly. “I don’t give a shit about your non toxic options right now. Your sister is bleeding.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused,” he said, walking past her to check the monitor. “Let the doctors work.”

You fought a smile and grabbed gloves. The woman on the bed gave you a tired, slightly woozy grin.

“I mean, it was a good hot dog,” she rasped. “Didn’t wanna ruin the vibe.”

“Next time,” you said, gently tilting her head, “ruin the vibe.”

She chuckled. Then winced.

Dina appeared at the doorway, her voice a breathless sigh. “There’s a baby on the floor in the waiting room trying to eat a Pop-It firework. No parents in sight.”

“I’m gonna commit a felony,” Joel muttered.

“I’ll hold your pager,” you said.

Everyone laughed. For half a second, it felt like the room wasn’t collapsing. Then the lights flickered. The power hiccupped. And another trauma was called over the PA.

You looked at Joel. He was already moving. And you followed him. Because no one else could.

That sentence followed you like a goddamn shadow.

It echoed in your head as you and Joel passed through the final security doors into the waiting room—a wall of sweaty, shouting, sunburned humanity. It was packed to the gills. Coughing kids, cranky geriatrics, one guy snoring against the vending machine, another pacing the floor in flip-flops and nothing else but an American flag wrapped around his waist like a towel.

The Fourth of July in Texas. The absolute worst kind of magic.

And right in the middle of all of it—by the edge of the grimy tiled floor, next to an overflowing trash can—was a baby. A real-ass baby.

Maybe nine months old. Crawling across the fucking floor with a soggy diaper and an open Pop-It firework gripped in his drool-slick hand like it was a holy relic.

“God damn it,” Joel muttered, and you were already moving.

You scooped the baby up before he could slam the firework into the floor. He shrieked in protest, flailed in your arms, and then—somehow—managed to sneeze directly into your mouth.

You froze.

“Did he just—?”

“He fucking did,” Joel confirmed.

Your jaw clenched.

Joel took the firework from the kid’s hand and hurled it into the nearest trash bin like it had personally offended him. Then he looked around the room with all the tenderness of a hunting dog tracking a wounded deer.

“Whose kid is this?!” he bellowed.

Silence. No one moved. No one looked up.

“I said—whose fucking kid?!”

You rocked the baby gently on your hip. “He doesn’t have a wristband. He’s not registered.”

Joel scanned the crowd, eyes narrowing. “We’re calling CPS.”

“I’ll call 'em,” Dina said, appearing from nowhere, eyes exhausted and jaw tight. “Jesus fucking Christ. This is the third abandoned kid today. Do people think this is a goddamn daycare?”

“Apparently,” Joel growled.

The baby cooed in your arms and drooled on your scrub top.

You sighed. “Okay. This one’s mine now. I’ll call him July.”

Joel looked at the baby. The baby blinked at him, completely unbothered.

Joel didn’t smile. But you could tell he wanted to. He just touched the baby's foot making him giggle.

Then the screaming started. Not from the baby. From the ambulance bay.

You both turned just in time to see Tommy and Frank wheel in a gurney that looked…wrong. The patient wasn’t lying flat. She was…angled? Propped up in some kind of twisted plastic hellscape. And she was howling.

“I’m stuck!” she screeched. “I cannot feel my ass!”

“She got melted into the chair,” Frank explained as they wheeled her past the desk. “Aluminum frame, plastic seat. Left it out in the sun too long. She sat down and… boom. Cheeks fused.”

“She tried to stand up and the chair came with her,” Tommy added, still holding the IV bag. “Had to cut the lawn hose to fit her through the door.”

You blinked. Marlene blinked. Joel’s eye twitched.

“Get her into Procedure Three,” Maria barked from behind the main hub. “And prep a burn tray. This is gonna be a surgical extraction.”

You followed the gurney in, July passed off to Dina, as Joel grabbed the trauma shears. Dina disappeared down the hall to hand the baby off to Social Work. Jesse, Tess, and Riley were already in the room. Henry stood against the wall, pale as a sheet, staring at the patient like she was some rare museum exhibit.

“Don’t just stand there,” Joel snapped at him. “You’ve seen an ass before.”

“Not like this,” Henry whispered.

The patient was red in the face, gripping the sides of the chair like it was a ride at an amusement park. 

“She’s got second-degree burns on the posterior,” Mel said, pulling on gloves. “We’re gonna have to cut the chair off in sections.”

“She’s got third-degree pride damage,” Abby muttered.

“I heard that!” the woman yelled.

“We’ll get you out, ma’am,” Tess said, rolling up her sleeves. “But you need to hold still. If you twist, you’ll rip skin.”

“I’ve been twisted since brunch,” the woman moaned. “Do it fast!”

You stepped in with trauma scissors and started cutting the straps of her sundress where it had fused to the chair legs. Joel knelt at the base, prying at melted plastic.

“Jesse, saline. And get me lidocaine. Abby—scalpel. Riley—monitor. Now.”

They moved. You moved. The chair creaked as Joel wedged the blunt scissors into the side and began to snip.

“You’re gonna feel pressure,” you warned.

“I feel humiliation!” the woman shouted.

The room was chaos. Screams. Grunts. Sweat. Abby nearly slipped in a puddle of saline. Jesse started humming The Star Spangled Banner under his breath like it was going to save his soul.

“Pressure coming,” Joel warned.

“Now,” you said. “Mel—on the back panel.”

One final snap—and the chair split. The woman yelped. Joel caught her before she could slide off the gurney. Burns covered the backs of her thighs and ass. Angry red welts. Plastic still clinging to the skin.

“Get burn cream,” Joel barked. “And wrap it. We’ll get plastics to consult. If this gets infected—”

“It won’t,” you said quickly. “We won’t let it.”

The woman sniffled. “Do I… still have an ass?”

You nodded solemnly. “It’s just less optimistic now.”

Joel gave you a look. But it was almost—almost—amused.

Jesse gently covered her with a sheet. “You’ll be fine, ma’am. But maybe next time, check the chair temperature before you park it.”

“Fuck you,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

Tess wiped her forehead. “Somebody better bring me a margarita after this.”

“I got a jug of hospital juice,” Riley offered.

��Go to hell.”

Ellie leaned in through the curtain, tablet clutched in one hand. “Someone just walked in with a buncha sparklers taped to their chest.”

You stared. She stared. You sighed. Then reached for your stethoscope.

You didn’t even get the damn thing around your neck before it happened. The world cracked in half.

A boom, deep and cavernous, roared through the hospital like a goddamn earthquake. The lights flickered. The floor shook. Somewhere far off, car alarms screamed to life. You had just turned to Joel, mouth open to ask what the fuck was that, when the second explosion hit.

It was louder. Closer.

You staggered, caught the edge of the stretcher to steady yourself. From down the hall came the sound of shattering glass. An IV pole tipped, clattered to the floor. Somewhere, someone screamed. The lights dimmed, buzzed, then held steady, flickering like they were considering going out entirely.

Joel was already moving. You didn’t even see him react—just felt it. A hand on your arm. Hard. Gripping. Yanking you in, fast.

He pulled you to him, one arm curling instinctively around your back, his chest flush to yours as the wall behind you both trembled under the blast’s echo.

You could feel his heart racing through his scrubs. His breath was sharp, tight, furious.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was low and sharp, a breath away from a growl.

“No,” you panted. “I’m—what the fuck just happened?”

Across the ER, controlled chaos exploded.

Maria’s voice bellowed from the central hub, clear and commanding, her voice slicing through the panic. “Mass casualty protocol! All trauma bays cleared now. Abby, Mel, start staging the clean beds! Riley, Henry, grab gurneys and start lining the main hallway. Jesse, Marlene, alert radiology and prep the portable X-ray machines—now!”

Joel looked out the window. Smoke. Billowing, black smoke rising from the supermarket lot across the street. People running. Screaming.

“Oh, fuck me,” Kathleen said from the nurse’s desk, eyes wide. “It’s the firework truck.”

“The illegal one,” Marlene added, her voice flat with horror. “That vendor with the fucking tent full of black market shit—it’s gone.”

“Exploded,” said Ellie, appearing at your side, breathless and pale. “It just—exploded. Twice. We felt it inside.”

You looked toward the windows. The supermarket parking lot was chaos. Fireworks still going off mid-air—rockets bursting into reds and greens like it was New Year’s instead of noon. People were running toward the hospital, some limping, some screaming.

A kid was carried by a man soaked in blood.

A woman fell into the bushes near the entrance.

The hospital doors hadn’t even fully opened before Bill was there, already barking into his radio, hand on his hip, stance like a fucking soldier. “We’ve got multiple casualties inbound. Lock this place down, route ‘em to emergency access. Tell APD we need crowd control now. No civilians inside the ER.”

“Tell Fire they’re still igniting,” Tommy shouted as he hauled a backboard off a gurney. “Shit’s not out yet. We’re gonna have more.”

Maria turned to you and Joel. “You two. Trauma Three. First waves’ll be here in thirty seconds.”

The doors burst open again. Sirens now. So many sirens.

Then they came.

The first patient—dragged in by two strangers, clothes still smoking—was screaming, half his face red and blistering, the skin peeling off his arm like plastic wrap. “It was in my goddamn truck!” he yelled. “I told him not to park it next to the propane—”

“Vitals tanking,” Mel called, rushing up with the monitor. “BP 84 over 40!”

“Get fluids. We’re intubating now,” Joel barked. “You—” he pointed at Henry, who flinched— “cut that shirt off and watch for chest expansion.”

“I’ve got an O2 mask!” Ellie shouted, barreling in behind him.

Abby was already trying to start a line, fumbling.

“Abby—center that angle or you’re gonna blow it,” Joel snapped. “Get out of the way. I’ll do it.”

You slipped in with the burn kit, pushing the cart to the side of the bed. “We need lidocaine, silvadene, morphine. He’s gonna crash.”

Second patient came in a minute later.

Woman. Late twenties. Not screaming.

Because she couldn’t breathe.

A rocket had shot straight through the windshield of her car. Glass shredded her chest. One rib cracked. The pressure had collapsed her lung.

“She’s hypoxic,” Jesse called, wheeling her into Trauma Two. “Sat’s in the fifties. Trachea’s shifting. We’ve got a tension pneumo.”

“I’m needling her now!” you said, already gloved up.

Joel moved to your side without hesitation.

“Three fingers below the clavicle. Do it fast or she’s gone,” he said, voice calm, commanding. Like the world wasn’t on fire.

You pierced the chest wall with the needle, felt the rush of air, watched her chest rise.

“She’s stabilizing,” Riley said, breath catching.

Another one.

A child.

Carried in by a stranger, his leg soaked in blood, a metal shard sticking out just above the knee. Screaming. Wailing.

“Shrapnel,” Marlene said. “Straight from the explosion.”

Dina rushed in behind them, voice shaking. “Mom’s not with him. Said she ran off looking for his little brother—he’s alone.”

You pushed the adult crash cart aside, swapping in peds trauma.

“Stay with me, kiddo,” you whispered, eyes locking with his. “You’re not alone anymore.”

Joel appeared beside you, hands already working to stabilize the limb. “Get that pressure dressing on. Marlene—lidocaine local. I’m not cutting metal until he’s numb.”

“Roger that.”

“We can’t pull it here,” you said. “Not without imaging. We don’t know what it’s resting against.”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “Then we work around it. Until radiology’s ready.”

The ER was vibrating with sound. The doors slammed open again, and Frank came in pushing another gurney.

“Burns and lacerations,” he said. “Lost a shoe, still has a firework tube in his hand.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Tess muttered, meeting him at the door with a splint and gauze. “Get me a tray. And a scalpel. I think we’re cutting around this one.”

“Where’s Ortho?” Maria asked, hands on her hips. “Someone page Ortho, I want consults in fifteen minutes or I’m dragging them down here myself!”

“Dr. Gail is in surgery!” Riley shouted back. “I’ll grab second call!”

Kathleen blew past the hub with four gurneys trailing behind her like a train, three med techs jogging to keep up. Her face was stone.

“Ten more ambulances on the way,” she called. “The parking lot’s a war zone.They’re staging by triage. We need everyone outside of Trauma Hall to prep overflow.”

You grabbed a portable monitor and a trauma checklist, snapped at Henry to follow.

He hesitated.

Joel barked—“Go.”

Henry went.

You didn’t see where Joel ended up for the next ten minutes. You were too busy. You were stitching, packing wounds, answering rapid-fire questions from Ellie, who was practically vibrating from adrenaline. You passed Jesse in the hallway, sweat pouring down his face, three soaked gowns already in the trash. You heard Abby shouting for a bolus in Room Seven, saw Mel carrying a tray of wrapped scalpels like her life depended on it.

And then—

Joel was beside you again.

You didn’t know how long it had been.

His eyes scanned you fast, checking every inch of you in a breathless beat.

“You okay?”

You nodded.

“You?”

He didn’t answer.

But his fingers brushed your hand for just a second. Just long enough to say still here.

And then more patients poured in.

And you both ran toward it.

There wasn’t even time to think about how long it had been since you’d eaten, or went to the bathroom, or even blinked without your eyeballs stinging. The air in the ER had thickened—hot, metallic, sour with sweat and sterilized burn dressings. Every inch of your black scrubs was soaked in blood, saline, and god knew what else. You couldn’t tell where your pulse stopped and the noise around you began.

There was no clock anymore. Just waves of patients. Gurneys rolling in, IV poles clattering against corners, bloody towels slapping the linoleum. You moved through it like muscle memory—stitching, bagging, ordering scans, barking instructions to interns who hadn’t even hit their first bowel movement on the job.

Joel was a few paces ahead, pulling a C-collar from a wall mount, jaw tight as iron, barking over his shoulder to Riley, who was jogging to keep up with a trauma sheet.

“Have the trauma room ready before I get there, or I’m working on this guy on the floor. Got it?”

“Got it, Dr. Miller,” she said breathlessly, already sprinting down the hall.

You saw Henry leaning into a hallway crash cart, face pale and shiny. He’d just finished assisting with a child whose femur had shattered clean through the skin. His gloved hands were still shaking, and you wanted to say something—something decent—but the next gurney was already coming in, and someone was shouting for an airway and suction, and the moment was gone.

Then the doors opened again.

You heard the change in the room before you saw who it was.

There was a shift—like the sound dropped an octave. Like gravity changed hands.

A firefighter came in.

He wasn’t screaming.

He wasn’t saying anything.

That was worse.

Frank was wheeling him, and the medic at his side looked fucking wrecked.

“Flash burns,” Frank shouted. “Second and third degree, neck down to his hip. Helmet took most of the blast. He was on top of the truck when it popped the second time.”

“Vitals?” Joel asked, already snapping on gloves.

“Dropping. BP’s shit, O2 sat’s low 90s. He needs fluids, airway’s tightening.”

The man’s skin was cracked, dark, curled. Parts of it bubbled, weeping plasma.

“Get him to Trauma One,” Joel barked. “You—” He pointed to Ellie, who was two steps away. “Get Respiratory down here right now.”

“He’s trying to talk,” you said, leaning in.

You crouched beside the gurney as Frank slowed it beside the trauma bay. The firefighter’s lips were blistered. His voice was gravel.

“My…my wife’s here…”

“We’ll find her,” you said. “But you need to stay with us, alright? You’re at Austin General. You’re safe.”

He blinked slowly. “It hurts.”

“I know. I know it does.”

“Push fentanyl, IV,” Joel said, already cutting away what was left of the turnout gear. The skin underneath peeled off with the fabric.

“Motherfucker,” he growled, tossing the gauze aside. “This is third-degree over at least thirty percent. Get the burn team on standby.”

Tess appeared at your side with two nurses and a trauma surgeon. “Ortho’s full upstairs. Trauma Two is open but we’ve got a bleeding scalp lac in there. I’ll switch ‘em if we stabilize him in the next ten.”

You nodded. “I’ll start cooling compresses now.”

You grabbed a silver-coated burn dressing, opened it, and started gently laying it over the exposed tissue. The firefighter didn’t even flinch.

That was the worst part.

The not flinching.

Then came the second shift in the air. The kind you only felt a few times a year.

The doors opened again.

A uniform came through.

Police.

Dragging another.

The cop on the gurney was groaning, blood pouring from a shoulder wound, his vest soaked through, cheek torn open. One of his boots was missing. There was soot on his face.

Joel looked up. Groaned. Loudly.

“Fucking great,” he muttered, wiping his hands on a towel. “Just what we fucking need.”

You barely caught your laugh before it escaped. It wasn’t funny. But it was also so goddamn Joel.

Because whenever a cop rolled through the trauma bay, it meant one thing, the rest of the department was about to show up.

And they’d be in the ER. Hovering. Pacing. Armed.

It turned your trauma bay into a political minefield.

And Joel? Joel didn’t play that game.

“Officer was helping crowd control during the blast,” Tommy reported, voice clipped, wheeling the officer in beside Tess. “Got hit with some shrapnel and then trampled.”

“Vitals?” Joel asked, walking over.

“Stable. But barely. Pressure’s borderline. Laceration on the scalp, and that shoulder’s fucked.”

The officer groaned. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Joel said. “You’ve got a puncture wound half an inch from your subclavian artery, and you’re actively bleeding onto my floor. Shut up and let me work.”

You stepped in behind him, grabbing gauze, gloves already on. “Do you want me to start a second line?”

“Yes. Left AC. Jesse—clamp this.”

“I’m clamping, I’m clamping,” Jesse muttered, hands bloody.

And right on cue, the cavalry came.

Five more officers entered the ER like they owned the place, guns holstered, expressions hard. They didn’t say a word, just hovered outside Trauma Three like sentries.

Dina appeared at your side with an exhausted expression. “I’m going to need a Xanax just from looking at this testosterone.”

“They’re gonna breathe down our necks until this guy’s transferred upstairs,” you muttered, snapping the catheter into place.

Joel didn’t even look up.

“Hey,” he barked, without turning. “One of you pacing jackasses wanna be useful? Go get your boy’s blood type from dispatch and stop fucking crowding my hallway.”

A few of them stiffened.

One opened his mouth.

Joel glared.

The cop closed it again.

Marlene slid in beside you with an extra tray. “You want me to log this guy’s injury for the report?”

“Document it for surgical,” you said. “He’s not going to need an incident report if he bleeds out on the floor.”

“I heard that,” the officer mumbled.

Joel leaned over him. “Good. Maybe you’ll listen better now.”

And then, somehow, like some cruel joke from above, a sixth cop walked in carrying a teenage girl with a bruised face.

“Hit by a rocket while filming a TikTok,” he said. “She’s got glass in her cheek and maybe a concussion.”

Joel blinked.

“Riley. That one’s yours,” he said.

“Me? I—I've never done this before—”

“You’ve got me,” Joel barked. “She’s stable. Triage her. I’ll double-check your assessment before discharge.”

You caught his eye.

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t have to.

You could see it in him—the storm building behind his ribs. The fire that never quite went out. Joel wasn’t just in charge. He was containing the whole fucking hospital with the force of his will.

And still—when his eyes met yours, something shifted.

His jaw relaxed. Just a fraction.

You wiped sweat off your brow and nodded.

He didn’t nod. He just looked at you.

You pressed your glove to the officer’s wound and let yourself feel his gaze for one more second before the chaos swallowed you whole again.

It was four-thirty p.m. now. Or close to it.

The firework truck disaster had slowed—not ended, not resolved, but dulled just enough that you could hear your own breathing again. Maybe even someone else's. EMS was still ferrying in stragglers from the blast radius, but the heavy flow was stemmed. Controlled. Stitched and stapled back into some semblance of order by a crew of exhausted, bloodstained healthcare workers who hadn’t took a break since sunrise.

The ER was open again. Technically.

The triage desk was back on, the phones buzzing, the automatic doors kissing open with every new patient. The city hadn’t paused just because a truck of illegal fireworks blew up across the street. This was Austin. People still choked on hot dogs, burned their hands on grills, took edibles they didn’t understand and panic-texted their exes from Exam room 2.

And every. Single. Fucking. Room was full.

Overflow was full.

Trauma bays were full.

Peds, Ortho, Neuro, Med-Surg, Hall Beds 1 through 5, and the goddamn family bereavement room were full.

You were treading water, heart beating in your ears, sweat soaking your scrubs. There were two paper cups of coffee you hadn’t finished and three patients you hadn’t followed up on yet. Ellie was at the nurse’s station reviewing a chart with one hand and eating a banana with the other, eyes glassy from too much input. Riley had just returned from the stairwell, where she admitted to crying for two minutes, washing her face, and then saying I can do hard things.

That was you during your first year too. 

You hadn’t even taken your gloves off for the last hour. At some point, they just fused to your skin.

But then it happened.

The way it always does.

Sudden.

Loud.

Violent.

The radio crackled in from EMS. The voice was fast, panicked.

“Male, mid-thirties, penetrating chest trauma, left thoracic cavity—multiple stab wounds—no pulse for the last thirty seconds. We’re two minutes out—we’re performing compressions en route but he’s—he’s tanking.”

There was silence for one breath.

Just one.

Then Joel’s voice, low and lethal from the trauma bay, “Clear Trauma One. Now.”

You dropped the file in your hands onto the desk.

Tore off your gloves.

And you ran.

By the time you got to Trauma One, Joel was already there—mask on, arms scrubbed to the elbow, gown halfway tied. His jaw was clenched, eyes scanning the crash cart like he was inventorying a fucking battlefield. The room smelled like sweat and sterile burn cream, and still, something in the air cracked open, the second you stepped in.

Not panic. Not fear.

Something heavier.

Something that whispered this one’s gonna be different.

“Get them all in here,” Joel snapped to Marlene, who stood at the door. “Everyone. Jesse, Abby, Mel, Riley, Henry. Ellie too.”

“They’re not all on rotation for—”

“I don’t give a fuck,” he barked. “They want to work in the field? They want to become doctors? They watch. They help. They need to see this.”

You stepped in beside him, already pulling on a new pair of gloves. “Is it…?”

Joel looked at you. Really looked.

And when he nodded, your pulse jumped.

“Emergency thoracotomy,” he said. “If he arrests, we crack the chest.”

Your heart stuttered.

This was it.

This was the thing you’d been obsessing over for months—talking Joel’s ear off about it over half-empty glasses of whiskey at his kitchen counter, watching old procedural videos while curled up next to him in bed, asking him over and over what was it like the first time you did one? Did it work? Did it feel real? He never answered in full. He just grunted, or said “bloody,” or told you to go the fuck to sleep while he digs his head back into your warm neck.

And now it was happening.

And he was here.

And you were ready.

The doors burst open.

The paramedics wheeled him in at a dead sprint. Literally. Because the man on the gurney was dead.

Pulseless.

Agonal.

The first medic was shouting, “We lost him for thirty—make that forty seconds now. GSW to the chest, left thorax, suspect a knife. Maybe a piece of pipe. Whatever it was—punched straight through.”

Joel was already at the bedside, yanking off the sheet.

You followed without needing to be asked.

“Jesse, get vitals on monitor. Abby, you’re on line. Riley, grab the thoracotomy tray. Henry—”

Henry paled. “Yeah?”

“Don’t fucking faint again.”

“I won’t.”

“You faint, I leave you there.”

He nodded. Swallowed. Backed up.

The man’s skin was waxy. Blue around the lips. The gaping chest wound glistened and bubbled with thick, frothy blood—the worst kind. Pulmonary. Wet. Final.

“We’re cracking,” Joel said to the room. “Now. He’s not coming back with compressions. We open.”

Ellie blinked. “You mean like—like open open?”

“Like ribs-on-display open,” Joel snapped. “Don’t move unless you want your shoes soaked.”

And then—Joel turned to you.

Paused.

Looked at you with that sharp, knowing edge that said this is the moment you've been waiting for.

“Do it,” he said.

You blinked. “Me?”

“You’ve been begging for this for six fucking months. Talking my ear off. You want it—take it.”

The room froze.

Everyone stared at you.

“No pressure,” Mel whispered. “Just someone’s life on the line.”

You didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

You stepped forward, and you cracked his fucking chest.

Joel guided, hands over yours, voice low but never soft. “Midline. Left thoracotomy. Rib spreader. Go now.”

Riley handed it over with trembling hands. Abby dropped suction tubing on the floor and didn’t even pick it up.

You made the incision.

Deep.

Fast.

Confident.

The blood poured.

Joel caught it.

Jesse cursed under his breath. Ellie made a sound like she was swallowing vomit. Henry straight-up whimpered.

You cut through the muscle.

Joel barked again. “Keep going. Don’t stop until you see the goddamn heart.”

You spread the ribs. The crack was wet and obscene and louder than you expected.

It wasn’t like TV.

It was real.

Inside, the left lung was collapsed, the pericardium filling with blood.

You could see the heart.

And it was still.

Joel didn’t say anything.

You didn’t need him to.

You reached in.

Your gloved hand slid into the cavity like a blade. Warm. Tight. Full of potential.

And you found it.

The heart.

“Massage it,” Joel said. “Rhythm. Controlled. You’ve got this.”

You started compressions—internal. Thumb and fingers. Slow, then faster.

Riley was in the corner, trying to stand tall. 

Abby whispered something that sounded like a prayer.

Mel had gone quiet, which was somehow worse.

Henry was gripping the counter, white-knuckled.

Jesse stood frozen until Joel barked at him to bag the fucking patient.

And you—you were the one keeping the man alive.

For ten seconds.

Then twenty.

Then thirty.

Then—

Beep.

Faint.

Then stronger.

Joel leaned over the monitor.

“Sinus rhythm,” he said, eyes flicking to you. “Goddamn. You got him back.”

A gasp filled the room.

Abby nearly dropped her syringe.

Mel exhaled like she hadn’t breathed in minutes.

Jesse muttered “holy shit.”

Ellie said, “you just—he was dead. And now he’s not.”

Joel looked at you.

Just for a second.

And his face didn’t soften.

Not quite.

But his jaw relaxed. His eyes cooled.

“Good work,” he said, voice like gravel. “Now close him up.”

You did.

You fucking did.

You closed him. The room moved around you—cleaning, charting, reeling—but you stayed still. Hands deep in blood. Covered in it. Gowned and soaked and shaking just a little.

Joel stepped up beside you.

“Looks good,” he said.

You turned.

“Did I do it right?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

He just nodded once.

A single, hard nod that meant more than words ever could.

Everyone else eventually left. One by one. Except Joel.

When it was just the two of you, he reached out and wiped a streak of blood from your cheek with his gloved thumb.

“You’re disgusting,” he said.

You grinned, breathless. “So are you.”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.”

He rolled his eyes.

But then, under his breath, like it wasn’t meant for anyone else,

“Proud of you.”

You almost missed it.

But you didn’t.

You never did.

Because it was Fourth of July, and the world outside was still burning.

But inside this room, for just one breathless moment—

You had brought someone back to life.

And Joel fucking Miller had watched you do it.

And he wasn’t going to forget it.

Joel Miller didn’t say things twice. If he was proud of you, that meant something. That meant everything.

You peeled off your gloves and stepped out of Trauma One with the sting of adrenaline still buzzing under your skin. Your hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the absolute goddamn power of that moment. You’d cracked a chest. You.

And Joel let you. Trusted you.

That kind of trust didn’t come easy from a man like him.

It was 5:00 p.m.

One hour left.

You told yourself you’d make it. You could do another hour. You’d get through whatever the Fourth of July still had left to vomit into your ER. You’d go home, peel off your scrubs, crawl into Joel’s bed, and maybe—maybe—you’d even get to fall asleep with your face buried in his neck before another fucking Code Blue ripped through your subconscious.

You turned the corner and nearly ran into Kathleen, who stood like a weathered pillar of war-torn exhaustion at the nurse’s station. Her face was flushed, arms crossed, brows pulled into a flat, unimpressed line.

“There’s a call for you,” she said. “Line two. Marlene has it.”

You blinked. “Someone called me?”

Kathleen didn’t blink. “Apparently it’s urgent.”

You stared.

She didn’t explain.

Marlene handed you the receiver with the grace of someone physically holding back a cackle.

You pressed it to your ear. “This is—”

“Thank fuck.”

Owen’s voice. Too loud. Too fast.

“Owen?”

“Hey. Yeah. Hi. Listen—I need a huge favor. Massive. I’ll owe you a kidney or three consults, I don’t care, just—please, can you cover the first three hours of my shift?”

You glanced at the clock.

5:01 p.m.

“I’ve been here since five this morning.”

“I know. I know. You’re a goddamn hero. Literally Jesus in black scrubs. Just—three hours. Please. Just until nine. I’ll come in at nine. Nine sharp. Not even a minute late.”

“Why?”

There was a pause.

And then, “I wanna have dinner with Mel.”

You inhaled slowly.

“Seriously?”

“I made a reservation,” Owen said, like that was somehow a valid excuse. “At the fancy new restaurant, the one Joel took you to. I bought cologne. I haven’t eaten real food in two weeks.”

You turned to look behind you.

Abby was standing by the vitals board, arms crossed, trying not to look like she was listening.

But she was.

And her face had gone tight in that way you recognized—the jaw-clench of someone pretending they don’t care.

Shit.

“Owen,” you said carefully. “This is your shift. You’re scheduled. You’re—”

“I’ll trade you! Anything. I’ll do your whole weekend. I’ll take all your psych evals for a month.”

“That’s a bold offer.”

“I’ll clean the vomit buckets in the peds trauma room!”

“You should already be doing that.”

“I will now.”

You sighed. Rubbed your forehead. Glanced at Abby again. She was now fake-charting on a blank clipboard. Poorly.

You shouldn’t do it.

You knew you shouldn’t.

But then Marlene handed you a new chart—incoming trauma. Level 1. ETA five minutes.

“Goddammit,” you muttered. “Fine. Three hours. But you owe me your soul.”

Owen cheered on the other end.

You hung up and looked over at Abby.

She didn’t look up.

You stepped closer. “Hey.”

“I’m fine,” she said. Immediately. Too quickly. “Totally fine. Not my business. Not even my night. Just…you know. Cool. Love that for them.”

“Abby.”

“I said I’m fine.” She slammed the clipboard on the desk and walked off, her ears visibly red.

You sighed again.

Before you could process any of it, a stretcher screamed into the trauma bay.

Tommy was at the head, barking orders, and Frank had blood on his shirt again—big surprise.

Teenager. Male. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Slumped over. Screaming.

“Lawnmower accident,” Frank snapped, pushing hard. “Fucking dad didn’t check his blade height—hit a rock, launched it like a missile.”

“Penetrating orbital trauma,” Tommy added. “It hit the kid in the eye. He’s bleeding like hell. Not responsive.”

Jesse was already snapping gloves on beside you. “Tell me that rock didn’t puncture the fucking globe.”

You moved to the side of the bed as the kid’s head rolled. His left eye—Jesus fuck—his left eye was gone. Or at least it looked like it. Crushed inward, blood and viscous fluid pouring down his cheek.

Riley gagged.

Mel paled.

Abby reappeared beside you, full fury now replaced by full panic.

“What the fuck,” she muttered. “People should need a fucking license to own a lawn.”

“Vitals?” Joel’s voice cut through the trauma room as he entered, already gloved, already dark-eyed and tense.

“BP dropping,” Jesse said. “Heart rate climbing. He’s crashing.”

“Jesse, get a line,” Joel barked. “You—” he pointed at you. “Ocular tray, now. I want that eye covered. He so much as twitches and the optic nerve’s gonna shear.”

You grabbed the tray from Riley’s shaking hands. “We’re sedating?”

“If I don’t, he’s gonna start fucking thrashing and drive that rock deeper into his skull.”

The father—still in a goddamn polo shirt and sandals—stood at the door, blood on his arms, face pale.

“I just wanted to mow the yard before the guests came,” he kept whispering. “We were gonna grill—he was helping—I just—”

“Sir,” Joel said coldly, without turning, “if you don’t shut up, I’m going to have you dragged back into the waiting room.”

The dad shut up.

You placed the rigid eye shield over the wound. Blood pooled around the edges. It was already soaking the pillow. The kid groaned, twitching.

“Don’t move,” Joel growled. “Do not fucking move.”

“He’s coding,” Mel snapped. “BP’s bottoming out—seventy over thirty.”

“We need a cric tray ready,” Jesse said. “I can’t get the O2 past the swelling.”

You were moving, hands slick, adrenaline high and sharp.

Joel grabbed the ultrasound probe. “FAST scan. I want to rule out abdominal trauma while we stabilize the head. If that rock skipped through—”

“It didn’t,” Tommy said grimly. “We found the fucking thing in the driveway. Looks like a meteor.”

Joel’s hands moved fast. Surgical. Terrifying.

You mirrored him. Fast. Exact. No room for error.

This wasn’t like the thoracotomy. This was slower. Messier. No clean incisions here. Just trauma. Raw and violent. The kind that steals things. Childhood. Sight. Fucking Fourth of July barbecues.

Abby pressed gauze to the kid’s neck. “He’s tachycardic. We need to intubate.”

“I’ll do it,” Joel said, snapping his fingers. “Get the tube. Bag him. Suction ready.”

“You want me on airway?” you asked, stepping in.

He looked at you. That same look from earlier.

“I trust you.” he said.

So you did it.

You took the tube. You got the line. You shoved the fucking endotracheal tube into a kid who just lost his eye and might still lose his life. You did it because you had to. Because no one else could.

And because Joel trusted you.

You bagged until the O2 sats climbed back out of hell.

Mel ran labs.

Riley got a chest film.

Abby called Ophthalmology.

Jesse finally got the dad escorted to the waiting room by Bill before Joel could murder him with his stare alone.

Joel stood at the foot of the gurney, arms folded, eyes dark and burning.

“He’s stable,” Jesse said, breathless.

“For now,” Joel muttered. “Get imaging. Stat.”

You leaned over the bed, wiped some of the blood from the kid’s temple.

And then you felt Joel behind you.

Close. Not touching. Just there.

“You did good,” he said, low, just for you. “Again.”

You turned slightly, eyes meeting his.

“You keep saying that,” you murmured.

“That’s because it keeps being true.”

And then he was gone.

The kid was wheeled to CT.

You turned to the trauma team, who were collapsing one by one against the wall, soaked in blood and sweat and the sheer weight of almost.

Ellie looked ready to cry. Riley was holding a juice box. Jesse was on his second bottle of water and muttering something about moving to Canada. Abby was pacing, muttering Owen’s name under her breath.

And you?

You checked the clock.

5:43 p.m.

You still had two hours and seventeen minutes left in the shift you weren’tsupposed to work.

And already, it felt like a whole new fucking war had begun.

You cracked your neck. Wiped your forehead. Took a deep breath. And turned toward the doors.

Another stretcher was rolling in. Because of course it was.

Happy Fucking Fourth of July.

It was six when the first wave of soldiers walked off the battlefield.

The day shift clocked out like they were fleeing a warzone—scrubs stained, hair plastered to their foreheads, eyes too wide and hollow to belong to people under thirty. The fluorescent lights had aged them by decades. Some had blood on their shoes. Some had blood in their hair. Some weren’t sure whose blood it was.

Kathleen passed by the desk with her bag over her shoulder, muttering, “If they page me before five tomorrow, I’ll set this place on fire.”

Jesse was limping, dragging one foot behind him like a wounded animal, sipping a smoothie someone handed him two hours ago that had fully liquified into soup. He waved weakly in your direction, eyes dead. "Don't let anyone else swallow a flag," he said. "Just… don’t."

Ellie was practically vibrating on her way out, holding a foil-wrapped bundle that had been a brownie Dina was eyeing earlier. “I’m gonna eat this and then sleep for six days,” she told Riley, who was chewing on ice like it was a coping strategy.

Dina had her phone pressed to her ear, her free hand gesturing wildly as she talked to some poor soul on the other end. “No, I can’t go out tonight, I literally watched a baby eat gunpowder. Yes, literal gunpowder. Like from a firework. I don’t care if it’s rooftop karaoke, I’m not fucking going.”

Mel, fresh scrubs on now but still blotchy from everything, lingered at the front with her bag slung low and her hair half-down. She spotted Dina and beamed like the sun hadn’t just tried to kill everyone inside the ER.

“I’m serious,” Mel gushed, linking her arm with Dina’s as they walked. “Owen made reservations. He was so sweet. I think he even bought a new shirt. He didn’t say it, but it wasn’t wrinkled, so that has to mean something.”

Dina snorted. “Wow. A man wearing a clean shirt. You better marry him.”

You weren’t listening on purpose.

You just…couldn’t not hear it.

Because Abby was two steps behind them, standing by the elevator bank, still in her half-zipped hoodie and Crocs, staring at the tiled floor like she could melt through it.

You stood near her.

Close but not close.

She noticed you before you said anything.

“I’m not gonna cry,” she said flatly. “So don’t say something nice.”

You shrugged. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.”

She paused.

Then, quietly, “Did you know?”

You didn’t answer. Because you had. Of course you had. The way Owen had started standing closer to Mel. The way he’d brushed Abby off the past two weeks with half-assed excuses.

“I’m not mad at her,” she said, still staring forward. “I mean…maybe I am. But it’s not like she knew.”

You leaned next to her against the wall. “You don’t have to be fine.”

“I know.”

“I’m not fine either.”

She nodded.

And that was enough.

The elevator dinged.

She got in.

Didn’t look back.

You stayed in the hallway for a beat longer, the hum of overhead lights buzzing in your teeth. Your eyes were dry and scratchy. Your hands smelled like latex. There was blood on the cuff of your sleeve again, and you didn’t even remember who it belonged to.

The night shift was officially here now.

Soon the night staff began pooling into the ER.

They shuffled in with the kind of dead-eyed resignation of people who knew exactly what they were walking into. They looked at you with curiosity, confusion.

“You're still here,” one said.

You just nodded. “Still am.”

The ER had quieted in the way a battlefield does after the airstrikes stop—still full of smoke, rubble, and bodies, just… quieter. The screams were fewer. The alarms less frequent. But the stench of bleach and burnt flesh still clung to the walls.

You were working a bay in the corner, checking on a man who’d driven straight into a ditch after swerving to avoid a firework that had launched into the road.

“Wasn’t even my firework,” he mumbled, a gash splitting across his temple, blood matting his hair. “Some asshole two blocks over. Guess they didn’t like my truck.”

You were scanning for signs of concussion, clicking the penlight, asking about nausea, when he squinted at you.

“You’re cute,” he slurred. “Like real cute. Do you—uh—do you always look this good when you save lives?”

You didn’t answer.

He tried again.

“You got a boyfriend?”

You snapped the light off and looked him dead in the eye.

“I’ve got a scalpel,” you said.

He laughed.

You didn’t.

Across the ER, you heard a sharp voice bark, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Your heart skipped.

Joel.

He was back.

Fully suited in trauma gear again, hair still damp with sweat, scrub top stretched over tense muscle. His eyes were already narrowed, fixed on you.

You didn’t even see him walk over—he was just suddenly there, all heat and static and restrained violence. He looked down at the chart in your hand, then up at your face, then over at the patient who still hadn’t stopped smiling.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Joel said, voice low and lethal.

“I’m working,” you said, frowning. “Owen called and asked me to cover—”

“Owen’s a fucking idiot,” Joel snapped. “This isn’t your shift.”

“He begged. He wanted to—”

“See Mel. Yeah, I fucking heard.”

Joel looked down at the driver again, eyes narrowing. The man blinked at him like he wasn’t sure if he was about to be murdered or offered another morphine drip.

“Go,” Joel growled. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“I’m almost done.”

“No. You’re not.”

He stepped forward, crowding your space. Not touching, but too close. His presence filled your lungs like smoke.

“I didn’t let you walk out of that trauma room with your hands inside someone’s goddamn chest just to have you stay late because some piece of shit didn’t want to miss his fucking dinner reservation.”

“I said I’m fine—”

“You’re not. Your face is pale. Your knees are shaking. You’re bleeding from your neck again—”

You touched your collar.

Shit.

The scratch had reopened.

Again.

You hadn’t even noticed.

Joel’s voice dropped lower. Quieter. More dangerous.

“You stay here another hour, I’m not gonna be able to stop myself from saying and doing something that gets me fired.”

You swallowed.

“You need someone to finish the chart.”

“I don’t need anything but you out of this hospital and in my bed before I fucking lose it.”

You blinked.

His eyes locked on yours.

“This isn’t up for debate.”

He turned to the driver without breaking eye contact.

“She’s off,” Joel told him. “She doesn’t work for you. You want someone to hold your hand and stroke your ego, call your fucking wife.”

The man gaped.

Joel turned back to you.

And this time—softer, just slightly—he added, “Go home.”

You didn’t argue.

Because he wasn’t asking.

You peeled your gloves off. Dropped them into the bin.

Your scrubs were soaked. Your throat burned.

And for the first time in hours, you realized how goddamn tired you were.

Joel’s eyes followed you until you reached the staff hallway.

And you could feel the heat of them still burning between your shoulder blades as you stepped into the elevator—

Finally, finally—

Done.

[lemon-world1]

it ain't me babe (1)

joel miller x reader

series

ao3 link

warnings: no y/n, age gap, female reader.

word count: 5.6k

─────

They came back on a Tuesday.

No announcement.

No warning.

Just two figures on horseback at the edge of the gate, heads down, shoulders hunched, snow melting off their coats like wax off a candle. Joel looked worse for wear—more gray in his beard, a deeper slump to his already heavy frame.

Ellie was quiet. Too quiet. Everyone noticed it. No one said a word.

The gate guards exchanged tense glances and called Tommy over. The radio crackled for a minute, then the gates opened.

And just like that, they were let in.

The town didn’t stop to gawk, but the energy shifted. Like people could feel it. That something had happened. Something big.

Word spread faster than fire.

By the time they made it halfway down Main Street, people were already talking.

The man who left was back. But he was different now.

And the girl he came with? She wasn’t talking. Just stared ahead with hollow eyes like she was still seeing something she couldn’t unsee.

Back at the stables, she was elbow-deep in a cracked saddle strap when one of the kids from the garden plots burst in, all out of breath and flushed cheeks.

“They’re back,” he said, like it was a secret he couldn’t hold onto a second longer. “Tommy’s brother and the girl. They just came through the gates.”

She didn’t flinch.

Just tugged the leather tight and muttered, “Good for them.”

She hadn’t thought about Joel much in the last two months, not consciously.

But he’d lingered in the back of her mind like smoke, like the sour taste of whiskey long after the burn. That night in the stables stayed with her. The weight of the blade against his throat. His dead eyed stare. The quiet resignation in his voice when he told her to go ahead and do it.

Yeah. Hard to forget that kind of thing.

Willie barked once and trotted to the stable door, ears up.

She looked out the window. And there he was.

Not ten feet away. Holding the reins of his horse—one of her horses, she realized—and walking toward the stables like he belonged there. Ellie was beside him, slower, her hood pulled low.

Joel hadn’t changed his clothes. Not really. Still that same jacket. Still that same scowl. But there was something else now, something heavier dragging behind his eyes. He looked like a man who’d seen the other side of hell and decided to pitch a tent there.

She stepped outside.

He saw her the second the door creaked open.

His hand tightened around the reins.

Her hand went to her hip. Not out of threat. Just reflex.

“You’re back,” she said flatly.

Joel nodded once. “Guess I am.”

Willie circled them both once before sitting neatly by her side. Silent. Watching.

Joel gave the dog a quick glance, then looked at her again. “Didn’t mean to scare you the first time.”

“You didn’t scare me,” she said, crossing her arms. “You pissed me off. Not the same thing.”

That pulled a ghost of a smirk from him. Barely there.

Ellie was quiet. Still hadn’t said a word. Her eyes flicked up toward the stable, then back down again. She looked exhausted.

“You need stalls?” she asked Joel, already turning toward the barn doors.

“Just one,” he said. “I’m keepin’ her close.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “You know that’s not how it works here.”

He didn’t say anything.

She stopped, turned fully to face him. “You can trust me with your horse. You don’t get to act like you’re still out there. You’re not. You’re here. And here has rules.”

Joel looked like he wanted to argue. But then he looked at Ellie.

Whatever fight was in him deflated. “Fine.”

She led the way into the stables. The light inside was golden, warm, almost too soft for the mood hanging between them. She walked like she had nothing to prove, but every step was deliberate. She opened a stall near the front, clean hay, fresh water, the whole deal.

Joel led the horse in without another word.

Ellie stood by the door. She still hadn’t spoken.

Willie walked up to her, sniffed at her boots, and let out a soft whine.

Ellie’s lip twitched. Almost a smile. “Hey, buddy,” she murmured, reaching out a hand.

She crouched, scratched behind Willie’s ears. Didn’t say anything else.

“You okay?” the woman asks the girl, watching her.

Ellie nodded, but it was a lie so thin it might as well have been smoke.

Joel stepped out of the stall, brushing hay off his coat.

“You need anything else?” she asked him, arms still crossed.

“No.”

He hesitated.

Then added, “Thanks.”

She raised a brow. “That almost sounded polite.”

Joel looked at her, really looked this time. There was something raw in his face, something edged with grief and whatever else he wasn’t saying.

“I know what you think of me,” he said finally. “And you’re probably right.”

“I don’t think anything,” she lied.

He gave her a look that said bullshit, but didn’t press.

They stood there in the quiet of the stables. Just the soft shuffling of the horses and the creak of old wood. Willie let out a soft huff and laid down near Ellie, who had finally sat against the barn wall.

Joel rubbed a hand down his face.

She could’ve walked away then. Could’ve let him sit in his silence. But instead she said—

“If you want her to eat better, add molasses to the feed. She’s older than she looks.”

Joel blinked at her.

Then gave a slow nod. “Thanks.”

And she walked out of the barn without another word, flannel whipping behind her in the wind.

But Joel watched her go. Eyes trailing the sway of her stride, the set of her shoulders, the way Willie rose to follow her without command.

He didn’t understand her. Not even a little.

But something in him—some bone deep instinct—told him he was going to.

Whether she liked it or not.

The house Joel and Ellie were given wasn’t much.

Two bedrooms, one bath.

The kitchen sink wheezed when the faucet turned, and the floorboards in the hallway groaned like they were mourning something. But it had a roof, a fireplace, four solid walls, and no infected scratching at the doors.

To Joel, that was more than enough.

It was damn near luxurious.

Ellie said nothing the first time she stepped inside. Just scanned the rooms like she was memorizing exits, hands stuffed in her hoodie pocket, her gaze still a thousand miles away.

She didn’t take her backpack off until Joel told her twice, and even then, she only half listened. The girl hadn’t slept properly in weeks. And Joel? He was barely holding it together himself.

They didn’t talk about what happened in Salt Lake.

Didn’t talk about the Fireflies, the blood, or that room where the light buzzed overhead while Ellie laid unconscious on a metal table. Joel had left that place soaked in red.

And he didn’t regret it.

Not for a second.

But every now and then—usually in the dead of night when everything was still—he’d catch Ellie looking at him like she knew.

She hadn’t asked again. Not yet.

Instead, they lived like shadows for the first few days. Ate whatever Maria dropped off—mostly stew and bread—slept through the afternoons, and walked around town like ghosts wearing other people’s faces.

Joel started doing little things to the house to feel normal. That’s what he used to do, after all.

Fix things.

Patch them up.

He wasn’t much for conversation, but a broken door hinge or a drafty window? That, he could manage.

First, it was the front steps. The second one cracked when Ellie stepped on it, and Joel swore under his breath before grabbing a crowbar and ripping the whole stair off. He found scrap lumber near the school building and spent an hour sanding it down with a rock like a caveman. When he was done, the step was solid. Level. Satisfying.

Next, it was the fireplace.

The chimney flue had been jammed open, letting in too much cold at night. Joel had to get up there, boots crunching against snow, hands freezing against the brick, muttering to himself the entire time.

A week ago, he’d been murdering an entire wing of armed militants. Now he was adjusting chimney caps in the Wyoming snow. Life was weird like that.

He got a rhythm going.

Mornings, he fixed.

Afternoons, he helped Ellie settle in.

Evenings, he read aloud from an old paperback he found on the bookshelf—Shane, a beat up Western with half the cover torn off. She didn’t ask for it, but she didn’t tell him to stop, either.

Still, he kept catching her staring out the window.

Like she was looking for something that never came.

She saw him again on the fifth day.

The woman in charge of the stables hadn’t expected to, not really. But Jackson was small, and routine was everything here. Especially in winter, when the sky turned gray before dinnertime and everyone moved like molasses just to stay warm.

She was unloading a stack of new feed bags from the wagon when she saw movement down the block.

Joel.

Walking with purpose, arms full of wood slats and a hammer tucked into his belt. He looked like a cowboy lost in a Home Depot. Ellie trailed behind him, holding a plastic bag of nails and looking thoroughly unimpressed.

She narrowed her eyes. He was heading toward one of the houses near...the empty one.

Which meant…

“Oh, hell no,” she muttered.

Joel didn’t see her until she was halfway across the street.

“You’re on my street now?” she called, her voice sharp over the crunch of snow.

Joel glanced up, eyes squinting against the pale sun. “Didn’t realize you owned all of Jackson.”

“I don’t,” she shot back, dropping the last bag of feed a little too hard. “But this block’s mostly for town workers. Stablehands, livestock teams.”

He shrugged. “They gave me a house. I took it.”

She stopped a few feet away, arms crossed over her flannel. “You planning on fixing the whole thing up?”

“Already started.”

“Of course you did.”

Ellie stood behind Joel, chewing a piece of jerky and watching the two of them like she was watching a tennis match. Her mouth twitched at the corners—just the barest hint of amusement.

She narrowed her eyes at Joel. “You gonna do that thing again?”

“What thing?”

“Act like you’re not gonna talk and then sneak into my barn in the middle of the night like some damn horse thief.”

Joel exhaled through his nose. “Thought we were past that.”

“I don’t forget easy.”

“Neither do I.”

For a second, they just stared at each other. Like two wolves trying to figure out who was gonna break eye contact first.

Joel didn’t blink.

Neither did she.

Then Ellie, in the flattest voice imaginable, muttered, “Jesus. Just kiss already.”

Both their heads snapped toward her.

“What the hell’d you just say?” Joel asked.

Ellie raised her eyebrows. “What? I didn’t say anything.” She turned away, grinning to herself.

The stable hand let out a dry laugh. “She yours?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Well,” she muttered, already turning to leave, “good luck with the home renovation. Hope you know how to fix a frozen pipe.”

“I do,” he called after her.

She didn’t answer.

But she also didn’t roll her eyes. So… progress?

Later that week, he caught her again—this time with her sleeves rolled up, elbow deep in a water trough clogged with slush and hay. She was muttering under her breath about dumb kids who didn’t clean up after the horses, and Willie was curled up nearby, tail thumping lazily in the snow.

Joel didn’t mean to linger. He just… didn’t walk away.

He leaned on the fence, watching as she cleaned out the last clump of frozen gunk, her breath visible in the air. She looked different when she worked. Less guarded. Fierce, but focused.

“You do this by yourself every day?” he asked.

She just glances up. “You stalk me now?”

“Just walkin’ by.”

“Right.”

He smirked.

She tossed the slush to the side and wiped her hands on her jeans. “Yeah. I do. Every day. These horses don’t feed themselves, and no one else here’s qualified to run this place.”

“You run it?”

“I own it,” she corrected, chin tilted up. “My dad and I built it up after we got here. Every horse here’s mine.”

Joel nodded. He already knew that. Everyone in Jackson did.

“You do good work,” he said quietly.

She looked at him, surprised. “Thanks.”

Joel shifted his weight. “You ever need help with repairs…”

She raised an eyebrow. “You offering to fix my stable?”

“I’m good with my hands.”

“Wow,” she said, deadpan. “Was that your version of flirting?”

Joel blinked. “What?”

She smirked and walked past him, bumping his shoulder just slightly. “Relax, cowboy. I know a compliment when I hear one.”

Willie trotted after her, tail wagging.

Joel watched them go, rubbing the back of his neck, trying not to feel the weird twist in his chest. He told himself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just small town awkwardness.

Post trauma weirdness.

Human interaction after too long without it.

But when he turned back toward his house, the step in his walk was just a little lighter. And that ache in his ribs? The one he thought would never leave?

It eased. Just a little.

Not all at once. Nothing ever did with Joel. He was a man built on fractures and held together with silence, with calloused hands and unspoken grief.

But something about her—this woman who didn’t flinch, didn’t fold, who knew how to hold a knife and a stare with the same lethal confidence—settled the chaos in him. Didn’t erase it. Just... quieted it.

They didn’t start talking, not in any conventional sense.

But they ran into each other more often. At the gates during patrol shifts. At the town hall where Maria forced everyone to rotate in for supply counts. At the stables—always the stables—where she spent more time than she did anywhere else.

Sometimes he’d drop off scrap wood. Say it was extra. She never asked.

Other times, he’d pass by while she was working and nod. She’d nod back. That was how it started. Nods and glances and the occasional smirk that was almost—but not quite—a smile.

They circled each other like wary animals.

Not hostile.

Not exactly friendly, either.

Just... aware.

She made fun of him once for the way he fixed his porch railing. Called it “janky” and said it looked like something out of a post collapse Home & Garden magazine.

He’d grunted, muttered something about "function over form," and she’d laughed—actually laughed—and for the first time, he noticed how pretty her smile was. Crooked, a little smug. She had that look of someone who’d always been underestimated, and had made peace with it by being better than everyone else.

“Maybe I’ll come by and fix it properly,” she said, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her face. “Before you collapse through it and break a hip.”

“Yeah?” Joel replied, brow cocked. “You a carpenter now?”

“I’m everything now,” she said, not bragging—just stating a fact. “That’s what surviving makes you.”

Joel didn’t argue.

Instead, he said, “I’ll make coffee.”

They didn’t have coffee that day. Or the next. But the third day after that conversation, she showed up in his driveway with Willie trotting beside her and a socket wrench in her back pocket.

“Where’s this pathetic railing?” she asked, already walking toward the porch like it was hers.

Joel stepped aside.

Watched her work.

She didn’t ask for help. He didn’t offer it. But he did bring out two cups of the bitter instant coffee Maria had given him in one of her guilt baskets. She took a sip, grimaced.

“This tastes like tree bark.”

He shrugged. “Better than snow.”

She sat on the step after that, hands wrapped around the mug, steam curling into the cold air. Joel sat beside her. Not too close. Just close enough to feel the heat of her arm through her flannel.

Willie dozed at their feet, and the silence between them stretched long—but not uncomfortable.

Ellie passed by once with a group of teenagers heading toward the greenhouse. She spotted them on the porch, raised an eyebrow that could’ve cut glass, and kept walking.

The woman noticed. “Your kid’s got an attitude.”

Joel huffed out a soft breath. “Ain’t mine. But yeah. She does.”

“She’s smart,” she said. “Sharp.”

“She is.”

“You protecting her?”

Joel went still for a beat too long.

Then...

“Yeah.”

She looked at him, eyes narrowing slightly, like she heard all the things he didn’t say in that one word. But she didn’t press. Didn’t ask. Just turned her attention back to the horizon and said,

“Good.”

The days kept passing.

They saw each other more often. Not every day. But enough.

Joel started patrol shifts that used the horses the stables.

She didn’t comment, but she noticed.

He started leaving her extra scraps of jerky and coffee beans wrapped in newspaper at the edge of the barn’s tack room. No notes. No signatures.

But she knew who they were from.

One night, a snowstorm hit unexpectedly. She was stuck in the barn with two pregnant mares and a busted space heater, trying to warm them with blankets and body heat. Joel showed up just past midnight, soaked in snow, holding a gas canister and an old portable heater he'd fixed up for his own place.

“I heard,” he said, setting it down without waiting for thanks.

She didn’t say anything. Just nodded. Lit the heater. Sat down beside him in the straw.

“Couldn’t sleep anyway,” he said after a while.

She raised a brow. “You never do.”

He looked at her. “You watchin’ me?”

“No,” she lied. “People talk.”

They both chuckled. It was small, but real.

They sat like that until sunrise. Not touching. Not talking. Just sharing space, wrapped in hay scented silence, warmed by the soft hum of propane and the quiet breath of sleeping horses.

It wasn’t romance. Not yet.

It was something else.

Trust, maybe. Or the early ghosts of it.

Two people who’d survived the worst, who didn’t flinch when the other got too close. Who understood what it meant to carry grief like a second skin. They never spoke about the things they’d lost. They didn’t need to.

Joel never asked why she carried a blade even inside the gates.

She never asked what happened in Salt Lake.

They just kept crossing paths. Kept leaving the door open, just a little wider each time.

And Joel, for the first time in years, didn’t feel the need to run. Or lie. Or lock every emotion behind a steel trap in his chest.

He just sat beside her.

And breathed.

And when she looked at him now, she didn’t see the man who tried to steal her horse that night in the stables. She saw something else. A man who was still learning how to exist again. A man whose silence wasn’t cold—it was just careful.

And she could live with that.

For now.

It was quiet for a while after that.

Just cold mornings and cracked leather saddles, flannels stiff from the freeze, and routine.

Joel kept fixing things.

She kept working the stables.

And somewhere in between, the silence between them turned companionable. Familiar.

She still didn’t smile at him often—but when she did, it felt like the sun breaking through storm clouds. Joel never said anything about it. He wouldn’t know how to.

But he noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He noticed everything.

Ellie did too.

“You’re different when she’s around,” she said one day, midway through sharpening her knife at the kitchen table.

Joel looked up from where he was oiling a door hinge.

“I ain’t different.”

Ellie raised her brows like he’d just told her horses could fly.

“You are,” she said. “You get weird. Not, like, bad weird. Just… stiff. Stiffer than normal. And your ears turn red.”

Joel muttered a curse under his breath and went back to the hinge.

Ellie smirked. “It’s kinda cute.”

“Mind your business,” he said.

But she wasn’t wrong.

The woman talked about her father sometimes. Not much, not often. But Joel picked up the pieces over time.

Ex-military officer.

Disappeared from duty the second the outbreak hit. Took her and ran. Survived alone with her in the wild for years. Built her from the ground up. Trained her to survive and taught her not to trust anyone.

It explained a lot.

Joel hadn’t met him yet.

But he knew the type. And he knew he’d be a hard man to win over—if he even tried. Which he wasn’t planning to. Because this thing between them? It wasn’t a thing. Not really. Not yet. It was just… whatever it was. 

So he wasn’t expecting to find the man waiting for him outside the stables one afternoon, arms crossed, posture perfect. Like he’d never stopped being military.

“You’re Joel,” the man said. Not a question. A statement.

Joel stopped mid step. Studied him.

“You must be her dad.”

“She’s my daughter,” the man replied, cool and clipped. “And you’re someone I need to talk to.”

Joel said nothing. Just waited.

“I know who you are,” the man continued. “Maria told me everything. About you. About Tommy. About the things you did before Jackson.”

Joel’s jaw tensed.

“You two ran with raiders. You were violent men. Dangerous. I know how that story goes.”

Joel didn’t argue. He wasn’t here to rewrite his past.

“I’m not stupid,” the man added. “I see the way she looks at you. Like you’re someone worth trusting. But I’ve known her every second of her life. She don’t trust easy. And if she’s starting to trust you, I need to know what the hell your intentions are.”

Joel stared at him, long and level.

“She’s grown,” he said. “She don’t need my intentions.”

“She might not need ‘em,” the man said. “But she damn well deserves to know ‘em.”

Joel’s voice dropped. “I ain’t trying to hurt her.”

“But you will,” the man said, certain. “Maybe not on purpose. Maybe not today. But you’ve got blood on your hands, and people like you don’t get clean. You just get older. And slower. And more dangerous.”

Joel didn’t answer. There was nothing to say.

So the man gave one last look—cold, final—and turned back toward his street.

But the damage was already done.

She came home that night, cheeks flushed from the cold, boots muddy from patrol. She found her dad standing at the stove, stirring stew like it owed him money.

He didn’t look at her when he said, “He’s not who you think he is.”

Her stomach dropped.

“What are you talking about?”

“I talked to him. Joel. I warned him.”

“Warned him?”

Her voice was sharp, rising. “You what?”

“I told him to stay away.”

“Jesus, Dad,” she snapped, pulling off her jacket. “You don’t get to do that.”

“I do, actually,” he barked. “I’ve spent my life keeping you safe.”

She stared at him, mouth open.

“And I didn’t keep you safe from just monsters and raiders,” he added. “I kept you safe from people like him. People who don’t have anything left to lose.”

“You don’t know him,” she said.

“I know enough. I know what Maria told me. What kind of man he was before he got here. Him and Tommy ran with killers. They did things to survive that they should never be forgiven for.”

“We’ve all done things,” she shot back. “Even you.”

His eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You think I forgot?” she snapped. “You think I forgot how you left your post? How you deserted your team and went AWOL because of me?”

He flinched.

She didn’t stop.

“You left people behind. People who needed you. You always said it was because you chose me. And I believed you. I believed you were the hero in that story. But maybe you’re not.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“No. You don’t get to act like you’re the saint and Joel’s the sinner. You’ve both done horrible shit. But at least he doesn’t lie about it.”

“You’re defending him?” her father asked, disbelief cutting through the anger now. “After everything I’ve done for you?”

“I don’t know why I’m defending him!” she shouted. “I just, I just—when I’m around him, I don’t feel like I’m stuck anymore.”

Silence.

Just the sound of the stew boiling over. Neither of them moved to stop it.

He looked at her then—really looked. And the pain in his eyes? It gutted her.

“Do what you want,” he said finally. “You always do.”

She didn’t say anything else. Just walked out.

The Tipsy Bison was warm and crowded, full of wood smoke and cheap booze. A fire crackled in the stone hearth. People laughed too loud, music played on a scratched vinyl record someone had scavenged from a thrift store years ago. It was one of the few places in Jackson that didn’t feel post apocalyptic.

She didn’t come here often.

But tonight? She needed something to burn.

She pushed open the door, stepped inside, and shrugged out of her coat.

And that’s when she saw him.

Joel.

Sitting at a table near the bar.

With her.

Esther.

Esther was practical. Kind. Mid-fifties, no bullshit, solid. Ran the town’s laundry rotation and helped with medical restocking. A widow. The kind of woman who made sense for a man like Joel.

She froze.

Watched Joel lean back in his chair, nod as Esther said something. Watched Esther touch his forearm. Watched Joel not pull away.

She swallowed hard.

Turned.

Sat at the bar.

“Whiskey,” she told Seth, the bartender.

He poured without a word.

She drank it fast.

Didn’t look back at the table.

Didn’t look at Esther’s hand on Joel’s arm.

She told herself it didn’t matter. That it was fine. That he was too old for her anyway. That he’d never think of her like that.

And if he did?

He wouldn’t act on it.

She was too young. Too complicated. Too her.

She ordered another drink. Let it burn.

Willie sat beneath her stool, ears low, sensing something off.

She scratched behind his ear with shaking fingers.

She didn’t know why she was jealous.

She didn’t even have him.

But the way her chest ached? The way the whiskey wasn’t doing shit to fix it?

Yeah.

Maybe she didn’t have him.

But some stupid part of her had wanted to.

She didn’t even know when it started—this quiet, aching want that had wrapped itself around her ribs like ivy.

Maybe it was that night in the stable, when her blade was pressed to his throat and he didn’t flinch. Maybe it was the gas heater he brought in the middle of the storm, or the way he watched her with a kind of respect people didn’t usually give her. Maybe it was just loneliness, twisting itself into something softer.

Whatever it was, it was hers now. And it hurt.

The third whiskey didn’t help. Neither did the fourth.

She sat there, boots hooked against the bottom of the stool, fingers wrapped tight around the glass, trying not to look.

She failed.

Her eyes drifted back toward the table—just for a second. Just to check.

Joel was leaning forward now. Esther was laughing at something he’d said, brushing her hair behind her ear like she was twenty again. Her hand still lingered on his forearm. Joel didn’t look like he was laughing, but his mouth was tilted in that way it sometimes did when he was amused and trying not to show it.

He looked comfortable.

He didn’t look like a man who was haunted.

Didn’t look like hers.

Her stomach flipped.

Willie whined under her stool.

“You and me both,” she muttered, pouring the rest of the whiskey down her throat.

Seth raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

“Yeah,” she lied. “I’m just peachy.”

The music shifted—some old Joan Baez track, fuzzy on the edges, but still carrying that slow ache in its bones. A cruel twist of fate. If she were feeling more like herself, she might’ve laughed. Might’ve raised a toast to the irony.

Instead, she just stared into her glass.

“You know,” came a voice beside her, “you shouldn’t drink when you’re angry. Just makes you do dumb shit.”

She turned.

Tommy.

He pulled up the stool beside her, wearing that crooked half smile that always looked a little too knowing for comfort.

She snorted. “Did Maria send you?”

“Nah.” He nodded toward Joel’s table. “Just figured I’d catch a beer before heading home. Didn’t know I’d be stepping into a soap opera.”

Her jaw tightened.

“I’m not mad,” she said.

“You’re seething,” Tommy replied, signaling Seth for a beer. “It’s coming off you like heat.”

She didn’t answer.

Tommy’s tone softened. “You like him.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She stared at the bar, fingers drumming against the wood. “He’s not mine to like.”

Tommy took a sip. “You ever tell him how you feel?”

She scoffed. “You think Joel’s the type to want a confession?”

“I think Joel’s the type to convince himself he doesn’t want things,” Tommy said quietly. “Especially good things.”

That made her look up.

Tommy glanced at her. “You scare him.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You do,” he said. “You’re younger, smarter than you let on, and maybe the first person in years who could actually see him. Like, see him. That terrifies the hell outta my brother.”

She stared at Tommy like he’d grown a second head.

“And here I thought I was drunk.”

Tommy just smiled. “He talks about you, you know. Not a lot. But I hear it. In the little things. The way he always knows when you're gonna show up at the stable. The way he keeps tools packed in case you mention something’s broken.”

She felt something splinter inside her.

“Then what’s he doing with her?”

Tommy followed her gaze to Esther.

He was quiet for a beat.

“She’s safe,” he said finally. “Comfortable. She doesn’t make him feel too much. That’s the problem with people like Joel. After everything he’s been through, feeling too much is dangerous.”

She looked back at her glass. “So what, I’m dangerous now?”

“No,” Tommy said, finishing his beer. “You’re just real.”

He clapped her gently on the back and slid off the stool.

“Be kind to him,” he added as he walked away. “He’s only ever known how to survive. Doesn’t know what to do with someone who makes him want to live.”

She left the Tipsy Bison after midnight. The last one to leave.

Seth had poured her a final drink and sent her off.

Willie trotted beside her through the snow, paws barely making a sound. The cold hit hard, but she welcomed it. Needed it. Something sharp to cut through the fog in her chest.

The moon was high and pale. The streetlights flickered like they were struggling to hold onto their power. Jackson was quieter at night, but not dead. Never dead. Even now, she could hear the low murmur of a patrol radio, the crunch of footsteps on the far road, someone chopping wood.

Her boots left prints in the fresh powder. She walked past her house. Didn’t stop. Didn’t want to go home to the silence. Her dad was probably still up. Or sleeping. Or pretending not to care.

Her feet moved without thinking.

And when she stopped, she was in front of Joel’s house.

The porch light was off. Windows dark. Quiet.

She didn’t know why she was there.

Didn’t know if she wanted to yell at him or kiss him or ask why he let Esther touch his arm like that.

She stepped back, half ready to turn around.

But then the front door opened.

Joel stood there in a flannel and jeans, boots unlaced. His face was unreadable. Not surprised. Not confused. Just…waiting.

They stared at each other.

Then she said it.

“Do you like her?”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Esther. Do you like her?”

Joel looked at her for a long time. Then.

“She’s nice.”

“Nice,” she repeated, almost laughing. “That’s what we’re going with?”

“What are you doin’ here?” he asked, voice low.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just…I didn’t wanna go home. I didn’t want to be alone.”

Joel stepped out onto the porch, the old wood creaking under his weight. Willie stood still beside her, tail wagging once.

“You drunk?” Joel asked.

“Not enough to forget what I saw.”

He looked at her, hard.

“You jealous?”

She almost lied. Almost said no. Almost turned it into a joke.

But instead, she said, “Yeah. I think I am.”

Silence.

Then Joel exhaled slowly, like it was the first real breath he’d taken all night.

“You’re young.”

“I’m twenty five, Joel. Not sixteen.”

“I’m...not.”

She stepped closer. “I know.”

“I’m not good at this,” he said.

“I’m not asking you to be good at anything.”

He looked at her like she was dangerous. Like she might ruin him.

And maybe she could.

“I just needed to know,” she said softly. “If what I’m feeling is one sided.”

He was quiet for a long time.

Then, almost too quietly to hear, he said...

“It’s not.”

Her heart stuttered.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her. Just stood there on the porch, staring at her like she was a map he couldn’t read.

She didn’t push. Didn’t beg.

Instead, she turned away and whispered, “Goodnight, Joel.”

And as she walked back down the path, boots crunching in the snow, she felt his eyes on her.

Like maybe—for the first time—he didn’t want to look away

[lemon-world1]

At this point I don’t really need a movie. Love love love! @foxtrology such a wonderful chapter 🙏🏻 my heart broke at those comments. 🥺

Thank you xo

sweet dark haired man (6)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 13.8k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, angst, fluff, smut.

The Cape Cod light was brutal in its honesty—too bright, too clean, the kind of afternoon sun that made everything look sharper than it should. The ocean beyond the windows of the renovated beach house sparkled like glass, waves crashing against the shore in rhythmic indifference.

Lucy hated it.

She hated how picturesque it was. How calm. How settled. How every breath felt like a performance of peace.

John had gone into town to pick up oysters and a bottle of wine he couldn’t pronounce. He kissed her cheek before he left. He always did that. Like routine made up for the silence between them.

She was curled on the white couch in her favorite silk robe—cream, embroidered, delicate—as if softness could protect her. Her hair was tied up with a scrunchie she didn’t remember choosing. The mug of green tea beside her had long gone cold. She hadn’t touched it.

Her laptop was open on her knees. And the email was staring at her.

Subject: FYI — goes live tomorrow, late afternoon. Thought you’d want to see it first.

From: Carrie Roth

No greeting. No punctuation. Just a single link beneath the sentence. No context.

But Lucy didn’t need context.

She clicked. And the screen unfurled into a headline she already knew would hurt.

"The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name."

Her breath hitched.

Below the headline, the byline—Carrie Roth. Of course. And below that?

The photo. That photo. The one Harry had supposedly made Carrie delete.

Lucy blinked hard.

There they were—in Harry’s lobby. She remembered the building. The hallway. The marble floors. The stupid orchid arrangement by the elevator that never died.

But that wasn’t what made her pause.

It was the way Harry was looking at the girl. She was in his clothes. Hair wet like she just took a bath. At his place. But Harry? Harry was looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

It was instinctive. Natural. The kind of look you didn’t even realize you gave unless someone froze the moment.

Lucy stared at the image. Her hands went cold. Her ring—thin gold, small diamond, a gift from John—pressed into her skin as she clenched her fingers.

She scrolled. The article wasn’t cruel. Not exactly.

It was careful. Surgical. The kind of carefully worded gossip Carrie was famous for—less fire, more poison. Phrases like “rare public moment,” and “sources say she doesn’t have a last name that anyone can find,” and “Castillo’s first serious appearance with someone new since his highly publicized breakup with his ex Lucy.”

Lucy flinched at the mention of her name. It was in bold.

Of course it was.

Carrie had buried the quote deeper in the piece, almost like a treat for the diligent reader.

“She doesn’t know what he’s like yet,” Lucy had said, when asked if she knew about the woman. “How intense. How obsessive. How cold he can be when he wants to.”

She hadn’t meant it to sound bitter. Or maybe she had.

Maybe some part of her had wanted Harry to read that line and feel something sharp in his chest. But now, looking at the photo—the girl in his clothes, the way his body was angled toward her, protective, intimate—Lucy felt something sharp in hers.

Because she recognized that version of him.

The quiet Harry. The gentle one. The one who made tea without asking and never needed to be told what you were thinking because he already knew.

She had killed that version of him. And someone had brought him back to life.

Lucy’s phone buzzed once. A message from John.

John: Need anything else from the store? 

She didn’t answer right away. She just stared out the window. The sea was bluer than usual. A boat skimmed across the horizon like punctuation.

She clicked the link again. Scrolled back to the photo. Studied the girl’s face—partially turned, but visible. Eyes cast down. Mouth soft. She didn’t look like a socialite. Or an actress. Or a woman who’d ever once tried to control a room.

She looked like someone who’d wandered into Harry’s life by accident. And stayed.

Lucy’s finger hovered over the keyboard. Her eyes flicked back to the headline. Then to the quote.

She’s not built for it.

She closed the laptop. Stood. The silence in the house was so loud it made her ears ring. And suddenly, Lucy wasn’t sure if she’d moved on at all.

Back in Italy, the sun was just beginning to dip behind the hills, casting everything in gold.

The villa glowed like a painting—stone walls kissed by twilight, lanterns strung along the balcony flickering to life one by one. The air was warm, threaded with rosemary, lemon, and the faintest trace of woodsmoke from somewhere nearby.

She stood in front of the mirror, still pinning one last piece of her hair into place.

Her dress was a soft rust color, silk again, but different from last night. This one moved like water when she walked, low in the back, delicate at the shoulders. Her earrings were borrowed from Francesca. Her lipstick was a shade she got from Maya. 

Harry watched her from the edge of the bed.

Shirt crisp. Pants pressed. One hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding a small glass of something he hadn’t sipped yet. He’d shaved, but left a trace of scruff. His chain caught the last bit of sunlight, gleaming like a secret.

“You keep staring,” she said, not looking at him.

“I can’t help it.”

She smiled at her reflection. “Is it the hair?”

“It’s the everything.”

He walked over slowly. Stood behind her. Met her eyes in the mirror.

“I thought I was in love with you before,” he said quietly, brushing a strand of hair off her shoulder. “But then you did that thing with the peach at lunch.”

She laughed, head tilting back slightly. “That wasn’t me. That was the wine.”

“You were licking your thumb.”

“I was cleaning my hand.”

“It was obscene.”

She turned. Faced him.

And for a moment, they just stood there. Quiet. Grounded.

“Well,” she said softly, “good thing I brought extra peaches.”

Harry groaned like a man in pain. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Liar.”

She kissed him once, quick and mischievous. Then grabbed her bag.

Chiara had texted the address hours ago. Danny was still sulking around the villa, probably pretending not to exist.

The car was waiting. The roads were winding. The evening had started.

And neither of them had any idea what tomorrow night's headline would bring.

But for now—

They were still in Florence. Still in the golden hour. Still theirs.

The driver didn’t speak much.

Harry gave the address once and the rest of the ride passed in a hush, the hum of the engine soft beneath the cobblestone rhythm. The roads curled like ribbon through the hills, olive trees flashing past the windows in soft blurs, golden light smearing the windshield.

In the backseat, she let her head rest against the window for a while, watching the landscape spill by like something dreamt.

Harry sat beside her, shirt deep navy, sleeves rolled up neatly. His trousers were black, fitted. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine—controlled, watchful, impossibly composed.

But his fingers found hers anyway. Laced them together. Rested their joined hands on the seat between them like a promise.

She smiled without turning her head. They didn’t speak the whole ride. They didn’t need to.

When the car finally turned off the main road and slowed onto a gravel path lined with wildflowers and pale stone, she sat up straighter. Adjusted her silk dress. Smoothed her hands down the front.

Harry reached over without a word and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb grazed her jaw.

“You ready?” he asked softly.

“Nope.”

“Too late.”

The car stopped. And there it was.

Chiara’s family home was nothing like the villa. It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t curated. It was warm. Chaotic. Built like a hug.

A long, low house with chipped shutters, ivy spilling down the side, and music floating faintly from the open windows. Children’s laughter rang out somewhere around back. The scent of tomato and garlic clung to the air like an old coat.

Lights were strung overhead—crooked, twinkling fairy lights bouncing between olive trees and the wooden beams of a pergola that shaded the long dinner table already half-filled with people.

They stepped out of the car. The gravel crunched under her sandals. Harry opened the door for her, of course. Offered his hand. She took it.

It was now 8:30. And the sun had just melted fully behind the hills, leaving everything bathed in the kind of purple-gold glow that only happened in Italy and movies.

Chiara spotted them first. She was barefoot again, curls pinned half-up, wearing a thin white dress with a red sweater tied around her waist like a ribbon. She bounded toward them with a glass of wine in one hand and a sprig of rosemary in the other.

“You came!” she beamed, flinging her arms around her in a hug. Then looked at Harry and added, “You too. Terrifying boyfriend.”

Harry’s brow ticked. “Thanks.”

Chiara only grinned. “Come meet everyone.”

She grabbed her hand, tugged her forward without giving her time to panic. Harry followed behind, towering, silent, one hand in his pocket, already receiving double-takes from some of the guests as they approached.

The table was long. Wood worn soft by weather and wine stains. Set with mismatched plates and linen napkins. There were pitchers of red wine and baskets of bread at each end. Someone had set out bowls of figs and mozzarella, tomatoes still warm from the vine, plates of roasted eggplant and olives soaked in garlic oil.

Chiara pointed as she rambled on. “That’s my mother—Rosalinda and that’s my father—Leo. Don’t let him pour your wine or you’ll never stop drinking. My brothers—Matteo and Gianni."

There were a bunch of other guests that she didn't introduce but still they still waved.

Everyone waved.

Rosalinda gave a warm smile. “Benvenuti. Welcome.”

Chiara tugged her to two empty chairs at the far end of the table, tucked beneath a blooming wisteria vine. “These are yours. I saved them.”

Harry held the chair out for her. She sat. He took the one beside her.

And just like that, they were in it. The wine was poured before either of them could decline. The bread basket was passed like gospel.

Someone slid over a small dish of anchovies and roasted peppers with a murmur, “Try this. It’ll change your life.”

She was dizzy already—in the best way. Everything smelled like salt and basil and firewood. The table was loud, people speaking over each other in fast Italian, gesturing wildly, laughter bubbling up in waves.

And Harry? Harry didn’t say a word. He didn’t smile. Didn’t reach for the wine. He just sat there—hands folded, watching everything like he was gathering intel.

No one said anything for a while. Until Gianni, Chiara’s younger brother—maybe twenty, maybe high—leaned over the table, squinting.

“So,” he said, accent thick but voice teasing, “you are the scary man, yes?”

Harry looked up. Raised a brow.

Gianni grinned. “Chiara said you looked like you kill people for fun.”

“She wasn’t wrong,” Harry replied, deadpan.

The table froze. Chiara choked on her wine. Then—Rosalinda burst into laughter. Loud. Unapologetic.

Everyone followed. Even Harry smiled, just barely. The kind of smile that curled at the corner of his mouth like a secret. And from that moment, the ice cracked. A little.

Rosalinda passed him the wine again. This time, he took it.

A cousin leaned forward and asked if he was a Gemini.

He said, “Worse.”

The table howled. Dinner unfolded in waves.

The food kept coming—handmade pasta with sage butter and lemon zest, grilled zucchini, risotto flecked with saffron. Someone brought out slices of porchetta carved from a roast, still warm, the scent making her stomach ache with joy.

She reached for a piece of bread and Harry slid the butter toward her without being asked.

Their knees touched under the table. At one point, she turned to him and whispered, “You okay?”

He nodded. “You?”

She smiled. “I’m good.”

He reached for her hand beneath the table. Held it loosely, fingers stroking hers as the night softened.

The stars came out slowly. Someone put on a record player—crackling, old jazz spinning from a speaker tucked beneath the table.

Rosalinda began reading tarot cards near the rosemary bush.

Chiara danced barefoot with her grandmother under the vines.

Leo refilled Harry’s glass without asking. He didn’t argue.

He was still quiet. Still him. But softer now. Warmer.

He leaned in close once, mouth brushing her temple, and murmured, “This is the best night I’ve had in years.”

She looked at him. Eyes lit.

“Me too.”

They didn’t talk about Lucy. They didn’t know that across the ocean, Lucy had just stared down the proof of their intimacy frozen in pixels. They didn’t know the article was going live tomorrow.

They didn’t know that Danny was trying—desperately, recklessly—to contain the fallout.

For now, they just drank the wine. Ate the figs. Held hands under a string of crooked lights.

And when Chiara brought out a lemon cake her aunt had baked that morning, they split a slice and fed each other bites like fools. Harry didn’t even flinch when someone took a photo.

“You’re different here,” she whispered, later, when the table had quieted and only the older guests remained, nursing espresso and arguing softly about soccer.

Harry looked at her.

“You’re softer,” she said.

“I think you make me that way.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. His fingers threaded through hers. The record spun to a close. And for now, the night held. Long and safe and theirs.

But even the gentlest nights had to end.

She was mid-laugh, swirling the last sip of wine in her glass as Chiara told some absurd story about falling into a canal in Venice when she was a child—elbows flying, hands gesturing, cheeks pink with wine and warmth—when it happened.

Harry saw it. The yawn.

Small. Half-hidden. She tried to stifle it behind her knuckles, the motion lazy and unbothered. But he caught it. Of course he did.

It wasn’t the kind of yawn that meant boredom. It was the kind that meant her bones were heavy and her body had officially stopped running on adrenaline and sugar and wine. The kind that meant she wouldn’t be able to keep her eyes open much longer.

He leaned down slightly, his voice brushing her ear like something private.

“You’re fading. Tired?”

She turned, blinking up at him with bleary affection. “No, I’m not.”

“You just yawned mid-sentence.”

“Did not.”

“You did.”

“That was a—dramatic breath,” she mumbled. “For storytelling.”

He smiled. Barely.

Then stood.

It was subtle—how quickly the table noticed. A hush, almost reverent, like the weather had shifted. Conversations paused. Heads tilted.

Harry Castillo had stood. And that meant something.

Chiara looked up. “Leaving?”

Harry gave a slight nod, hand resting at the back of her chair. “We should.”

She opened her mouth to protest. To insist she was fine. But another yawn betrayed her.

Harry quirked a brow.

She gave up. “Okay, fine.”

Chiara leaned over and hugged her, cheek warm against her own. “Thank you for coming. Truly.”

“She’s the one that made us come,” Harry muttered as he shook Leo’s hand.

“You’re a good boyfriend,” Chiara said. Then added, teasing, “Terrifying. But good.”

Harry didn’t answer.

He just placed a hand on the small of her back—warm, grounding—and guided her through the garden path, away from the laughter, the flickering lights, the music still curling into the air like a lullaby.

They walked slowly.

She leaned into him more with each step, her sandals forgotten in one hand, her body sagging with contented exhaustion. The rust silk of her dress shifted with each step, catching moonlight and memory like it was something alive.

The gravel crunched beneath them. The breeze had cooled now, brushing through the trees like whispered secrets. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called once. The sound echoed.

When they reached the car, Harry opened the door for her, of course. Helped her in without speaking. Tucked her sandals at her feet. Then slid into the seat beside her and gave the driver a short nod.

They didn’t speak much on the way back.

She leaned her head on his shoulder somewhere between the vineyard and the old church they’d passed earlier that afternoon. Her fingers drifted to his thigh out of habit. He let her stay like that, barely moving, afraid to shift and break the spell.

By the time the car pulled into the villa’s gravel courtyard, she was half-asleep.

The windows glowed with low golden light. The stone shimmered faintly in the moonlight. Everything felt soft. Suspended. Like they were the last people left in the world.

Until Harry saw movement. Someone was pacing near the stone fountain at the edge of the courtyard. Fast. Sharp. A phone pressed to his ear. Gesturing wildly.

Danny. He looked...frantic.

Harry’s brows furrowed.

She stirred, mumbling sleepily, “Are we back?”

He kissed her temple. “Yeah. Just a second.”

Before she could fully register it, Harry had stepped out of the car, door shutting softly behind him. She blinked herself upright, trying to process the sudden absence of his warmth.

Outside, Harry walked toward Danny with a slow, deliberate pace.

“Who the fuck are you talking to?” he asked, voice low and even.

Danny jumped. Spun.

“Oh—shit—Harry. It’s nothing.”

Harry stopped a few feet away. Arms crossed. Face unreadable. “Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Danny covered the receiver with one hand. “It’s personal.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “From your tone, it sounds like work.”

“It’s not,” Danny said quickly. Too quickly. “It’s one of my exes. She’s losing it. You know how it goes. Screaming about closure or whatever. I’m just trying to shut it down before she flies here with a bat.”

Harry didn’t blink. “You’re lying.”

Danny’s jaw clenched. “I’m not.”

Harry took one step closer.

And for a second—just one, tight, fragile second—Danny’s face cracked.

Not fully. Not visibly. But enough for Harry to see it. To catalog it. To file it under I’ll ask again later.

He looked over Danny once more, then pulled back.

“Figure it out,” Harry muttered, already walking away. “I don’t like being lied to.”

Danny exhaled. Said nothing.

Harry returned to the car without another glance. She was waiting, sandals back on, dress wrinkled from the ride.

“You okay?” she asked, groggy.

“Yeah,” he lied.

He offered his hand. She took it.

Their room was exactly how they’d left it. Soft lighting. The bed turned down. A carafe of water on the nightstand, fresh flowers in the bowl by the window.

She let out a sigh the moment she stepped inside. Toed off her sandals. Swayed slightly in place. Harry locked the door behind them.

She was already halfway to the bed when he said, “Shower first.”

She groaned like a child. “Noooo.”

“Yes.”

“I’m too tired.”

“You’ll feel better.”

“I’ll feel better horizontal.”

Harry arched a brow. “That can be arranged. After you shower.”

“Harry,” she whined, dragging out the syllables like syrup. “I have no bones.”

He moved toward her.

She backed away dramatically, flopping onto the bed like a fainting Victorian ghost. “I’m already dying. Leave me.”

He reached down, grabbed her ankle, and gently tugged her toward the edge of the mattress. She shrieked—quietly, theatrically—but didn’t resist.

“Come on,” he said, voice softer now. “Arms up.”

She blinked.

Then slowly raised her arms. Like surrender.

He knelt down, unzipped the back of her dress. The rust silk peeled away like petals. It fell in a pool at her feet.

She stood in her underwear, hair messy, cheeks flushed from wine and heat and fatigue. She looked like a painting. A little bruised by the night. A little radiant because of it.

Harry touched her waist.

“Shower,” he repeated.

She whined. “You go with me?”

He nodded.

“Fine,” she huffed. “But you better carry me after.”

“Done.”

The shower was warm. Quick.

She leaned into him the entire time, face pressed against his chest, arms around his neck while he washed her hair with the patience of a saint. She mumbled something incoherent about peaches and tarot cards. He just listened. 

He dried her gently afterward, wrapping her in a towel, then carrying her back to the bed like she’d demanded.

She giggled when he nearly dropped her onto the mattress. “You’re such a gentleman.”

“I’m reconsidering it.”

She didn’t respond.

She was already half-asleep.

He dressed her slowly—one of his t-shirts again, soft and oversized then a pair of his boxers. Kissed the crown of her head. Pulled the blanket up to her shoulders.

Her lashes fluttered. Then stilled.

And Harry…

Harry sat at the edge of the bed for a while. Just watched her. She looked safe now. Soft. Here. He wanted to believe the worst of it had passed.

But something in Danny’s face—something in that lie—coiled like wire under his ribs.

He reached over. Turned off the lamp. Slipped under the covers beside her.

She stirred only once—just enough to press her cheek to his shoulder, murmuring something like “mine.”

Harry closed his eyes. Wrapped an arm around her waist. And held on. Tighter than usual.

Just in case. But just in case wasn't enough. Not anymore.

Harry opened his eyes before the light did.

It was instinct—some built-in warning system that had always protected him from the worst of it. From too many hours asleep. From the risk of rest. Rest meant exposure. Rest meant you might miss something.

And something was off. He knew it the moment he registered how calm everything was. Too calm.

The room was still. The kind of stillness that only came before something terrible.

She was curled into him like always—head pressed into his chest, one leg tangled over his hip, lips slightly parted as she dreamed something soft.

He looked at her. Really looked.

Hair a little damp from the night before. Cheeks flushed with sleep. The collar of his shirt slipping off one shoulder, exposing the delicate slope of skin he’d kissed a dozen times the night before. Her arm was draped over his chest like she was afraid he’d vanish if she let go.

And he knew—

He would burn the whole fucking world down to keep this. To keep her.

To keep mornings like this where her skin smelled like lavender and sweat and him, where her body knew his even in sleep, where everything had finally felt like it was settling into something close to peace.

Which is why the dread crawling up his spine was unbearable.

He carefully, silently, shifted her arm. She murmured something incoherent. He stilled. Waited.

Then slowly slid out from beneath her. She didn’t wake. Just rolled over, curling into the spot he left behind, still warm.

He grabbed a hoodie off the chair. Pulled it on. Then left.

The hallway outside was dim, washed in soft amber light from the wall sconces. The villa was still asleep—except for Harry. Always Harry. Awake before anyone could disappoint him.

He didn’t make noise. Didn’t need to. He knew exactly where Danny’s room was. Didn’t bother knocking. Just twisted the handle. It wasn’t locked. Because Danny, for all his skills, never thought he needed to hide things from Harry for long.

The room was a mess. Clothes tossed over the back of a chair. Two empty water bottles on the desk. One of those tiny espresso cups half-filled and forgotten on the nightstand.

Danny was asleep on the couch. Fully dressed. Mouth slightly open. One arm flung across his chest like he’d passed out mid-heart attack.

But Harry wasn’t looking at Danny.

His eyes were on the laptop. Sitting open. Still glowing faintly on the coffee table.

He walked over slowly. Silent. Careful. Grabbed the laptop and sat down on a nearby chair. 

Danny didn’t stir.

The laptop screen was still unlocked. And there it was. The tab. His name. Her anonymity. His stomach dropped. He clicked it.

There was a draft open—scheduled for publishing at 5PM EST. 11PM Florence. A timestamp in the corner. Carrie Roth.

He felt something cold settle in his ribs.

The headline was more appalling than he expected.

"The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name."

But it didn’t matter.

Because right below it—

The photo.

The one he’d tried to bury. The one she never even saw. The one Carrie took from the lobby of his penthouse—the day of the delivery, when she was in his clothes, her hair still wet from the bath they took together, no warning. 

And him?

He looked like he belonged to her. It wasn’t scandalous. But it was real. Too real.

It was a portrait of something not yet built. Something fragile.

And Carrie had caught it. Was going to publish it. Was going to make it permanent.

He read the first few lines of the article, his jaw tightening with every word...

"She doesn’t look like someone accustomed to being photographed. She doesn’t carry herself like a model, actress, heiress, or anyone remotely used to proximity to power. She looks like she just stepped out of his shower, borrowed his laundry, and followed him out without knowing where they were going next. There’s no stylist, no heels, no curated façade. There’s not even a purse in sight."

"Which, of course, begs the question...Who is she?"

His fingers clenched around the edge of the laptop.

Of course Carrie knew about them in Italy. Livia definitely was the one that informed her.

Of fucking course.  

The article was bait. Softly written, yes. But full of implication.

A mystery woman? No digital footprint? They made her sound like a ghost. Like a scandal. Like something waiting to be exposed.

And Harry knew what would come next.

The blogs. The forums. The Reddit threads. The obsessed Twitter girls. The old money pages on TikTok that would start stitching clips of her walking into restaurants and speculating about her outfit, her past, her worth.

They’d find photos. Someone would dig up something. And if there wasn’t anything to find? They’d make it up.

He sat there, breath slowing, vision narrowing. Not out of panic. But calculation.

She didn’t deserve this. She wasn’t ready. This wasn’t what she signed up for. And he should’ve protected her. Should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve buried it the moment Carrie Roth stepped into that lobby. Should’ve crushed it before it had the chance to exist.

But he hadn’t. And now? Now there was a countdown.

Nineteen hours. Until her face was everywhere. Until the silence around her wasn’t a sanctuary—it was an invitation for speculation.

He closed the laptop. Carefully. Stood. Walked over to Danny. And kicked the bottom of the couch. Hard.

Danny jolted awake with a sound that could’ve passed for a war cry. “Jesus fu—Harry?!”

Harry stared down at him. “You lied to me.”

Danny blinked. Rubbed his face. “What?”

“You lied. Last night. In the courtyard. You said it was one of your exes.”

Danny sat up slowly. “Look, I was trying to—���

“You think I give a fuck about your intentions?”

Danny sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t ready yet. The article. Carrie’s still fighting with her editor about the angle. Allegra said—”

“You should’ve told me.”

“Allegra made me swear not to.”

Harry’s voice dropped. “And you listened to her?”

Danny’s jaw twitched.

“I asked you one thing,” Harry said. “One fucking thing. Be honest with me.”

“Carrie was going to publish it no matter what,” Danny snapped. “You think she needed my permission? I was trying to delay it. Manage it. Spin it if I could.”

“You let me walk into that dinner. Laugh and drink and kiss her like everything was fine—”

“Because I knew if I told you, you’d ruin it before it hit the press. You’d blow up at Carrie, maybe even call her yourself, and then she’d publish it just to spite you. I was trying to protect her too.”

That stopped Harry.

A beat passed. He looked down. Then back at Danny.

And his voice was cold now. “You don’t get to say that.”

Danny stood. “Harry—”

“You don’t get to say you were protecting her. Because you don’t know her.”

“I know what she means to you.”

Harry turned. Started for the door.

Danny’s voice followed him. “What are you going to do?”

Harry didn’t answer. He just walked out. Back through the hallway.

Back into the room.

She was still asleep. Barely.

One arm stretched across his pillow now. Her mouth slightly open. Her face soft.

She looked peaceful.

And Harry knew—

He had about sixteen hours to keep it that way. To protect the only thing in his life that didn’t feel manufactured.

To preserve whatever fragile, fierce, ridiculous thing they’d built between cups of espresso and whispered fights and silk dresses and rain-soaked kisses.

And he would. He didn’t know how yet. But he would.

He slipped back into bed beside her. Careful not to wake her. Careful with everything now. More careful than he’d ever been.

He wrapped his arm around her again. Pulled her in.

Held her tighter than he did the night before. Just in case. Because the day was coming.

And with it?

Hell.

Harry didn’t go back to sleep. He couldn’t.

Instead, he laid there with her pressed to his chest and stared at the ceiling like it might give him an answer. Something, anything, to make nineteen hours feel less like a death sentence.

Because that’s what it was. A countdown.

Not just to the article—but to the before and after.

Before, quiet mornings and peach juice on her wrist, wine-stained linen and soft kisses behind alleyway walls, her foot in his lap at lunch, the sound of her laughing with Francesca, the way she tucked into his coat like it was always hers.

After, the world.

He already knew how it would go. He’d seen it a thousand times.

The internet would eat her alive.

They’d comb through every blurry photo, every scrap of background noise, and when they didn’t find anything, they’d start making things up.

“She’s too young for him.”

“She’s using him.”

“She’s boring.”

“She’s not boring enough.”

“She’s not even pretty.”

“She’s too pretty—it’s obvious she’s had work done.”

“She’s only with him for the money.”

“She’s not interesting.”

“She’s trying too hard to be interesting.”

“She’s just like Lucy.”

That one would be the worst.

The comparisons. The analysis. The recycled history he’d spent years burying.

And the photo—that fucking photo—would be the centerpiece. Used in every post, every headline, every whisper campaign. Frozen in time.

A moment that had belonged only to them.

Now handed over to the wolves.

He looked at her again. Still asleep. Still soft and safe and everything the world didn’t deserve.

And he made a decision. He would tell her.

Not all of it. Not yet. He couldn’t put that kind of fear in her eyes. But she needed to know what was coming. Before she saw her own face at a newsstand or on a feed. Before someone DM’d her a link.

She’d never forgive him if he let her find out like that.

So when she woke, he’d tell her. Gently. Slowly. He’d cushion it with espresso and pastries and the kind of touch that said, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, you’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe.

The light started to shift around 7:30. The room warmed. Birds stirred outside the balcony. A linen curtain fluttered against the open door.

She woke with a faint groan, face buried in his chest.

“Time is it?” she mumbled, her voice raspy.

“Too early,” Harry murmured. “Go back to sleep.”

But she stretched instead, her body arching against him like a cat.

“No, I’m up. Kind of. Sort of. Halfway.”

He kissed her hair. “Let me get you coffee.”

“No,” she groaned, grabbing his shirt. “You’re too warm. Stay here for five more minutes.”

He did. Of course he did.

She could’ve asked him for anything.

When she finally sat up, the shirt slipped off her shoulder again. She blinked slowly, hair wild, cheeks creased from the pillow. She looked like a dream.

Harry sat up behind her, running his hand down her spine.

“Breakfast?”

“Yeah.”

He helped her out of the shirt—slowly, carefully, like it was ritual. She kissed his jaw before heading into the bathroom, and he stood for a moment in the doorway just watching her.

He wasn’t ready to let her out of his sight.

Not today.

He got dressed while she did her skincare—charcoal slacks, black button-up, sleeves rolled once at the elbow. No tie. No blazer. Just sharp enough to look deliberate.

“Okay, I feel human again,” she declared, voice soft and bright. “Are we staying here for breakfast or leaving?”

He swallowed. “Staying.”

She smiled. “Perfect. I want something carby and sweet and bad for me.”

He watched her cross the room, picking through her things—eventually settling on a soft, tank top and a white cotton skirt. No makeup. Gold hoops. She didn’t even bother with shoes.

“You look…” he stopped, unable to find the right word. “You look beautiful. Truly.”

She blinked.

Then laughed, flushed. “Thank you.”

“You really are.”

They headed down the corridor together, slow and unhurried.

Every staff member they passed tried to look away discreetly. Some nodded. One stuttered out a buongiorno before tripping over his own cart.

She leaned into Harry’s side and whispered, “You know you’re terrifying, right?”

He didn’t respond. Just smirked faintly.

They reached the courtyard where breakfast was being served—small, shaded tables nestled beneath white umbrellas. The smell of espresso, fresh fruit, and butter drifted in the warm air.

She let out a soft sound of delight.

Harry pulled out her chair before she could. She blinked at him, amused.

“Well, thank you, Mr. Castillo.”

He sat beside her, not across. Always beside.

“Of course.”

They ordered coffee—hers with sugar, his black—and two plates of pastries. Then eggs. Then more fruit. He kept glancing at her like she might disappear if he blinked.

She noticed.

“What?” she asked, smiling around her spoon.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” she teased, nudging his thigh with her knee.

He chuckled softly. Then looked up.

Danny. Crossing the garden with his phone in hand, looking half-dead.

She spotted him too.

“Danny!” she called out, waving.

Harry tried not to flinch.

Danny turned. Paused.

Smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

She tilted her head, voice playful. “You’ve been ghosting me.”

Danny approached slowly. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. Where have you been? I haven’t seen you since dinner, and I was beginning to think you hated me.”

Danny gave her a sheepish shrug. “Just busy. Logistics. Emails. All that boring shit.”

“You should eat. Come sit.”

Danny looked between them. Then shook his head. “Nah. You two should have your moment. You lovebirds deserve it.”

She frowned slightly. “You sure?”

Harry stared at him. Flat. Cold.

Danny nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got to take a call anyway.”

Harry didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched him turn and leave like a man on fire.

She turned back to Harry. “He’s acting weird.”

“He’s always weird,” Harry muttered, sipping his espresso.

She leaned her chin into her hand and looked at him. “You okay?”

He nodded once. But she didn’t buy it.

“Tell me,” she said softly.

He set down his cup. Met her eyes. And suddenly, the timing felt like glass.

She was so calm. So soft. Wrapped in sunlight and kindness. And he was about to put a crack in that.

But she deserved to know.

So he took her hand. Held it across the table. And started to speak. Because the world was coming. And he wanted her to hear it from him.

Harry shifted his chair beside her, closer than before.

The courtyard buzzed around them in that golden, slow way—espresso cups clinking, forks scraping, someone laughing faintly in the distance—but at their table, time stopped.

She looked radiant in the morning light, unaware that the world was already bending its gaze toward her. That somewhere, in sleek offices and messy group chats, her name was being typed. That headlines were drafted. That judgment had been scheduled.

And Harry—Harry looked like a man about to ruin something precious.

He didn’t start with the photo. He started with her hand. He took it—quietly, deliberately, fingers wrapping around hers like he was grounding himself first.

Then he turned to her, jaw tense, voice low.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

She stilled. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

The air between them shifted, dipped.

“I found out early this morning,” he continued, “and it's something you should know.”

He glanced away for a moment—toward the far end of the garden where the waiter had just placed another cappuccino down. Then back to her.

“There’s going to be an article. New York Times. It goes live tonight at 11. 5PM back home.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But inside? Her heart cracked.

Just once. A fracture.

He kept going.

“It’s about us.”

That hit. Us.

She heard the weight in it—the implication, the inevitability. About us. Not about him. Not just a line in passing about a man seen with a woman. No, this was different. This was targeted. This was real.

Her stomach dropped. Her throat tightened.

“They’re using the photo,” he added. “The one from the lobby. The woman—Carrie—she didn’t delete it like I told her to.”

There it was.

She blinked once. Twice.

Then nodded.

But she didn’t speak.

And that terrified him more than anything.

“I’m sorry,” he said, almost under his breath. “I should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve gotten ahead of it. Should’ve—” he stopped himself, jaw tightening. “It’s my fault.”

She shook her head.

“No,” she said finally, her voice quiet but sharp. “It’s not your fault.”

But she didn’t look at him.

Just stared at the tablecloth.

A pale smear of fig jam stained the edge of her plate. A bird chirped somewhere above. It felt wrong that the world was still moving.

She had known—of course she had. Knew the risk the second she let herself be seen with him in public. Knew the reality the first time he brought her over to his place like she'd belonged to him.

But knowing something and facing it were not the same.

Now it was here. Now she had less than fifteen hours before the world knew her face.

Hopefully maybe more.

Her mind spiraled before she could stop it.

What if they dig?

What if they find the pieces I buried?

What if Harry finds them too?

She tried to breathe normally.

Tried to pretend she wasn’t unraveling inch by inch.

Harry’s voice was gentle now. Careful.

“We can stay here. We don’t have to go anywhere today. I’ll talk to the villa staff—have everything brought in. We’ll just… ride it out.”

She nodded again, but it was slow. Mechanical.

He wasn’t getting it. Not really.

He was trying to protect her, and that only made the shame worse. The guilt. The fear.

Because she hadn’t told him. Not all of it.

Not the history that lived behind her ribs, locked up in a box she’d buried at twenty-one and never opened again. Not the part of her life that wasn’t elegant or poetic or beautifully broken—but messy and raw and stained in ways that didn’t wash out.

He didn’t know.

And once the article hit—once her name spread—once someone, anyone, decided to pull a thread—

He would.

And then what?

Would he look at her differently?

Would the way he kissed her change?

Would she become another complication he had to manage?

She couldn’t bear that.

Not from him.

So she stayed quiet.

Let him think it was just nerves.

Let him reach for her coffee cup and slide it closer, let him kiss her knuckles like it meant something more than a sweet morning gesture.

He thought she was afraid of the article.

But she wasn’t.

She was afraid of the fallout. Of what he’d find in the ashes.

He could feel her slipping into herself, pulling back in that silent, practiced way she did when she was scared.

He moved closer. Touched her jaw, guiding her to look at him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said. “Not yet. I just need you to know—none of this changes anything. Not for me. They can write what they want. Post what they want. You’re still mine.”

That broke her a little more.

She forced a smile—soft and small and almost real.

But inside? Panic.

He didn’t know.

And I can’t be the one to tell him.

Not today.

Maybe not ever.

So she leaned into his touch.

Let him kiss her cheek. Let him finish her coffee. Let him believe she was okay.

But part of her heart had already braced for impact. And the worst part?

She wasn’t afraid of the world finding out who she used to be.

She was afraid of Harry finding out.

Because if he looked at her differently—if he pulled away—if the softness in his voice ever twisted into something cold—

It wouldn’t just break her. It would wreck her.

So she smiled.

Held his hand tighter.

And whispered, “Okay.”

Even though it wasn’t. Even though it was anything but.

They finished their breakfast quietly. She picked at a pastry, peeled apart a fig. Harry didn’t push. Didn’t ask. Just let her move at her own pace, his hand never far from hers, his eyes lingering like he was memorizing her all over again.

And when they stood to leave, he didn’t let go of her hand.

Didn’t say a word.

He just walked her back through the sun-washed corridors of the villa, their footsteps soft against the cool stone floors, her cotton skirt swaying gently with each step.

The second the door closed behind them, it changed.

The quiet was heavier now. Not cold. But dense.

Loaded with things neither of them had fully said.

She crossed the room slowly, fingers brushing over the top of the dresser like she didn’t know what to do with her hands. The breeze from the open balcony door moved through the curtains like breath. Her hair fluttered across her shoulder.

Harry watched her for a long moment. Then moved.

He came up behind her—slow, deliberate—his presence folding over her like gravity. His hands slid around her waist. Firm. Certain.

She let out a breath. Leaned into him.

He pressed a kiss to her neck. Then another. Then one just behind her ear, hot and slow, and she shivered.

“You are quiet,” he said softly.

“I’m okay.”

He exhaled against her skin. “You don’t have to be.”

She turned slightly, eyes catching his. “I just need you.”

That did it. Something shifted behind his gaze. His jaw tightened. His grip on her waist flexed.

And before she could blink, she was being spun—back pressed against the dresser, his hands caging her in on either side, his eyes dark and hungry and full of everything he’d been trying to hold back since dawn.

“Say that again,” he said, voice low.

“I need you.”

He kissed her. Hard. Full-mouth, no space in between them, kissed her.

His hands gripped her face, holding her in place as he devoured her mouth—like he was angry at the air between them. She moaned, arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer like she couldn’t get enough.

His hands moved fast—down her sides, over her hips, sliding beneath the soft hem of her tank top. When he touched bare skin, he growled into her mouth.

“No bra?”

She shook her head, breathless.

He smirked—feral, gorgeous.

“Good.”

The shirt was gone in seconds—tugged up and over her head, tossed somewhere across the room without ceremony.

Then his mouth was on her chest.

Kissing. Biting.

Sucking marks into the tops of her breasts like he needed to brand her. His hands palmed her, thumbs rolling over her nipples until her knees buckled.

“Harry—”

He lifted her. Effortless.

Turned and walked her back toward the bed, kissing her the whole time like he couldn’t stop. He dropped her onto the mattress like he was done being soft. Like something inside him had snapped.

The cotton skirt was next—pushed up her thighs, bunched around her waist.

“Keep wearing this fucking skirt,” he murmured, voice rasping like gravel. “It's like you want me to lose my mind.”

“I do.”

He froze. Looked at her.

Then tugged her panties down in one rough motion, dragging them down her legs and off with a single pull.

He didn’t even kiss her again.

Just sank to his knees at the edge of the bed and dragged her hips toward him.

She gasped.

“Harry—”

“Shh.”

He hooked her knees over his shoulders and dove in. His mouth on her was feral. Starved.

He licked her like he was trying to silence every thought in her head—slow, messy drags of his tongue that made her cry out, one hand clutching the sheets, the other buried in his hair.

He held her open, fingers digging into her thighs like he wanted to leave bruises. Every time she tried to squirm, he growled and pulled her tighter against his face.

“You taste like a fucking dream,” he muttered against her, voice hoarse. “This pussy’s mine.”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, yours—Harry, please—”

He moaned into her, sending a jolt straight through her spine. When he added two fingers—thrusting them deep and curling just right—she nearly came right then. Her legs shook. Her head dropped back.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “So wet for me already.”

He worked her like he knew her body better than she did. Licked her until she was whimpering, fucked her with his fingers until her thighs trembled, until her hips bucked uncontrollably.

Then, without warning, he stopped. She whimpered in protest.

He stood.

And looked down at her—chest rising, cheeks flushed, mouth open.

“Turn over.”

She blinked. “What?”

“On your knees.”

The tone left no room for negotiation.

She obeyed—heart pounding, breath ragged.

He dragged her skirt up again. Gripped her ass. Slid two fingers back inside her, slow and deep, making her arch.

“Still so fucking wet,” he growled. “You were dripping at breakfast. Did you like knowing I could take you apart the second we got back here?”

She moaned, pushing back against his hand.

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“Good girl.”

She heard the rustle of his clothes—his belt, his zipper, the soft hiss of fabric as he freed himself. Then the blunt heat of him at her entrance.

He didn’t ease in.

He slammed into her in one deep, punishing thrust.

She cried out, hands fisting the sheets.

“Fuck, Harry—”

“Shhh, baby,” he growled, leaning over her, one hand on her hip, the other wrapping around her throat. “You can take it. You always do.”

He pulled out slowly—almost all the way—then slammed back in, harder. Deeper. Again. Again. Relentless. Unyielding. Each thrust drove her forward on the mattress, her body a plaything in his hands.

And the sounds—

The slap of skin, her soft gasps, his low grunts—all of it filled the room like heat.

“Look at you,” he rasped, tightening his grip on her throat just slightly. “Letting me fuck you like this. Taking every inch like you were made for it.”

“I was,” she whimpered. “I am—Harry, please—”

He growled.

Dragged her up by the throat, back flush to his chest, his cock still deep inside her.

“Say it.”

She turned her face, breath catching. “Yours.”

He kissed her—deep and brutal—while fucking her harder from behind, one hand between her legs now, rubbing tight circles over her clit until her body started to break apart.

“I’m gonna—Harry—please—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered into her mouth. “Let go.”

She shattered.

Her orgasm hit like a wave—loud and long, her whole body convulsing as she moaned his name, clenching hard around him. He held her through it, fucked her through it, chasing his own release.

And when he came, he growled something filthy into her neck—buried so deep, so rough, it knocked the breath from both of them.

They collapsed together.

A tangle of limbs and sweat and silk. He stayed inside her. Just held her. Breathing heavy.

His hand moved to her chest—flat over her heart like he was anchoring her. Or himself.

For a long time, neither of them said anything.

Then—

“You’re mine,” he whispered again. Fierce. Quiet.

She nodded. Still trembling.

“I don’t care what they say,” he added. “You’re mine.”

And even though her heart was still racing, even though her mind was already spiraling toward what was coming—

She believed him.

She was his.

And he was hers.

They didn’t move for a while.

The sunlight crept across the bed, warming their bare skin, catching in the folds of the white sheets, highlighting the flushed pink across her chest where he’d kissed too hard, bitten too softly. Her leg was still slung over his hip. Her fingers rested on his stomach, rising and falling with each breath like they were syncing again, recalibrating after the heat of what they’d just done.

Harry couldn’t stop touching her.

His thumb traced idle patterns along the slope of her hip. Her skin was damp, glowing. She was too beautiful like this—undone and half-asleep, skin smelling like lavender, sex, and sweat, hair stuck to her temple.

She blinked up at him. He was already watching her.

“You’re staring again,” she murmured, voice hoarse from pleasure.

“I always stare.”

She smiled. Barely. Then tucked her face against his chest, breathing him in like she didn’t want to forget this. Like she was memorizing the shape of his body beneath her.

Harry looked up at the ceiling, his palm gliding up and down her spine.

Neither of them spoke for a long while. They didn’t need to.

Eventually, she sighed, voice sleepy. “Do we have to leave the room? Or talk to people?”

“No,” Harry said instantly. “We’re not leaving this room today.”

She lifted her head a little. “Really?”

He nodded. “I’m not in the mood to be charming. Or diplomatic. Or hear Lorenzo’s snarky little comments.”

She laughed against his chest. “God, he’s exhausting.”

“Everything out of his mouth is a TED Talk laced with disdain.”

“And Livia’s probably halfway through writing her own op-ed about us already.”

“Exactly,” Harry muttered. “Let them all speculate.”

She sat up slightly, still naked, still flushed, still glowing.

“You sure?” she asked, more serious now. “There’s probably some contract thing or meeting or…I don’t know…state secrets you’re supposed to be handling.”

Harry leaned up on one elbow. Brushed a strand of hair off her cheek.

“I want today to be just ours,” he said softly. “Before everything changes.”

That hit.

She looked at him—really looked at him. The shadows under his eyes. The way his voice dropped when he said “ours.” The crack in his armor that only she ever got to see.

She nodded.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s keep the world out. Just for today.”

He kissed her forehead.

Then wrapped her in the sheet, pulling her back down to his chest, tangling them together like he needed to anchor her to the bed.

They spent the next few hours like that. Not moving much.

Just limbs tangled, bodies lazy with heat and afterglow.

Harry ordered breakfast again—more fruit, more coffee, more bread—then had it delivered straight to the room. When the knock came, he pulled on his slacks and shirt but left the top buttons undone, his chest bare as he cracked the door open and took the tray.

She watched from the bed, head propped on her hand.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “You’re like a hot dad in a cologne ad.”

He smirked. “Tell me more.”

They ate in bed. She sat cross-legged in his t-shirt, drinking espresso from a delicate porcelain cup while he peeled figs and passed them to her, one by one. She stole a bite of his toast. He wiped butter off her lip with his thumb. They didn’t turn on the TV. Didn’t check their phones. The world felt far away.

At one point, she curled into his side again, her cheek pressed to his chest. His hand moved slowly through her hair, over and over, soothing. She drifted off like that—worn out and warm and full of carbs and comfort.

And Harry?

Harry laid there, watching her sleep. For hours. 

Until he realized it was past three already. His mind never stopped.

He wanted her to rest. Wanted her to stay soft and safe in their little bubble of stolen hours.

But there was the countdown.

And the closer the clock crept to eleven, the tighter his chest felt.

He waited until her breathing evened out, until her fingers went slack against his stomach. Then, slowly, he slid out from beneath her. Careful. Quiet. Placing a kiss at the crown of her head before easing out of bed.

He dressed quickly—charcoal trousers, navy sweater, no shoes. Ran a hand through his hair. Didn’t bother looking in the mirror.

Then he left the room. For the second time today.

Danny was in the corner of the villa he ran off to, holed up in what used to be a study but had become his makeshift office—a tangle of laptops, chargers, espresso cups, and half-buried Italian snack wrappers.

He barely looked up when Harry walked in.

“Close the door,” Danny muttered.

Harry did.

Then crossed the room in a few long strides.

Danny spoke before he could.

“I’ve been talking to Sadie back at the office all morning. She’s trying to get ahead of it. Our options are limited, but—”

“We’re doing a statement,” Harry said flatly.

Danny blinked. “What?”

“When the article goes live. We control the narrative.”

Danny leaned back in the chair, arms crossed. “You’re sure?”

Harry nodded. “She’s not going to become someone’s TikTok theory. I’m not letting people build a myth out of her silence. They’ll do it anyway—but I’m not giving them fuel.”

Danny ran a hand through his hair. “You realize this means press calls. Confirmations. You’ll have to say something. Actually say it.”

“I don’t care.”

Danny looked at him for a beat.

Then nodded.

“Okay. Then we do it your way.”

Harry exhaled.

The silence that followed was short-lived.

Because then Danny added, almost too casually, “There’s something else.”

Harry’s shoulders tensed. “What?”

Danny hesitated.

“Spit it out.”

Danny didn’t meet his eyes. Just opened his laptop again. Clicked once. Then turned the screen toward him.

It was the article. Still in preview form. But this time—there was a new paragraph at the bottom.

And Harry’s name wasn’t the only one in bold.

Lucy’s was.

He read the quote.

“She doesn’t know what he’s like yet. How intense. How obsessive. How cold he can be when he wants to.”

Harry stilled. Everything in his body went quiet.

Then—

He laughed. Once. Sharp. A sound with no humor in it.

Then he leaned back, ran a hand down his face, and muttered, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Danny didn’t answer.

Harry stood. Started pacing.

“She gave a quote,” he said flatly. “To Carrie Roth.”

Danny nodded.

Harry barked out another bitter laugh. “The same woman who fed a wedding invite to my team like it was an olive branch now wants to narrate my personal life for the New York fucking Times?”

“Harry—”

“She left,” he snapped. “She left me. She walked away. She broke something in me that no one has touched since, and now—what? She wants to throw rocks at the glass house she abandoned?”

“I don’t think she expected you to—”

“To move on?” Harry turned, eyes dark. “Yeah. That sounds like her.”

Danny watched him carefully.

Harry’s voice dropped, razor-sharp.

“She’s not protecting anyone. She’s not warning anyone. She just wants to stay relevant in my story.”

A long pause. Harry walked to the window. Stared out at the hills.

Then said, quietly—

“She can’t stand that I’m happy.”

Danny didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Harry turned back, calmer now. But there was something in his eyes. Something cold. Resolved.

“I want it noted in the statement,” he said. “No comment about Lucy. No clapback. Just silence. Her quote will scream louder against it.”

“You sure?”

“I want her words to hang in the air with nothing to land on.”

Danny nodded. “Okay.”

“And when the article drops—have the staff pull the villa Wi-Fi.”

Danny tilted his head. “You really think that’s necessary?”

Harry didn’t blink. “I want her to sleep through it.”

Danny exhaled. “Understood.”

Harry looked down. Then out the window again.

The sun was slipping low now. Dipping into late afternoon. Only a few hours left.

And somewhere upstairs, she was still asleep in his bed—barely covered, skin warm, lips parted, dreaming of nothing.

Still untouched by what was coming.

He clenched his jaw.

“I’m going back,” he said. “I want her to have as much of today as she can.”

Danny didn’t say another word.

Harry turned. Opened the door. And left.

The light was different when he returned. Softer. Golden. Filtering in through the gauzy curtains like a whispered promise.

She was still curled up in bed, just where he left her—one arm flung over his pillow, the other tucked beneath her cheek. Her hair was a mess. Her leg was kicked out from under the sheets. Her mouth twitched once, like she was smiling in her sleep.

He stood at the doorway for a long time. Just watched her. The most peaceful thing in his world.

And he knew—

He would burn it all down if they touched her. If they twisted her story. If they dug too deep.

But for now? She was just his.

He toed off his shoes. Pulled his sweater over his head. Slid back into bed beside her, gentle and quiet, wrapping an arm around her waist.

She stirred. Then melted into him like she’d never left.

And Harry?

Harry closed his eyes. Just for a minute.

Because something was coming.

And with it—hell. But not yet. Not now.

The world outside their villa room remained distant. Muffled. The kind of late afternoon lull that made everything feel dipped in honey. The sun was still warm but fading, and the breeze through the balcony door carried the scent of lemon trees and salt and something blooming.

She was still asleep.

Curled into his side again, her small hand wrapped gently around his thumb like she knew, even in dreams, that something was coming. Harry held her close with one arm, the other resting on the blanket. He hadn’t moved in nearly an hour.

But his mind wouldn’t rest.

He stared at the ceiling. Then at the golden curve of her cheek.

Then, slowly, reached for his phone from the nightstand. The screen glared to life—27 missed messages, 14 emails, 6 calendar alerts—and he ignored them all.

Instead, he opened something he hadn’t touched in weeks.

Messages.

He scrolled down until he found her name.

Lucy.

And clicked.

The thread opened like a wound. Not because he missed her.

But because he couldn’t remember how the hell he ever loved her.

He scrolled, slowly at first. Then faster.

Messages from a year ago. Six months ago.

Texts full of jabs that looked like jokes. Compliments edged with contempt. Whole stretches of time when she wouldn’t respond at all—just long silences punctuated by acid replies.

Harry: I moved the 3PM to 5 to make time for your meeting. Want to get dinner after?

Lucy: Not if you’re going to talk about your profits the whole time again.

He kept scrolling.

Harry: Missed you this morning. Hope your flight was okay.

Lucy: Did you leave the AC on again? My plants are dead. Again.

Another set.

Harry: Can we talk about what happened last night?

Lucy: There’s nothing to talk about. You overreacted. As usual.

He stared at that one for a long moment.

Then scrolled up again.

Harry: I’m not trying to fight with you. I just want to understand why you said that.

Lucy: I said it because it’s true. You’re exhausting, Harry. I’m not going to babysit your emotions every time you feel insecure.

He winced. He remembered that night.

Remembered how she’d looked in the restaurant, eyes glittering like a knife. How she’d laughed in front of the waiter when he tried to explain why a news leak had made him sad.

She’d called him fragile.

He kept scrolling. Closer to the end now.

The final texts before it all fell apart.

Harry: Why are you making me feel guilty for wanting to pay the bill?

Lucy: Because you always do it. Because it makes me feel like I owe you something. You don’t know how to exist in a relationship without treating it like a transaction.

Harry: That’s not fair.

Lucy: Life’s not fair. Grow up.

The last message was his.

One he never got a reply to.

Harry: I just want to take care of you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

Three days later, she posted a photo onto Instagram in Montauk with John. Smiling. Holding his hand.

The broke ass waiter she used to mock under her breath during charity dinners. The one she told Harry would never understand her. The one she ran to after burning every bridge in his chest.

Harry looked down at his screen. At the last words he ever typed to Lucy.

Then looked at the girl sleeping on his chest. Everything inside him softened.

Because this—what he had now—was not the same storm. It was something else entirely.

She breathed evenly. Her hand twitched once in her sleep, like she was dreaming of running. Or dancing. Or chasing something. Her leg was still tangled with his, bare skin on bare skin beneath the sheets, her body warm and real and here.

And she didn’t ask him to shrink.

She never mocked his care.

She let him hold her.

She leaned into his protection like it meant something. Like he wasn’t some cold, obsessive machine.

She smiled when he opened the door. Laughed when he kissed her shoulder. Praised him with a look alone.

She was everything Lucy never was.

And Harry felt it in his bones—that she wasn’t just a phase or a fix or a fever. She was real. She was joy and grief and survival and softness all tangled into one beautiful, infuriating, irresistible thing.

He wanted to protect her.

He wanted to keep her laughing in bed, lips sticky with figs and espresso, forever. He wanted her to have days where her past didn’t feel like an undertow and nights where she fell asleep safe in his arms, knowing that no one—not Carrie Roth, not Lucy, not the internet—would ever touch her without going through him first.

His phone buzzed. Once. Then again.

He glanced down, expecting another update from Danny. But it was from Luca.

Luca: Francesca got the film developed.

Luca: Thought you’d want these.

Luca: Don’t let her see them yet unless you’re ready to cry like a little bitch.

Harry opened the message.

Three photos. Film. Unedited. Grainy in the way that made things feel truer.

And the moment he saw the first one, his breath left his chest.

They were at lunch. The one with the crooked string lights and those marzipan. The one where they were wine-drunk and sunk into each other like vines.

The first photo was her on his shoulder. Eyes half-lidded. Flushed cheeks. Lips slightly parted. He was saying something into her ear—something private, something that made her laugh in the second photo. That laugh that cracked her whole face open like light through stained glass.

He looked down at her like she was the only thing that existed.

And in the third photo? She was feeding him a bite of cake. Her fingers near his mouth.

And he was smiling.

Not the tight-lipped, polite kind.

But the kind that looked like freedom. Like after.

Harry stared at the screen, heart hammering.

Francesca had been right. They looked like they’d been in love for a hundred years.

He gently tilted the phone away, not wanting to wake her with the brightness.

Instead, he tucked it under the pillow and looked back at her. Still sleeping.

Still unaware that somewhere, deep in the belly of the internet, her face was already loaded into a server, waiting to be released into the wild.

But not yet. He still had time.

And so, with the weight of Lucy’s cruelty still echoing in the back of his mind and the ghost of her last text sitting unanswered in his pocket, Harry wrapped both arms around the woman he hadn’t lost.

And whispered into her hair like a vow.

“I’ve got you.”

Because for the first time in years, he meant it.

And she believed him. Even in sleep. Especially then.

The late Florence light spilled across their bed like honey, warm and gold and cruel in how peaceful it made everything look. She was still tucked into him, limbs loose and trusting, face slack with sleep. Her cheek pressed to his chest, one hand resting over his heart like she needed to feel it beat to believe it was real.

Harry exhaled slowly.

He was still holding the memory of that photo—her laughing, head tilted, eyes closed, like she’d never known anything but love. It rattled something in his chest. A different kind of grief. The kind you only feel when you realize you almost lived your whole life without something that should’ve been this easy.

His hand moved through her hair.

He closed his eyes. And for the first time in days, he allowed himself to drift.

All the way.

Just enough. Just far enough to feel her breath against his ribs.

Six more hours until the world opened its mouth and swallowed them whole.

Across the other wing, Danny sat hunched over his laptop, AirPods shoved into his ears, a half-empty espresso growing cold beside a massive spreadsheet of crisis comms protocols. Allegra had finally—finally—gotten Carrie Roth on the phone, and now Danny was regretting every second of his life that had led him here.

The call connected with a click.

And then—

“Danny,” Carrie said. Her voice was syrupy and sharp, like honey poured over glass. “Didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“You know why I’m calling,” he said flatly.

She laughed. Not kindly.

“I’m flattered. You sound so serious. Are you practicing for a deposition already?”

“Cut the shit, Carrie,” Danny snapped, already red in the face. “We know what you’re planning. You’re sitting on an invasion of privacy and running it under the guise of journalism.”

“I’m reporting a public figure’s romantic life,” she replied breezily. “Not the Pentagon Papers.”

“She was followed into his home,” Danny snapped. “The lobby was private property—”

“It’s not private if there’s a camera and a doorman.”

“You know exactly what you’re doing. That headline is disgusting. You’re using an image that was never meant for public consumption.”

There was a pause on the line.

Then Carrie’s voice dropped, slow and smug.

“She’s in his clothes, Danny. Her hair’s wet. She looks like she just blew him in his penthouse shower. I’m reporting the moment.”

Danny’s jaw clenched.

“Harry’s going to sue you.”

Another pause.

And then Carrie laughed.

“Let him,” she said. “Honestly, it might boost traffic.”

“You’re playing with people’s lives—”

“Oh please,” she snapped. “Don’t act like he hasn’t played with other people’s lives before. This is how it works. You want to keep her private? Keep her off Fifth Avenue. Don’t parade her around Italy, you know Livia is a good conversationalist.”

Danny stood up from the desk.

Paced.

“You publish that article and I swear to God—”

“It’s done.”

Danny froze.

“What?”

Carrie’s voice was calm. Deliberate. Cold as marble.

“I got tired of the back-and-forth. My editor was stalling and frankly, I don’t care. The world should know. Everyone’s waiting. Might as well give them the headline, fuck those six hours.”

“Carrie—”

“Refresh your browser, Danny.”

He did.

Fingers shaking.

And there it was.

The New York Times

Culture & Style

The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name

By Carrie Roth | Published 11:14 AM EST, March 5th, 2025

Danny’s stomach dropped.

He opened the article—only the top, only the first few lines before the paywall.

But the photo was there. The photo.

Her. Wet hair. In his sweats. His shirt draped over her frame. Standing beside Harry in his penthouse lobby, his hand hovering near her back like it belonged there.

And Harry—

Harry looked in love.

Frozen in a moment he thought no one would ever see. And now? Now the whole world could.

Danny sank back into his chair, chest tight.

Allegra’s voice buzzed through his phone screen as she called again.

Too late. It was already too late. He was fucking too late. The six hours were gone in an instant.

In the west wing of the villa, the silence still held.

She stirred in Harry’s arms, half-asleep, half-dreaming, lips parted against his skin. Her lashes fluttered. One leg kicked softly under the covers. She murmured something unintelligible—something safe, something soft.

Harry was still asleep.

His chest rose and fell evenly. His face relaxed. His hand loosely tangled in her hair like he couldn’t let go even while unconscious.

They were still untouched. Still dreaming in gold. Still pretending they had six more hours.

And outside their door—

The wolves were already circling.

Meanwhile, across the ocean, Cape Cod was overcast.

The clouds had rolled in sometime after breakfast, dragging a dull gray light over everything—the sand, the water, the white clapboard house Lucy still couldn’t believe she lived in. It was a borrowed kind of life, the kind where the floors creaked like someone else’s memories still lived in the walls.

The kind where she still sometimes reached for a card key instead of a brass doorknob. 

John was out back. Raking the garden. They’d promised her parents they’d try growing tomatoes this year. He looked ridiculous in the sweater she shrank in the wash, sleeves too short, collar stretched. He had one earbud in and was humming something off-key. 

Lucy watched him from the kitchen window.

There was a teabag steeping in a mug on the counter. She hadn’t touched it. 

The clock on the oven read 11:26 AM.

She had tried to write that morning. Opened her laptop. Closed it again. Her Substack hadn’t been updated in two weeks. She had a folder of half-finished drafts, all of them brittle and tired. None of them sounded like her.

She couldn’t figure out what she was trying to say anymore.

The house smelled like Windex and laundry detergent.

She hadn't worn makeup in three days. Her robe was slipping off her shoulder again. The dog—a small mutt they adopted from a local shelter last week—was asleep at her feet.

She didn’t hear her phone at first.

It buzzed once on the counter, face-down. Then again. Then a third time, longer.

She flipped it over with two fingers.

CARRIE ROTH

Lucy stared at the name. The screen. The blinking green light.

Then she answered.

“Carrie,” she said, voice flat. “It’s not a great time.”

“It dropped.”

Lucy’s breath caught. Carrie didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. There was only one thing it could mean.

Lucy turned away from the window. Walked slowly to the table. Sat down.

Her voice was quieter now. “Already?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

Lucy swallowed. Her mouth was suddenly dry.

“I thought—”

“Danny threatened to sue me,” Carrie said. “It annoyed me. So I pulled the trigger.”

Lucy didn’t respond.

“People are reading it already,” Carrie continued. “It’s trending.”

Lucy closed her eyes.

“And you used my quote?” she asked. Her voice didn’t shake. But it was cold now. A razor sheathed in velvet.

“You know I did.”

Another long silence.

Carrie didn’t fill it. Just waited.

Finally, Lucy asked, “Does she know yet?”

She could hear the smile in Carrie’s voice.

"She will soon."

Lucy’s stomach turned. She hung up without saying goodbye.

The phone stayed pressed to her palm, screen black, fingers tightening around it like it had betrayed her.

Outside, John waved at her through the glass.

She didn’t wave back. She sat there for a long time.

Long enough for the tea to go cold. Long enough for the dog to shift, whine softly, and curl closer to her feet like it could sense something wrong.

She didn’t cry. She wasn’t the crying type. But something inside her splintered. A small, sharp ache behind the ribs.

She told herself it wasn’t jealousy. She told herself it wasn’t regret. She had made a choice. She left New York. She left him.

And not just the high-rise penthouse and the assistant with the dry wit and the perfectly tailored suits. She left the man.

Harry Castillo. The one who loved quietly.

Who boiled her tea before bed even when they weren’t speaking. Who carried her keys in his coat pocket without asking. Who hated poetry but listened when she read it out loud like he was trying to understand anyway.

But also—

The man who never told her how he felt unless she dragged it out of him. Who made her feel like she was constantly trying to earn softness. Who made the walls of their penthouse feel colder every time he shut down instead of shouting.

They were never right for each other. But they had been something.

And now? He was in love again. And someone had captured it on film.

Lucy had already seen the photo. She didn’t want to have to see it again. She would feel it this time.

The way Carrie had broke it to her. That wasn’t journalism. That was a knife. That was salt in a wound no one was supposed to know she still had.

She looked down at her robe. At the ring on her finger. Thinner than the one Harry had once picked out and never got the chance to give her. The diamond smaller. The love less complicated.

She looked at the phone again. It didn’t buzz. Didn’t ring.

No one was calling to tell her how it felt to be quoted like that. No one was telling her how Harry had reacted.

She wouldn’t know unless she asked. And she wasn’t going to ask.

Because even if she still thought about him when the wind off the ocean sounded like Manhattan in the winter—

Even if she still had his number saved under Harry <3.

Even if she sometimes imagined what he’d say about the neighbors, or the farmer’s market, or the chipped tile in the bathroom—

She had left. And he had moved on.

So she sat there. In the silence. And for the first time since the article dropped—

She wondered if he’d finally fallen in love for real.

And if that woman—whoever she was—wasn’t a nobody after all. But someone who had given him something Lucy never could.

Peace. And the permission to be soft.

She got up slowly. Turned off her phone.And didn’t open the article. Not yet.

─────

The New York Times

Culture & Style

The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name

By Carrie Roth | Published 11:14 AM EST, March 5th, 2025

When Harry Castillo, the notoriously private hedge fund billionaire and reluctant society darling, walked away from the limelight in late 2024 after a very public and very painful breakup with longtime partner Lucy, no one expected to see him surface again in any intimate context.

Yet here we are.

Castillo, 54, was photographed in the lobby of his Fifth Avenue penthouse earlier this month with a woman whose name, background, and entire existence appear to have baffled both the social elite and the media machine equally. In a world where a last name can function as currency, this woman has none—or at least, not one that anyone seems able to find.

The photo—captured by Carrie Roth and verified by multiple sources—features Castillo in a pair of dark joggers and a custom Valentino long sleeve, his expression unreadable. The woman beside him is dressed in what appear to be his clothes, oversized sweatpants, a faded navy shirt likely pulled from his top drawer, and socks patterned in chaotic, juvenile colors that make one wonder if she dressed herself in the dark or simply enjoys looking like a college freshman home for spring break.

Her hair is wet. So is his. Her face is bare. Her body language, reserved.

It would be forgettable if it weren’t so telling.

She doesn’t look like someone accustomed to being photographed. She doesn’t carry herself like a model, actress, heiress, or anyone remotely used to proximity to power. She looks like she just stepped out of his shower, borrowed his laundry, and followed him out without knowing where they were going next. There’s no stylist, no heels, no curated façade. There’s not even a purse in sight.

Which, of course, begs the question...Who is she?

At the time of publication, no verified identity has been confirmed. What we do know, she’s American. Likely in her twenties or early thirties. No public social media. No recognizable affiliations. No traceable digital footprint. A true anomaly in a city—and a culture—obsessed with documentation.

Some will say it’s romantic. That Castillo, long labeled cold and career-obsessed, has finally fallen for someone outside the machine. That love found him in a quiet corner of life and pulled him back into the light.

Others are less convinced.

The most damning quote comes from Lucy herself, the woman who knew him best—and left.

“She doesn’t know what he’s like yet. How intense. How obsessive. How cold he can be when he wants to. She’s not built for it. She’ll realize eventually. It’s a facade. All of it. He doesn’t do warm. Not really.”

Harsh words from a woman once fiercely loyal to the man she now paints as emotionally inaccessible. But they do echo a question many of Castillo's partners are quietly asking...What happens when the charm wears off?

Castillo’s pattern is well-documented. He disappears for months, reemerges without explanation, and surrounds himself with handlers more loyal than blood. He doesn’t date. He selects. Curates. And if this woman—this “nobody”—has truly captured his attention, she may have unknowingly stepped into a role with no script, no exit, and no idea of the performance required.

The optics are troubling.

The power imbalance is obvious.

He’s 54. She, allegedly is in her late twenties, early thirties. He is a billionaire. She, by all accounts, works in a field so mundane no one’s been able to confirm what it is. (Waitress? Gallerist? Nanny? The rumors span the alphabet.) She does not appear to be in fashion, finance, tech, or any industry tangential to his world.

She is not, in the traditional sense, someone.

And maybe that’s what he wants.

Someone who doesn’t challenge him. Someone who looks up to him. Someone who—like the rest of us—didn’t see it coming.

But let’s be clear, this isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a headline.

And for now, that headline reads like the beginning of a story that’s more about power than love. More about fantasy than future. More about the image of intimacy than the truth of it.

Whether or not the woman in the photo understands what she’s walked into remains to be seen.

But the internet has already decided.

She’s already a meme.

Already a conspiracy thread.

Already a canvas for everyone’s projections.

And Harry Castillo, once the ghost of Manhattan's most elite rooms, has reemerged—only to set the world ablaze with a single photo of a girl who, until now, had the gift of being unseen.

Now?

Now she belongs to the feed.

And the feed never forgets.

Comments (238):

louisa83 Isn’t she that girl from Charlotte? Her brother…you know. The one who killed himself after their dad went to prison?

sampaige OMG. YES. my cousin went to school with her at hillside academy. her family basically imploded. her dad was some finance guy who scammed half the town. people lost their homes. then the son took his own life and the mom vanished overseas. it was a whole thing. wild to see her resurface like this.

deannareads Yup. This was a huge story here in North Carolina. Her dad ran a fake investment firm and got busted in 2019. Ponzi-style. Churches lost money. Local businesses folded. I had a friend whose grandmother lost her retirement in that mess. The daughter (the one in the article) disappeared right after the brother’s funeral. Like poof. Gone.

moneymessNC THEY LIVED IN THAT BIG BRICK HOUSE ON CEDAR RIDGE LANE! Her mom used to throw those weird garden parties and acted like she was royalty. Then the FBI raided their house and it all went to hell. I heard the mom dipped to Europe with a new identity. And now the daughter’s dating a billionaire? Make it make sense.

brookee02 “she doesn’t have a digital footprint” ....or maybe she just scrubbed the hell out of it after the biggest scandal in north carolina since john edwards. this girl isn’t a mystery. she’s a cover up and fake!!!!

southernbella She used to go by a different last name, I swear. She changed it after the trial. Her dad was literally sentenced to life. People were protesting outside their house for weeks. The fact that she ended up with Castillo? Feels strategic. Sorry not sorry.

annahayes Not her climbing her way back up to billionaire status like nothing happened...I remember the story. That family imploded. We’re talking lawsuits, fraud, rehab, funerals, extradition rumors. The whole Netflix package.

jadedjuliet sooo let me get this straight. her dad ruins hundreds of lives, her brother dies, her mom runs away, and she gets to rebrand as mysterious and date a billionaire? cool. must be nice to fail upward.

stellamae Nothing like a tragic backstory to distract from the gold digging. Daddy’s in prison, mommy’s in hiding, brother’s six feet under and she’s wearing $900 sweats in a billionaire’s penthouse like it’s a redemption arc. Give me a break.

─────

TAGLIST @foxfollowedmehome @glitterspark @sukivenue @hhallefuckinglujahh @wholesomeloneliness @bebop36 @maryfanson @aysilee2018 @msjarvis @snoopyreadstoday @woodxtock @lasocia69 @jakecockley @just-a-harmless-patato @romancherry @southernbe @canyoufallinlove @aomi-recs @ivoryandflame @peelieblue @mstubbs21 @eleganthottubfun @justgonewild @awqwhat @xoprettiestkat @prose-before-hoes @indiegirlunited @catnip987 @thottiewinemom @rainbowsock4 @weareonlygettingolderbabe @hotforpedro @petertingless @lemon-world1 @jasminedragoon @algressman16 @la-120 @totallynotshine @joelmillerpascal

[lemon-world1]

a beautiful little lie. l Harry Castillo

Summary:  you are the personal assistant of Harry Castillo, a wealthy entrepreneur who asks you to go with him to his friend's wedding. there you meet your ex-boyfriend and things get out of hand

Warnings : friends to lovers, smut (chapters will be marked), angst, fluff, there will be alcohol, tears, unpleasant situations, broken hearts and lies, I guess.

Chapter 1. 03/20/2025

Chapter 2. 03/24/2025

Chapter 3. Soon

if you want to be tagged, please let me know.

your feedback is very important to me and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. I secretly hope you like this story.🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

[my masterlist] [Harry Castillo masterlist]

[lemon-world1]

Yes yes yes

Sweet sweet baby by @foxtrology 🥹🙏🏻

[lemon-world1]

Oh my goooood 😱😱 I just randomly picked this series out of boredom at work and holy guacamole!!! I am hooked! 🥹🤍 the tension might kill me before the next chapter comes 🫣🥵

fallin' (3)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 7.1k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, smut.

Harry woke up before her.

Of course he did.

He always woke up early. Even on the rare nights he didn’t drink too much, even on days off. But this morning—it was different.

This time, he didn’t wake up to check the markets or answer a string of emails from London.

This time, he woke up to her.

And for once in his goddamn life, he didn’t want to move.

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet. Pale gold light filtered through the huge windows, casting the entire penthouse in a soft, honey colored haze. The city outside was quiet, unusually so. A stillness blanketed everything, like even Manhattan understood something sacred was happening here.

She was asleep beside him.

Naked.

And stunning.

One leg tangled with his. The edge of the comforter barely covering the curve of her hip. Her cheek pressed against his bicep, hair fanned across his chest like silk threads spun by a dream. She was breathing slowly, evenly—completely lost to the world.

Harry didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

He just stared.

Her lips were parted slightly, lashes fluttering against her cheek. He could still see the faint marks he’d left on her neck, her chest, the insides of her thighs. Gentle. Worshipful. Proof that he had memorized her the night before with lips, tongue, hands. Proof that he hadn’t been able to stop touching her even after she fell asleep.

She looked…at peace.

Like she belonged here. Like this was her bed too.

Harry’s throat tightened.

Last night had been slow and quiet and aching. All softness and tension and the kind of closeness that scared him more than boardroom deals or billion dollar collapses ever could.

And now—this morning—it was just as terrifying.

Because he didn’t want her to leave.

He shifted slightly, just enough to press a kiss to her forehead. Then to her cheek. Then to her shoulder. Her skin was warm and smooth beneath his lips, and he lingered there, breathing her in.

She stirred.

A small, sleepy hum escaped her throat as she pressed in closer, her hand sliding across his bare chest, curling there like it belonged.

He froze.

Then, cautiously, let himself exhale.

He didn’t know how to do this.

He didn’t know how to wake up next to someone and not immediately put his walls back up.

But with her—it felt different.

He tilted his head and kissed the tip of her nose.

She wrinkled it and groaned. “Harry.”

His lips twitched. “Good morning.”

Her eyes stayed shut. “Why are you awake?”

“Because I wanted to look at you.”

A beat.

Her brows furrowed. “Creep.”

He smirked, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Romantic creep.”

She groaned again, burying her face in his chest. “It’s too early.”

“It’s not. The sun is literally up.”

“Barely,” she muttered. “Go back to sleep.”

But Harry didn’t want to go back to sleep.

He wanted to stay awake and memorize every inch of her like he hadn’t already done that last night.

He kissed her shoulder again.

Then lower.

To her collarbone.

Then down the slope of her chest, right to the curve of her breast.

She squirmed slightly, breath catching. “Harry…”

He didn’t say anything.

Just kept kissing her.

Soft. Lazy. Reverent.

Her skin glowed in the morning light, warm and flushed as he licked a slow stripe across the peak of her breast before taking it gently into his mouth. Just for a second. Just to feel her react. Her fingers threaded into his hair, not pulling—just there.

“You’re trying to distract me,” she mumbled.

He hummed against her skin. “Is it working?”

“Maybe.”

He shifted again, moving across her chest with light, open mouthed kisses, stopping to trace a few lingering marks from the night before with the flat of his tongue.

She shivered.

“It’s cold,” she whispered.

Harry pulled back slightly. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I was busy being kissed awake, creep.”

He smirked, brushing her hair off her forehead. “You want to go back to sleep?”

She shook her head.

“You hungry?”

“Too comfortable to move.”

He nodded, more to himself than to her, then suddenly slipped out from beneath the comforter.

She frowned, half sitting up. “Where are you going?”

“I have to make some calls,” he said, already walking—naked—across the room like it was the most natural thing in the world. “And turn on the heater before you freeze to death.”

She watched him press a button on the wall panel, heard the low hum of the heat system kicking in. Then, still completely naked, he crossed the room, opened a drawer, and returned with a pair of thick socks.

Her brow lifted. “Seriously?”

Harry knelt on the edge of the bed, lifting one of her feet into his lap with gentle fingers. “Your toes are cold.”

“I’m fine.”

He looked at her. “You’re not.”

She huffed, letting him pull a sock onto her foot. Then the other.

“I feel like I’m being dressed by a butler.”

“I’m naked,” he reminded her. “So, no.”

She laughed quietly as he kissed her ankle through the sock. “You’re an idiot.”

“Maybe,” he said, already reaching for a folded pair of sweats and a soft shirt from the drawer. “Arms up.”

She blinked.

“You’re dressing me?”

“Until you get warm, yes.”

“God, you’re annoying.”

He grinned.

She lifted her arms anyway.

He tugged the shirt over her head, smoothing it down her sides, then helped her sit up and step into the sweatpants, pulling the waistband gently low on her hips before kissing her bare stomach once—soft and slow.

Then again.

And again.

“Harry,” she murmured, breath shaky now.

He met her eyes. “You’re calling out of work today.”

Fuck it was a Friday. Which meant rush hours.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I can’t afford to—”

“You need rest,” he said, pressing a kiss to the center of her chest, right between her breasts. “And you’re staying here.”

“I—Harry—”

He looked up at her, mouth still brushing her skin. “Call.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Call.”

He kissed the slope of her breast.

“No.”

He kissed her hip.

“Harry—”

He kissed her collarbone.

“I hate you.”

He grinned. “You don’t.”

She groaned, grabbing her phone from the nightstand.

He watched her type the number in, still half laughing as she pressed the phone to her ear.

“Yes, hi—it’s me. I’m… sick,” she said flatly, shooting him a murderous look. “Yes, I can’t come in today. Sorry. Yes. Thanks. Bye.”

She hung up and threw the phone onto the comforter. “Happy?”

Harry nodded. “Ecstatic.”

She flopped back against the pillows, hair spilling everywhere. “You’re ridiculous.”

He climbed into bed beside her, pulling the comforter over both of them, kissing her shoulder again.

“You love it.”

She muttered something unintelligible.

And then she curled back into his chest.

Warm now.

Safe.

Content.

Harry waited until she was dozing again before grabbing his own phone off the nightstand.

James was first.

He texted simply:

Day off. Don’t come by. Will call later.

Then, reluctantly, he opened the other thread.

Danny.

Which already had eight unread messages.

Danny: You alive?

Danny: Blink twice if she’s still there.

Danny: Did she spend the night? Did you confess your feelings? Did you cry?

Danny: I bet you cried.

Danny: You definitely cried.

Danny: Why aren’t you answering?

Danny: Are you dead?

Danny: If you’re dead I’m stealing your office.

Harry rolled his eyes.

Harry: Rearrange all my meetings. I’m not coming in today.

Danny: ARE YOU SERIOUS.

Harry: Very.

Danny: You spent the night with her didn’t you.

Danny: YOU DID.

Danny: DID YOU CRY.

Harry: Stop texting me.

Danny: That’s not a no.

Harry turned his phone off and dropped it to the floor beside the bed.

Then he turned back to her.

Still asleep.

Still tangled up in his clothes.

Still curled into him like she’d never done anything else.

He pulled her closer, kissed her temple.

Then let himself drift.

Into something softer.

Something warmer.

Something terrifyingly close to peace.

That’s where Harry had been when he finally drifted into the kind of sleep he didn’t get often. Deep. Dreamless. Unbothered. The kind of sleep you only find when your body knows, on some primal level, that it’s safe. Held.

But she woke first.

It was nearly dark outside—somewhere between late afternoon and early evening. The kind of Manhattan glow that washed the skyline in a dusky lavender and gold. The penthouse had taken on a stillness that felt sacred, like the city had slowed for them. For this.

She laid beside him.

Still warm, still curled up in his t-shirt, one sock covered foot brushing against his shin beneath the sheets.

Harry Castillo—this intimidating, brooding man who carried the weight of billion dollar deals and decades of grief in his shoulders—was fast asleep, mouth slightly parted, one hand curled around the edge of the blanket like he was holding on to something soft. Or someone.

She stared at him.

Took her time.

Traced every crease and wrinkle of his face with her eyes, memorizing the lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint furrow in his brow that remained even in rest. His jaw she itched to touch. His hair was rumpled. He looked younger like this, somehow—but also softer. Human. Undone.

She reached out and gently touched one of the small age spots on his shoulder. Then kissed it.

Then another.

Her lips skimmed the surface of his chest, lazy and reverent.

A breath caught in his throat.

He stirred.

His eyes opened slowly—warm, brown, still hazy with sleep—and landed on her.

“You’re staring,” he rasped, voice low and gravelly, like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

She smiled. “You snore.”

His brow lifted slightly. “I do not.”

“You do.”

Harry exhaled, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re not supposed to be awake yet.”

“I didn’t want to waste the light.”

He blinked at her, amused. “It’s dinner time.”

“Still light.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then reached up and tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered.

“You're wearing my socks,” he murmured.

She grinned. “You put them on me.”

“I was being a gentleman.”

“You were being a pain in the ass.”

Harry huffed a small laugh and leaned forward to kiss her. Slow. Soft. Lips brushing hers like he was still deciding whether this was a dream.

She let him.

Let him deepen the kiss until it turned languid, heat curling between them like it never left. His hand moved down to her waist, tugging her closer, bare legs tangling together under the covers.

They could’ve stayed like that all night.

But then—

“I want a bath,” she whispered against his mouth.

Harry leaned back slightly, one brow raised. “You could’ve just said that instead of seducing me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Seduction implies you resisted.”

He smirked, then sat up, stretching his arms above his head, back cracking slightly with the movement. “Fine. Come on.”

They padded through the penthouse quietly. The floor cold against their bare feet, the room lit only by the fading city light.

The bathroom, when Harry turned on the lights, glowed warm and soft. Marble countertops, gold fixtures, and the enormous tub that looked like it had never been used for anything but aesthetic.

She sat on the edge while Harry filled it, testing the water with his hand. When steam began to rise, he turned and reached for her, peeling off his shirt from her frame and tugging the sweats down her hips slowly.

His eyes never left hers.

“Get in,” he murmured.

She did.

The heat enveloped her instantly—muscles melting, breath catching.

Harry stepped in behind her, water sloshing gently as he settled down and pulled her back into his chest. She fit perfectly against him, back to his front, his arms wrapping around her waist beneath the surface.

They sat like that for a long moment.

The water kissed her skin. His breath kissed her neck.

And then—

His hand moved.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Sliding along her thigh beneath the water, fingers gliding between them until he found her heat.

She gasped softly.

“Relax,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“I am.”

“You will.”

His fingers pressed, slow and teasing, circling her clit beneath the water while his other hand smoothed across her stomach, grounding her against him.

She tilted her head back against his shoulder, lips parting as her breath grew heavier. The sound of the water, the flicker of candlelight he must’ve lit when she wasn’t paying attention, the quiet intimacy of it—it was all too much and not enough.

Harry kissed her neck as his fingers worked her slowly, lovingly.

“You’re so fucking soft,” he murmured, pressing his thumb tighter.

She whimpered.

“Let me take care of you.”

She nodded, too breathless to speak.

His fingers dipped inside her, two thick digits curling expertly, sliding in and out with slow, delicious rhythm. She clutched his arm, hips twitching slightly as he moved faster, thumb circling in tandem.

It was overwhelming.

The water. His breath. His hands.

The way he held her like something precious, even while he was making her fall apart.

“You’re beautiful when you let go,” he whispered, his voice wrecked and reverent. “You’re mine when you fall apart.”

That did it.

She shattered in his arms, body going tight, then loose, heat rushing up her spine as she moaned, head falling back against his chest.

He held her through it.

Whispered praise against her skin.

Didn’t stop touching her until she squirmed from the overstimulation.

Even then—he kept his hands on her.

Gently stroking her thighs.

His lips pressing kisses to her temple.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

She nodded.

He turned her gently in the tub, facing him now, her legs wrapped around his waist. The water sloshed but neither of them cared.

She traced his chest, fingers gliding over the soft curve of his stomach, the line of dark hair leading beneath the surface.

Then—her fingers wrapped around him.

Harry’s breath caught.

He was hard.

Thick. Heavy in her hand.

She stroked him slowly, teasingly.

His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, jaw clenching.

“You’re going to kill me,” he muttered.

She leaned in, kissing the hollow of his throat. “Let me.”

And then—she sank down onto him.

The water made it slow, slick, endless.

She gasped.

So did he.

Her hands clutched his shoulders, his hands grasping her waist as she moved—rising and falling, the water rippling around them.

Every thrust was deep. Intimate.

His eyes never left hers.

“You feel…” he groaned, “Christ, you feel perfect.”

She moaned, hands sliding into his hair, pulling him in for a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and desperate need.

They rocked together in the water, soft splashes echoing off marble, steam rising around them like a fog. The room felt suspended in time. The entire city didn’t exist outside these walls.

Only this.

Only him.

Only her.

Their age didn’t matter.

The years between them, the decades of difference—they melted away with each thrust, each groan, each whispered name and bitten lip.

But still—it came up.

“You like fucking older men?” Harry growled against her throat, one hand gripping her ass to help her ride him harder.

She moaned. “I like fucking you.”

He grinned darkly. “I’m fifty four.”

She rocked harder. “I’m twenty six.”

He thrust up into her, making her gasp.

“Still want me?” he asked.

She kissed him fiercely. “More than anyone.”

That undid him.

He gripped her hips tight, buried his face in her neck, and fucked her through it—slow, hard thrusts that built and built until the pressure was unbearable.

“Harry—” she cried out, nails digging into his back.

“Let go for me again,” he begged, voice wrecked.

And she did.

She came around him, pulsing and shaking, body spasming in his arms.

He followed seconds later, groaning her name into her mouth, warmth flooding her in thick waves as he held her, trembling slightly from the force of it.

They clung to each other in the water, breathless, wrecked.

And when the tremors faded, when the air settled around them again, Harry pressed a kiss to her forehead and whispered, “Come here.”

She curled against him.

They stayed in the bath until the water went lukewarm.

Until the outside world started knocking again.

But neither of them answered.

Because in that moment—there was nowhere else to be.

And for the first time in his entire adult life, Harry Castillo didn’t feel alone.

He didn’t say it aloud.

Didn’t have to.

It lived in his breath as it slowed. In the way he still held her, even after their bodies had stilled, his arms curled tight around her waist beneath the water, as if afraid she might dissolve.

They stayed like that in the cooling bath. The only sound was the occasional slosh of water against marble, the soft shift of her limbs tangled with his.

Harry finally exhaled against her damp shoulder.

His nose brushed along the curve of her neck. “We should get out before we start to prune.”

She hummed sleepily, arms still looped around his neck. “Maybe I like being pruny.”

He chuckled. A soft, breath warmed sound she didn’t know she’d been craving until she heard it.

“I’m serious,” he murmured. “If we stay in here any longer, you’re going to turn into a raisin.”

She tilted her head back, smirking. “And what if I do?”

“Then I’ll have to keep you in a jewelry box.” He kissed her collarbone. “With the other precious things.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. She grinned.

Harry shifted slightly beneath her, lifting her by the waist with a strength that felt effortless. His hands cradled her as he slowly slid out of her. The sensation made her hiss quietly—she was sensitive now, raw and swollen, and the loss of him felt like a small ache.

Harry noticed.

His gaze flicked up, warm and apologetic. “Sorry.”

She shook her head. “Not sorry. Just…tender.”

That made something flicker in his chest.

He nodded once, kissed her shoulder again, and then gently guided her forward so she sat between his legs, her back to his chest.

She expected him to move. To get out and offer her a towel. Maybe hand her something to dry off with.

But he didn’t.

Instead—

He reached for a bottle of shampoo on the edge of the tub. His shampoo.

Something expensive, of course—subtle and masculine, faint notes of bergamot and amber.

He poured a dollop into his palm and began working it into her hair without a word.

His fingers were gentle.

He took his time, massaging her scalp like she was made of glass. She sighed, leaning into it.

“You ever done this before?” she asked quietly.

“Done what?”

“Washed someone else’s hair.”

Harry paused, thoughtful. “Not since I was a kid. My little sister. Before she left for college.”

Her eyes fluttered open. “You have a sister?”

“I did.” He hesitated. “We don’t talk much anymore.”

She didn’t push.

Just reached for his hand and laced their fingers together briefly before letting go.

He kissed the side of her head, and then rinsed the soap from her hair, his hand cupping the water. He shielded her eyes with his empty hand as he brings the water over her scalp, careful, focused.

Then came the soap.

Body wash from a matte black bottle.

He lathered it between his hands and touched her with more reverence than she’d ever been touched with before. Like every inch of her deserved its own moment of devotion.

His palms smoothed over her shoulders.

Her arms.

Her chest—lingering there for a moment longer, fingers gliding over her breasts with a kind of worship that had her biting her lip.

Then down to her ribs, her hips.

He turned her slightly to face him, hand bracing her back, and ran the soap down her thighs.

“You’re spoiling me,” she whispered.

Harry gave her a look that was almost a smile. “I plan on making it a habit.”

By the time he rinsed the last of the suds from her skin, the water had gone warm again, but they both knew it was time to get out.

He stood first.

Taller than she expected, broader when wet—his hair curling, water running down the planes of his chest, dripping from the soft patch of hair beneath his navel.

She stared.

He noticed.

But didn’t say anything.

He just grabbed a towel and wrapped her in it the moment she stepped out, like she was something to protect. Something to keep warm. He dried her slowly, carefully patting her down, not rubbing. Like touching her too roughly would wake him from a dream.

He even knelt to dry her legs.

Pressed a kiss to her shin when he reached it.

And then—

He dried her hair.

Used a second towel for it.

Ran his fingers through the tangled strands, gentle and quiet, humming low in his throat as he worked through a knot.

Once she was dry, he dressed her again.

A new shirt from his drawer. Soft cotton, worn in, probably older than her.

Then another pair of his sweats, these ones even looser than the last, tied with a ribboned knot at the front.

She laughed when he stepped into his own pair of briefs, then a fresh pair of joggers and a long sleeved shirt that still looked vaguely custom made.

“You look like a dad,” she teased.

He smirked. “You’re lucky I didn’t wear the robe.”

“You mean my robe.”

“Touché.”

He didn’t stop there.

He brushed her hair.

Actually brushed it.

Sat her down on the edge of the bed and carefully, slowly, began detangling the strands with his wide toothed comb before switching to a brush. Then—almost shyly—he began braiding.

It wasn’t perfect.

A little messy.

But it was so absurdly, painfully tender she nearly cried.

“I’m not used to this,” she admitted quietly.

Harry paused behind her. “Used to what?”

“Being… looked after.”

His hands stilled.

Then resumed the braid.

“You deserve it,” he said softly. “Whether you’re used to it or not.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

He tied off the end of the braid with a twist tie and kissed the back of her head.

They climbed into bed again, the sheets warm from earlier.

Harry pressed a button on the wall.

With a low mechanical hum, a flat screen TV descended slowly from the ceiling, positioning itself at the perfect angle for lazy watching in bed.

Her eyes widened. “Okay, that’s ridiculous.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s convenient.”

She snorted. “It’s dystopian.”

He handed her the remote. “Pick something.”

“You’re not gonna pick?”

“I don’t watch much TV.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re one of those people.”

He smirked. “I prefer books.”

“But not art,” she teased, climbing under the comforter beside him.

“Let it go.”

She didn’t.

Instead, she spent the next twenty minutes scrolling through every streaming service he had—which was all of them—looking at show after show, movie after movie, never landing on one.

Harry just watched her.

Watched the way her eyes lit up when she saw a trailer for a horror movie, or the way her nose scrunched when a rom-com looked too cheesy.

Watched the way she pulled the blanket higher up her body, cold toes pressing into his calves like she’d been doing it for years.

Eventually—

Her stomach growled.

Audibly.

Harry lifted a brow.

“I heard that.”

She groaned. “Shut up.”

“No. Let’s feed the creature.”

She laughed, sitting up as he grabbed his laptop from the bedside table.

“Okay,” he said, booting it up. “Tell me what you’re craving.”

“Something warm. Cheesy. But not pizza.”

“Pasta?”

“...Don’t say it like that.”

“You want pasta,” he grinned.

“No, I—”

He turned the screen toward her, scrolling through a restaurant’s online menu. Sleek. Minimalist.

Then they saw it.

A photo of handmade tagliatelle with truffle cream sauce, cracked pepper, and parmesan.

Her stomach growled again.

Harry didn’t even blink.

He clicked Add to cart.

“Wait—what if I wanted something else?”

He scrolled down. “You hesitated.”

She scowled. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re hungry.”

He added garlic bread, a side of grilled broccolini, and a second pasta—this one with short rib ragu.

Then glanced up at her.

“What?”

He smirked. “I like seeing you full.”

“Jesus.”

“What? You ate nothing last night after a ten-hour shift.”

She didn’t argue.

Just watched him complete the order and close the laptop.

Then she leaned into him, curling up beneath his arm, cheek pressed to his chest.

And for a long, perfect moment, neither of them spoke.

The TV glowed.

The heater hummed.

And Harry held her like he was holding onto something he hadn’t even known he needed.

Not until now.

Not until her.

That thought—quiet but thunderous—was still echoing through Harry’s chest when his phone vibrated sharply on the nightstand.

He groaned, shifting slightly so as not to wake her completely. Her cheek was still pressed to his chest, lips parted, breath steady. Her braid had unraveled slightly, a few strands curled against her temple.

Harry wanted to ignore the phone.

Wanted to stay in bed with her, wanted this ridiculous little bubble they’d built between the sheets to last just a little longer.

But the vibration didn’t stop.

Persistent.

Insistent.

He sighed, grabbed the phone, and answered in a low voice.

“Yeah.”

The voice on the other end belonged to Greg, the front desk concierge. Greg never called unless it was serious.

“Mr. Castillo, I’m really sorry to bother you, sir, but…there’s a bit of confusion in the lobby.”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “What kind of confusion?”

“Well, a delivery driver is here with food—says it’s for you—but security wouldn’t let him up. You, um…don’t usually order things yourself.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“Sir, you’ve never ordered food before. We weren’t sure if it was a prank or some kind of breach of privacy, especially with everything that happened with Ms. Lucy—”

He closed his eyes, jaw tensing. “Greg.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I ordered the food.”

“Oh.”

There was a pause on the line.

Then—

“You…did?”

Harry’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Yes.”

Another pause. “Should I allow it up then?”

Harry exhaled, glancing down at her—still curled up against him, starting to stir now. Her lashes fluttered, brows twitching at the edge of sleep.

“No,” he said, slipping out from beneath her slowly. “Tell him I’ll be down.”

“You’re coming downstairs?”

“Yes. I’m coming downstairs.”

“Sir, are you—feeling well?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Goodbye, Greg.”

He ended the call and reached for a hoodie, pulling it over his head. Then he turned to the bed where she was blinking up at him, sleep laced and adorably confused.

“What’s happening?”

Harry leaned down and kissed her nose. “Apparently I shocked the entire building by ordering pasta.”

She frowned. “What?”

“They think it’s a trap.”

She blinked. “Is it?”

He grinned. “Only if they’re trying to poison us with truffle cream.”

She snorted, sitting up and stretching her arms above her head. “You’re going downstairs to get it?”

He nodded. “Want to come with me?”

She squinted. “Into society?”

“You can stay here.”

She yawned, slipping out of bed and reaching for her coat. “No, if you’re dragging yourself into public, I want to see it.”

The elevator ride was silent.

Harry stood beside her in his hoodie and joggers, hair still slightly damp from the bath. She looked equally undone—barefaced, his clothes swallowing her whole, socks mismatched. Together they looked like two people who'd spent the entire day in bed.

Which they had.

When the doors slid open, the entire lobby paused.

The desk concierge, the doorman, a security guard, and the delivery driver all turned to look at them.

It was the doorman, though—Lance—who looked the most shell shocked.

“Mr. Castillo,” he said slowly, as if confirming Harry was real. “You…came down.”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “That’s what happens when you don’t let the driver up.”

Lance’s eyes flicked to her, then back to Harry. There was something hesitant in his expression. A flicker of confusion. Disbelief.

And then—

Recognition.

The wrong kind.

Harry saw it before it could settle on Lance’s face.

The comparison.

Lucy.

She wasn’t Lucy.

The girl beside him wasn’t perfectly polished. She wasn’t in heels. She wasn’t the kind of arm candy expected on a man like Harry Castillo.

She was real.

And Harry stood closer to her.

Not the way he used to stand next to Lucy—half turned away, distracted, scanning the room for exit strategies.

No.

He was grounded.

Present.

Protective.

Her shoulder brushed his hoodie.

The delivery driver fumbled to hand over the bag. “Uh—two pastas and a broccolini side?”

Harry took it with one hand, nodding. “Thank you.”

He handed the man a tip in cash, despite the man’s hands shaking slightly. “Appreciate it.”

And just when they were turning to leave—

Click.

Harry’s head snapped up.

A camera flash.

A woman in the corner of the lobby had her phone out. Her body was angled perfectly for a stealth shot. She wasn’t staff. Wasn’t a resident either. A visitor, maybe.

Harry’s hand was still holding the bag—but her hand was now clenching his.

Tight.

He looked down.

She was frozen.

Eyes wide.

Breath caught in her chest.

Fuck.

She was panicking—but silently. Internally. He could see it in the way her fingers trembled around his, how she didn’t say a word, didn’t even blink.

His jaw locked.

“Stay here,” he said, already stepping away.

She blinked. “Harry—”

But he was already moving.

The woman had turned, phone raised to her ear.

“I just got a shot of Harry Castillo with a woman who is not Lucy. Yes. At his building. No, she’s not famous. She’s wearing his clothes—yes, I swear—”

Harry stopped in front of her, voice low and lethal.

“Delete it.”

She jumped.

Spun around.

Eyes wide.

“Mr. Castillo, I—”

“Now.”

She hesitated. “I’m with the New York Times, and this is—”

“I don’t give a fuck if you’re with God himself.” His voice didn’t rise, but it sharpened like a blade. “You don’t get to blindside someone in their home.”

“It’s a public lobby—”

“She didn’t consent to a photo.”

The reporter’s mouth opened, ready with another rebuttal.

But Harry took a step forward.

And that was enough.

She swallowed.

Flinched slightly.

And unlocked her phone.

“Deleted,” she said. “Happy?”

Harry stared at her for a beat too long.

Then, with a voice that could’ve frozen fire, he added, “If I see that image anywhere, you’ll be dealing with more than just my legal team.”

He turned.

Walked back.

She was still standing near the front desk, arms crossed, her face blank—but her body was tense.

Harry reached her and slid a hand behind her back, guiding her gently toward the elevator.

“Hey,” he said softly, once the doors closed. “You okay?”

She nodded once. Then again. “Yeah. I just—I don’t like that.”

“I know,” he murmured. “It’s over. She won’t use it.”

She let out a shaky breath. “It just... caught me off guard.”

“I know.”

He reached down and laced their fingers again.

And this time, she squeezed back.

But it wasn’t just a squeeze.

Not really.

It was a silent plea.

A question.

A trembling whisper beneath the surface that she wasn’t sure how to say aloud. Not yet.

Harry felt it.

He didn’t push.

Didn’t speak again until they were back in the elevator, the doors sliding shut behind them like the city hadn’t just clawed a piece of her peace away.

She looked down at her hands—still curled inside the sleeves of his hoodie, fingers stiff from tension.

Harry reached out.

Softly.

Gently.

His knuckles brushed hers, then slid up until he could curl his entire hand around hers again. He squeezed once. Then again.

She stayed quiet.

“Darlin',” he said softly, voice a low hum. “Talk to me.”

She shook her head.

Not in a “no”—but in a not yet.

He gave her that.

The elevator rose in silence.

When they reached the penthouse and stepped inside, she walked ahead of him for the first time all night. Straight toward the bedroom. Not angry. Not retreating. Just… needing a moment.

Harry set the food down on the kitchen counter, then followed. Not too close. Just enough to be there if she needed him.

When he reached the doorframe, she was sitting at the edge of the bed, her head in her hands.

“People are going to know who I am now,” she murmured.

Harry stepped in. Slow. “No one knows anything yet. That photo’s gone.”

She looked up at him, brow furrowed, lips parted slightly in frustration—or maybe something deeper.

“You can’t control everything, Harry.”

“I can try,” he said, and meant it.

That made her smile. Barely.

But it didn’t last.

Her eyes flicked away.

Then back.

And finally—

“Am I a rebound?”

His chest went still.

It was a whisper. So quiet he might’ve missed it if he hadn’t been standing close enough to hear her heartbeat.

But he heard it.

And it hit him harder than any camera flash ever could.

He moved, then.

Sat down beside her.

Not touching her yet. Just there.

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t need to.

Because she felt his presence in every inch of the room. His heat. His attention. His silence.

“I’m not going to insult you by pretending Lucy doesn’t exist,” he said, after a long beat.

She closed her eyes.

“I loved her. I thought I was going to marry her.”

Her jaw tightened, just slightly.

“But,” Harry continued, turning now—really turning—to face her, “Lucy never saw me.”

She blinked.

He went on, voice softer now.

“She saw what I represented. A future. Money. Control. She saw the suit, not the man wearing it.”

“You’re saying I see you?” she said quietly.

Harry leaned forward.

Rested his elbows on his knees. Hands clasped between them.

“You talked back to me on the steps of the Met. You rolled your eyes at me in front of a crowd. You wear my clothes and steal my socks and talk with your mouth full and look at me like I’m not this...billionaire asshole people tiptoe around.”

He turned his head, eyes locking with hers.

“You see me.”

She stared at him.

And Harry did something she wasn’t expecting.

He got up.

Walked out of the room.

She frowned.

Then—

He returned with the food bag in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

Two glasses balanced between his fingers.

Without a word, he kicked off his shoes, set everything on the nightstand, and began unpacking the food.

He didn’t ask if she was hungry.

He didn’t make her talk again.

He just uncorked the wine, poured two glasses, handed her one, and slid the tray of pasta between them as he crawled up onto the bed.

“I’m gonna feed you now,” he said.

She blinked. “What?”

“I’m annoying like that,” he smirked, twirling a forkful of pasta and holding it out.

She hesitated.

Then took the bite.

Exactly what she needed.

She moaned—again—and Harry closed his eyes.

“Every time,” he murmured.

She swallowed. “What?”

“Every time you make that noise, I forget how to breathe.”

She flushed, biting her lip as he twirled another forkful and offered it to her.

“I can feed myself,” she mumbled.

“I know,” he said. “But let me.”

So she let him.

They sat cross legged on the bed, plates balanced between them, their bodies pressed close. He fed her bites of tagliatelle and broccolini, offering sips of wine in between.

She fed him too.

Not as neatly.

At one point, a strand of pasta landed on his chest.

“Oops,” she said, completely unbothered.

Harry looked down, then grinned. “You did that on purpose.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said sweetly.

He leaned in.

Nose brushing hers.

Voice soft.

“I’d let you ruin every shirt I own.”

She stilled.

Harry reached for her hand again, thumb brushing the back of it slowly.

“Everything about this is new,” he said, quieter now. “I don’t know what we are yet. But I know how I feel when I look at you. I know what it meant when you walked downstairs with me. When you reached for my hand.”

She didn’t answer.

So he kept going.

“I’m not looking for a rebound,” he said. “I’m looking at the first person in years who makes me feel like I might want to start over.”

A pause.

“Not to get over Lucy. But to get to you.”

Her heart cracked open.

Just a little.

Just enough.

She leaned forward.

Kissed him.

Not rushed.

Not passionate.

Just…present.

Like she was finally meeting him at the edge of something real.

While across state lines...

Lucy wanted peonies.

Specifically, pale pink ones with feathered petals, soft enough to match the shade of the bridesmaids’ dresses she had not yet chosen and delicate enough to photograph well against the backdrop of a Cape Cod marina wedding.

She did not want roses.

“I think the peonies say soft luxury,” she said, flipping her hair behind her ear with just the right amount of dismissiveness, “and the roses feel…desperate.”

“Babe, roses are literally the symbol of love,” John offered, dragging a finger across a glossy floral mood board.

Lucy shot him a look like he’d just offered to serve frozen shrimp cocktail at their rehearsal dinner.

“They’re pedestrian, John.”

John blinked. “I—I like shrimp cocktail.”

The florist, a woman named Erika with a clipboard made of anxiety, smiled nervously and cleared her throat. “We can source the peonies, but they’re out of season, so it would be—uh—an elevated price point.”

Lucy raised a brow. “Elevated how?”

“Per stem?”

“Yes.”

“Twenty-three.”

Lucy smiled tightly. “That’s fine.”

John coughed. “Per stem?” He turned to the florist, switching into what Lucy privately called his humble bartering voice, which made her want to evaporate into a vase. “Hey, is there like… a bundle option or—”

Erika blinked. “A bundle…?”

“Yeah, like if we get a bunch of peonies, can we do, I don’t know, like...a florist’s dozen?”

Lucy closed her eyes.

Jesus Christ.

She could feel the blood drain from her face.

Erika glanced toward Lucy like you invited this man into your life. 

Lucy inhaled sharply. “Excuse me. I need to take this.”

Her phone was vibrating in her lap.

CARRIE ROTH flashing across the screen in smug little letters.

Carrie had always been one of those women who smelled like Diptyque and journalistic chaos. They met during a Vogue hosted gala in Manhattan seven years ago and bonded over a shared hatred for mutual acquaintances. Since then, Carrie had moved to The New York Times , Lucy had moved to Boston, and the friendship had dulled into one of those semi-occasional connections fueled by gossip, envy, and transactional curiosity.

She stepped out into the hallway of the floral studio, smoothing down her coat.

“Carrie,” Lucy answered, voice clipped. “Kind of in the middle of something.”

“Well,” Carrie said, tone syrupy, “then this won’t take long.”

Lucy sighed. “What?”

There was a pause.

And then—

“I saw him.”

Lucy froze.

“…Him?”

“Don’t make me say his name, it’ll make you twitch.”

Lucy’s jaw tightened. “Harry.”

“Harry fucking Castillo,” Carrie confirmed, practically purring. “I saw him in the flesh, at his building, and babe he wasn’t alone.”

Lucy’s stomach turned.

She stayed quiet.

Carrie went on, delighted.

“He was with a woman. ”

Another pause.

And then—

“She was wearing his clothes.”

Lucy felt something sharp twist in her chest.

She exhaled through her nose. “So? He’s allowed to date.”

Carrie hummed. “Sure, yeah. Absolutely. But don’t you think it’s a little soon?”

“He’s not mine anymore.”

“Oh please, don’t be noble. You were supposed to marry him. This is fascinating.”

Lucy’s throat felt tight.

She hated the way her skin prickled. Hated the flicker of something ugly curling in her chest. Not jealousy. Not really. Just…the unfamiliar discomfort of knowing Harry wasn’t still pining. Of realizing he might be okay.

And she wasn’t ready for that.

“Did you take a photo?” she asked, already regretting the question.

“I did,” Carrie chirped. “He made me delete it.”

Lucy blinked. “He what? ”

“Marched across the lobby and threatened me with a lawsuit unless I wiped it. It was hot, honestly. He had his hand around her back like she was something worth protecting.”

Lucy’s stomach flipped.

She swallowed. “So…you don’t have it?”

“Oh honey,” Carrie laughed. “Please. This is me. I AirDropped it to my editor before he even reached me.”

Lucy closed her eyes.

“I’m writing a piece.”

Lucy’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

Carrie was already rolling.

“It’s about Harry. About how the most untouchable man in New York is suddenly—poof—off the market again. The mystery girl, the penthouse delivery  incident, the whole ‘is this a real relationship or a well timed distraction’ angle. I’m thinking Castillo’s Comeback! A Billionaire’s Return to Romance. What do we think?”

“I think it’s tacky.”

Carrie laughed. “That’s why I called. I want a quote.”

Lucy blinked. “You want me to give you a quote? For an article about my ex and his replacement?”

“Well when you put it like that…”

“Jesus, Carrie.”

“Come on. Just one line. It’ll make the piece.”

Lucy opened her mouth. Then shut it.

Carrie waited.

“Well?” she pressed.

Lucy stared out the window of the hallway. At the crisp Boston afternoon sun spilling through the panes. At the rows of orchids dying in a glass case nearby. At the reflection of herself—still elegant, still perfectly poised, but not untouched.

And for the first time, she realized she might’ve miscalculated.

She thought Harry would wait.

She thought he’d hurt longer.

Lucy swallowed.

Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke.

“I’ll give you a quote.”

Carrie perked up. “Go on.”

“But it has to be anonymous.”

A beat.

Then—

Carrie practically purred, “Off the record attribution, got it.”

Lucy exhaled slowly.

“She won’t last.”

Carrie chuckled. “Ooh.”

“She doesn’t know what he’s like yet. How intense. How obsessive. How cold he can be when he wants to. She’s not built for it.”

“Mm.”

“She’ll realize eventually,” Lucy said, mouth flat, voice sharper now. “It’s a facade. All of it. He doesn’t do warm. Not really.”

Carrie’s smile was audible. “So…source close to the ex?”

“Make it sound smarter.”

Carrie grinned. “Done.”

Then the line clicked off.

Lucy stood frozen in the hallway, phone still pressed to her cheek.

Behind her, John called out from the showroom.

“Babe? Do you think if I offer to DJ the wedding myself we can get the deposit waived?”

Lucy didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

She just stood there—

Still.

Silent.

And suddenly not so sure that leaving Harry Castillo had been the power move she once believed it to be.

[lemon-world1]

Joel—ever the savior—☺️ can’t wait for more chapters to come! 🥰

Lone Star | Chapter 1

dbf!Joel x female reader

Summary: It's your first summer after college and you're forced to be back in a hometown where nothing ever changes- except for the new neighbor down the street.

Warnings: age-gap, Joel is mid 40's reader is mid 20's, MDNI.

Word Count: 3.5k

Note: hey people! giving a shot at a my favorite joel miller- you guessed it dbf!joel.! Both reader and Joel are moving back to a neighborhood they have avoided for separate reasons-yet when they're together they can't seem to remember them. (maybe one day we'll all find our own personal joel)

You’re laying on the old rusty sunbeds next to the pool when you wake up. You’d had a few too many beers in the evening and fell asleep in your yard, now being awakened by the night’s summer breeze. Disheveled you prop yourself up on your elbows and look over to the house. The lights are off, you remember your parents won’t be home for a few weeks- or is it days now?. You fall back onto the old sunbed, your back hitting the hard surface, drinking all afternoon has played some tricks on your memory apparently. 

“Shit” you mutter to yourself, slowly regaining the memories of coming out to tan by your pool and to try out your new red bikini before you wore it to the annual ‘all day bonfire’ your neighbours hosted every summer.

 You reach out to the ground to find a half empty beer can, lifting it up to take a sip hoping nothings crawled into it during your nap. Flat but not as warm you thought, you set it onto your stomach still holding in with one hand on its bottom side. 

There’s more stars in the sky than usual, you notice, shifting your eyes from one to another as its become your nightly ritual. You lift up your hand and ‘trace’ over some of them. Others you section between your thumb and your pointer. It’s the one thing that’s never changed since you were a kid. You always admired the stars, the sky, like you could almost see the wisdom they were holding in them, you envied the power they had of always being around, always seeing everything happening in the quiet hours. You remember when you were younger your grandma would sit with you until past your bedtime in her yard and point out the ones she knew, 

“You know honey, the stars have always been around, so if you’re ever not sure about something you turn to them you hear? They’ll know. They’ve seen it” 

Your grandma was never spiritual or religious, never believed anything she couldn’t see, but she was adamant about the stars, so you trusted her.

“Yeah well, the stars don’t hold up as witnesses in court so don’t go puttin all your faith in ‘em” your grandpa would chime in. When you were younger he always seemed distant, never tried to bond with you, didn’t talk much at all, and would always have a way of disproving stories others told you. But as you grew older, you couldn’t help but notice he was always there. The second your parents dropped you off and your grandma took you out in the street to play, he’d follow, never missing a beat when you wanted to go somewhere. 

“It’s girls day Henry, we just have to go to the mall” your grandma would say, batting her eyelashes while you snicker behind her yelling “yeah, we have to grandpa!”.

“I ain’t a girl” he would complain but he would already be halfway out the door with his boots on and keys in hand ready to take ya anywhere. It’s when you learned you could feel loved just as much even tho you’d never hear those exact words.

So at night, when you would finally wind down, your grandma would sit you out in the yard, lemonade in hand and tell you all kinds of stories. Sure enough, your grandpa would always pull up a chair near you with a beer in hand and listen to the both of you talk throughout, what you thought was, all night. And the beer he would always happen to be drinking was a Bud, just like the luke-warm one that was leaving a circular imprint on your belly right now.

 Finally, feeling awake enough you reach down next to the empty beer cans to find your watch you carefully took off before tanning. 8pm. Damn. You promised your best friend you’d be at her place in half an hour. Peeling yourself off the chair you find steady ground and start picking up the beer cans you left out before heading back to your house. It was your first summer back from college and you didn’t want your neighbors to think that you’d already taken up a status of full blown unemployed alcoholic. 

After locking the porch door, you run up to your room and jump in the shower, trading the scent of beer and sweat for vanilla and coconut soap, trying to hurry up and make it to your friends on time. The cool water felt like magic against your warm and dry skin, making you spend an extra ten minutes in there, blaming the delay on the new conditioner ‘you just couldn’t get out of your hair’. 

Good enough if she asks why you’re late. 

Getting out the shower you towel dry yourself as fast as you can before putting on a pair of dark denim shorts that hang low on your hips. The red halter tank top you’ve worn since high school happened to be the closest to reach which made it an easy decision. Basically stumbling over your shiny cowboy boots you take your makeup stuffed backpack and run out the door, checking twice to make sure it’s locked. It’s a quick walk albeit, not even five minutes down the road to their house. 

You had the tradition of gettin ready for a night out together over the summer and with both your parents gone on vacation, you basically ping-ponged between your houses every day. 

You couldn’t help but notice the moving truck on the way down to her house. You lived at the end of one of the countless look-alike culs-de-sac in a small town in Texas, so not much happened without hearing about it first. Certainly not someone moving two houses down from you. 

Guess one of the downsides of your parents being out of town is being out of loop on the neighbourhood agenda. 

As you walk past the house all you see is a light in the kitchen of a house you once knew well. Bella, your childhood best friend lived there with her mom until one day they moved and you never heard from them again. Ever since then you’ve just seen it as a shell of a house. It was hard to miss it though, the only empty house in the neighbourhood, the only green one, many-a-story were told about it amongst the neighbourhood kids. Then you grew up and it went back to being just an empty house. 

Well, not so empty anymore. 

A noise from the side of the house startled you back into reality and when you saw what appeared to be a large man in its shadows, naturally you all but ran to your friend's house. 

“Honeey, I’m home!” you yell slamming the door behind you as you walk  up to her room where she’s sat with her legs over the side of an armchair, and a magazine in her hand.

“Fell asleep again by the pool did we?” she says without even looking up from the paper.

You mimic a shocked look dropping your bag and throwing yourself onto her bed.

“You know some people call drinking and abruptly falling asleep every day alcoholism” she adds on before dropping the magazine to the ground

“Well those people have never had two weeks alone without their nagging parents now have they”

“Can’t really argue with that now can I?” she sighs mimicking you

“Not at all Ames.” you sit up facing your friend with a smug smile on your face

“Oh, hey, what’s with the moving truck at Bella’s house?”

“That stopped being Bella’s house like 15 years ago Lexie”

“I know I know..just don’t really know what else to call it ”

“Well you can call it by the name of whoever moved in there now. My mom mentioned something before she left about a guy moving in there. Mid 40s, contractor, single, coming from San Antonio I think but born in Dallas” 

That explains the creepy man you think to yourself.

“Wow your mom can really work for the FBI you know that”

“Tell me about it. Now come on, there’s a pitcher of pre-game margaritas waiting to be made downstairs and we still need to do hair and make up”

“Yes ma’am” you jump out the bed and follow your friend to the kitchen. 

The rest of the night is spent getting ready to go to a local bar you’ve been frequenting since you were old enough to get a quality fake ID.

 Celebrating your 21st birthday there two years ago was awkward to say the least. But alas it had the most decent pool tables and the beer was fifty cents cheaper so it prevailed as the main hang out space.

“Okay hand me my bag and we can he-” just before you’re about to finish your sentence you get interrupted by your ringtone. You quickly move to answer the phone.

“Hey dad, is everything okay? You don't usually call this late”

“Everything’s fine honey” he answers, calming your anxieties. You place the phone on the table and put it on speaker as you finish packing your purse.

“I just have a favor to ask you. The new neighbour moving into the empty house down from us- your old friend's house uh -what was her name, Stella?”

“Bella” you correct him 

“Right right. Well the new neighbour is Joel- you remember him right honey? I was in the army when his brother Tommy enrolled, nice kids, they used to visit when you were little”

You look up at your friend with a confused look, not recalling a man you probably haven’t seen in more than 10 years.  

“Sure dad, I’m sure if i see him I’ll know”

Amanda laughs off your patronizing attempt

“Well anyway, he’s got one final haul tonight but I promised him some tools he’ll need for the furniture including his bed for the night and I figured you’d be out with Amanda tonight anyhow, you mind if he picks you up from the bar on his way home and you can just let im into the garage, he’ll know where everything is”

“A free ride home? Hell yeah we’ll take it”

“Great sweetie, I’ll text him your number, let him know where you’ll be, he says he should be comin through around 2 am”

“Okay dad, will do, love you bye!”

“Love you too kiddo, have a good night”

“Nicee we can go all out on booze now, well with a bodyguard coming round and all” 

“Yeah Ames the first encounter I wanna have with an old friend of my dads is being wasted”

“Won’t be the first time” she says with a coy smile

“Oh shush. Come on let’s head out before our booth is taken”

“Alright alright, you text Joel, I’ll call an uber”

You quickly save the number your dad sent you and write a quick message.

Hey! My dad sent me this number, I’ll be at Frank’s with a friend, shoot me a text when you’re out front! 

You sign off the text with your name and pile up in the uber with Amanda for the 20 minute drive to the bar.

“Sam, two buds!!” you yell as soon as you enter the bar

“Damn it our booth is taken. Guess we’ll sit at the bar.” Amanda concludes

“It’s cool, I wanted to talk to Sam anyway, heard he’s dating someone new”

“No way!”

Amanda all but runs up and jumps up a stool on the bar, excitedly greeting your friend. You slowly follow behind checking out the people that are seating in your usual booth. You can tell they’re from out of town, a group of men wearing black and cargo, being loud as hell and drinking - Miller Lites- of course. You scoff and one of them seems to shoot a look your way. You’re not interested enough nor stupid enough to cause a scene with a group of men looking like that, so you just move along and take your place next to Amanda.

“Here you go ladies” Sam sets down two beers and two shots in front of you

“Sooo? Who is it?” Ames asks

“Who’s what?” Sam asks nonchalantly while drying some glasses. At this point he’s a little too used to Amanda’s dramatic antics of a conversation.

“Who’s the guy Sam, the grapevine says you're seeing someone” she looks at him with a smile.

Sam lifts up his head and looks over to you right as you take a shot.

“And is the grapevine the nosy Texan girl in front of me that can’t phantom keeping a secret”

You look between the two of them with an awkward smile.

“Hey I can keep a secret! I just have to tell Ames, rules of marriage and all that”

“Rules of marriage?”

“Yeah totally, when you’ve been friends for over 20 twenty years, you’re basically married so she has to tell me” Amanda says looking doe eyed over to Sam

“Why do I even bother” he sighs

“You remember Frank’s nephew? You met him over Christmas”

“Oh yeah yeah I do”

“Well the real reason he came was because he was checking out the place to move here. He came back during spring, truck filled to the brim with his shit and moved in with Frank until he could find a place of his own. I was showing him around town and one night he- well we realized maybe we wanna be more than friends”

“Oh my god! I could totally see it! You two seem like a good match”

“Yeah, I’d like to think so” Sam snickers

“Anyway ladies, enjoy your night, I gotta help with some keg deliveries. Find me before you leave!”

“You got it Sam” 

Both you and Amanda lift a beer up to cheer on Sam as he leaves. 

Amanda quickly turns to you.

“Alright, what’s the objective tonight?”

“The objective?”

“Yes. I have taken it upon myself to find your soulmate. Well at least one for the summer”

“Oh Ames I already told you I’m not looking to meet anyone”

“Yeah and it’s the same story I've heard all throughout college. Look it's not about meeting anyone, just have some fun, you have a house to yourself and a pool and it’s just wrong that we’re the only ones using it”

You roll your eyes at her comment and yet unfortunately she’s right. You don’t know if it’s the countless rom-coms you watched but you weren’t interested in putting yourself out there as much. You didn’t want to go through situationships or talking phases, you wanted a meet-cute and a love story. Maybe it was time to face the reality of having to actually go on first dates and go through awkward encounters if you didn’t want to spend your life alone. Maybe you would try it out just for one night. How bad could it go?

“Okay fine”

“What?”

“Fine, find me my summer soulmate”

“Ahhh! Oh my god! Okay!”

“Okay Ames maybe calm down a bit first”

“Oh you are not taking this away from me. That group of guys at the booth? They’ve been eyeing you since you walked in. Maybe not soulmate material but definitely good for a fun night”

“Alright let’s go”

You and Amanda go over to the group of guys and introduce yourself. You spend some time talking and they buy you drinks. Soon it’s really clear which two guys are interested in you and Amy as the rest have gone to play pool. It’s just the four of you in the booth now.

“Soo what brings you guys to town” Amanda asks

“Oh just passin through, headin to a bike meet in a couple days near here” the guy next to her, Alex or Axel or something similar answers. 

“Oh cool, what do you ride?” you ask 

“I got a Harley myself, a Roadster a little over 1000CCs” Mark, the guy next to you answers

“Oh nice, I’m trying to fix up an old Triumph” you answer

“You ride?”

“Not much. Back when my uncle was around I had some fun taking his Royal out for a spin but ever since then I’ve just been fixing up the Triumph”

Mark snarks, and you can’t help but notice the condescending eye-roll that comes with it. 

“Bet you’d have more fun riding me” he whispers to you. 

You look over to Amanda but she’s clearly deep in conversation with Axel and she seems to be having a good time. Not wanting to ruin her night, you decide to excuse yourself to the bathroom.

Mark makes another inappropriate comment and you don’t take a second longer to head to the ladies room. 

As you leave the bathroom you make the decision to head to the bar instead, hoping Mark will get bored or at least get the hint, and go play pool with his friends.

“Scotch on the rocks” you tell the bartender as you sit down on a stool furthest away from the booth but still within sight to keep an eye on Amanda.

“Thanks” you smile at the bartender as he gives you a drink

A couple of minutes pass and you zone out looking at the beautiful illumitaing golden-brown color of your drink which for some reason you can’t quite pin-point sparks a nostalgic feeling within you. To you’re demise, you don’t get to enjoy the feeling for long.

 “Where’d you go off to” Mark puts a hand on your back and you all but jump out of your seat

”Oh hey. Sorry I just saw this wasn’t really working out so I thought I’d skip the awkwardness”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” he starts sliding the hand lower on you back and now you really do jump out the stool.

“Listen, I’m not interested,  just leave me alone please” 

He gets closer to you, making you hit the bar with your back.

“And I thought we were havin’ a grand ol- time, how bout you come up to my motel and see how fun i can really be”

You try to deter him by putting a stool between the two of you but his quick to push it away.

“Just- stop- I don’t wanna do this Mark please leave me alone”

As he leans in closer you move your face away flinching and closing your eyes, hoping he just leaves.

“And I don’t wanna deal with some bitch that’s-” 

You hear a thud and as you open your eyes Mark is gone. It takes you a few seconds to locate him down on the floor covering his face. In a moment of confusion, someone gently grabs your shoulder and you flinch away and have to steady yourself on the barstool. Until you hear your name said in the most soothing Texan twang’

“Hey darlin’- sorry about that didn’t mean to scare ya’, you okay?”

You’re still in a bit of shock but you manage to sound out a timid yes.

“Alright, here gimme your hand, step around ‘im” 

It seems natural, and safe to follow his directions, like you’ve trusted him your whole life. So you step over Mark, who seems to be bleeding and cursing while swaying back and forth on the ground. After you get behind him, he calls over to someone, a muscular guy- security probably, they exchange a few seconds of conversation and the guy lifts Mark off the floor and carries him out the bar.

“Here darlin’ sit down for a second. A water please” he takes out a stool for you to sit on and gives you the glass filled with clear liquid.

“You okay?” he asks, sitting beside you after you’ve had a sip of the water.

“Yeah yeah just a pent-up creep, thank you tho- I mean you didn’t have to I’m sure that…- just thanks ” you give an awkward smile, feeling your words leave your mouth at the same pace your heart is beating and not being able to stop either. 

“No need to thank me I’m- ” 

The adrenaline wears off before he gets to finish the sentence and you slam down the glass on the bar once again getting a frightened look on your face as you interrupt him.

“Wait- How- how’d you know my name?”

He looks at you and smirks before saying your name again, more so in a questioning tone.

“I’m Joel darlin’- shit sorry your dad said you’d recognize me. He sent me a picture of you, said you never keep your phone charged so I should just head in here to find you if you don’t answer my call”

The tension leaves your body again and you sink into the cushion of the bar stool.

“Oh fuck- sorry i didn’t know, did i miss your text? I swear I checked my phone just now I-”

“No no don’t worry sweetheart, i just came in to town a lot earlier than expected, figured i’d sit down for a drink didn’t wanna disturb your night too much kid”

“Disturb my night? Joel you’re givin’ us a free ride back at 2am, i think it’s the other way around”

“Us?”

“Oh shit- Amanda, my friend, she was with a friend of that guy, I gotta go find her”

“Come on let’s go ”

...

[lemon-world1]

It’s not much, but I’m really glad you like it. Hope you’ll get some rest soon! You deserve it 🖤

I slept soooooooo bad and all I want is an angsty Neighbor!Frank moment but I'm too tired to write it 😭😭😭

Ok here's the laziest half-thoughts I can muster:

Neighbor!Frank's hug would heal me. Maybe he doesn't know what's bothering you and he's got no clue that your anxiety is through the roof but he knows you need a hug and he'd just hold you to his chest, his hand on the back of your head, holding you longer than you realized you needed until he finally felt your shoulders drop and your breathing match his.

He'd absolutely come up with some mindless, innocuous task that he "needed your help with" that was really just a ploy to get your brain engaged in something easy that took your mind off your anxiety. Like, sorting something for him. He'd be putting on such a show about how he needed your help and acting like he couldn't do it on his own. It also keeps you in his apartment most of the day and he preferred to have you close on days like that.

He'd be so on top of meals for the day, either inviting you over or knocking on your door with leftovers like "yeah ordered too much sweetheart, you'd be doin' me a favor if you ate some," cuz he knew you'd be too damn tired to cook and too anxious to care.

[lemon-world1]

Okay, I know you didn’t ask for this but…

I feel you. Haven’t been sleeping much, I’ve been working my butt off, also been dealing with a loss of a family member and I am just so exhausted..

But you gave me an idea, I hope you’ll like this “little something”. Take it as a thank you for every request you write for us 😊 😇

_______

You were dragging yourself up the stairs, laundry basket in hand, when Frank caught you just as he was heading out.

You greet him, half-exhausted, barely looking at him. That’s when he steps in front of you.

“Hey, sweetheart. You alright? You’ve been lookin’ kinda off lately.” He doesn't wait for a response—just takes your laundry like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh, it’s nothin’. Just tired,” you try to brush him off.

But Frank? He doesn’t let things go that easy.

“Somethin’ happen? You know you can talk to me, right?” His voice is low and rough, like gravel, but it’s his eyes that get you.

“I’m okay,” you mumble, voice shaky, the lie barely holding together. You avoid his eyes, fumbling with the keys as you unlock your door. He can tell you’re not convincing anyone—not even yourself.

You expect him to hand you the basket and leave it at that, but instead, he steps inside, following you like he always does when he knows something's up.

He sets the laundry next to the couch and moves closer to you. His rough hand cups your cheek, thumb gently brushing over your temple, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Come ‘ere,” he murmurs, pulling you into his strong, warm embrace. “You don’t need to explain nothin’. You just gotta slow down a bit, sweetheart.”

You want to talk. God, you want to unload everything—every frustration, every sleepless night, all the weight on your shoulders. But you don’t know where to start. It’s not just one thing; it’s everything. All piling up, exploding in your face, and you’re left cleaning up the pieces, pretending you’re fine. But you’re not. You know it. And now, so does he.

The tears hit before you can stop them, quiet sobs shaking you as Frank holds you tighter. He should’ve stepped in sooner, he knows that now. He gave you space, thinking you needed it. But maybe what you needed was him.

“Shh, it’s okay, babygirl,” he whispers, pulling you even closer as your sobs grow louder. His arms support your weight, grounding you. “I know it’s tough, but you gotta find some time for yourself. I’m here. You know I got you.”

His words calm something deep inside you. The truth is, you would've turned to him a lot sooner if you weren’t so used to dealing with everything on your own. Always acting like you can carry the weight of the world.

But with Frank? You don’t have to. Not when he’s right here, ready to help you pick up the pieces.

I slept soooooooo bad and all I want is an angsty Neighbor!Frank moment but I'm too tired to write it 😭😭😭

Ok here's the laziest half-thoughts I can muster:

Neighbor!Frank's hug would heal me. Maybe he doesn't know what's bothering you and he's got no clue that your anxiety is through the roof but he knows you need a hug and he'd just hold you to his chest, his hand on the back of your head, holding you longer than you realized you needed until he finally felt your shoulders drop and your breathing match his.

He'd absolutely come up with some mindless, innocuous task that he "needed your help with" that was really just a ploy to get your brain engaged in something easy that took your mind off your anxiety. Like, sorting something for him. He'd be putting on such a show about how he needed your help and acting like he couldn't do it on his own. It also keeps you in his apartment most of the day and he preferred to have you close on days like that.

He'd be so on top of meals for the day, either inviting you over or knocking on your door with leftovers like "yeah ordered too much sweetheart, you'd be doin' me a favor if you ate some," cuz he knew you'd be too damn tired to cook and too anxious to care.

[lemon-world1]

Now this is the hospital scene we all deserve 😭🥹🖤

promotion

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

summary: you and frank have to deal with the aftermath of his decision.

warnings: swearing, lots of angst, a lil surprise at the end ;)

word count: 4.6k

a/n: I can't believe that this is the second to last chapter of this series. pls excuse me while I go cry. as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

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The last time you stepped foot in a hospital had been when your mom passed. When you walked that familiar path to her room that day, you hadn’t known then it would be the last time. You knew her fate was inevitable, and that it was coming, but you thought you had more time with her. You thought you would at least get a chance to say goodbye, but that final moment of closure had been stolen from you, just like the time you were supposed to have with her. 

That had been one of the worst days of your life, and now you were anxiously awaiting to find out if you were about to have your second, because Frank had been in a coma for the past forty eight hours and you had no idea if you were out of time with him too.

“You alright?”

In the midst of your brain cycling through the worst possible outcomes like some kind of fucked up lottery, you hadn’t heard the rhythmic tapping of a cane against the cold sterile floor. Lifting your head to the sound of the familiar voice, you just stared up at Matt for a moment. The red tinted sunglasses hid his sightless eyes, but there was a fresh bruise blooming on his left cheekbone. Knowing the shape Frank was in, you wondered how many of Matt’s injuries were hidden beneath his clothes.

“You want my honest answer, or you want me to lie to you?”

A wry smile tugged at the edge of his mouth.

“I’d know if you did.”

A faint furrow formed between your brows at that admission, and then a soft snort of disbelief left you as you shook your head and rubbed your hands tiredly down your face.

“Is that your secret to being a really good lawyer? Being a human lie detector?”

Matt shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, anxiously tightening his grip on his cane with both of his hands. His tongue darted out to wet his lips and he cocked his head slightly to the side.

“Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

After hesitating for a moment, Matt folded up his cane and took the empty seat next to you where you were waiting outside Frank’s hospital room. He leaned in a little closer, dropping the volume of his voice.

“How…how did you-”

“You have a very distinct voice, you know.”

Matt’s lips parted for a second as if to speak, and then he closed them a moment later. A dry chuckle suddenly sounded in his chest and his lips spread into an amused smile, causing faint dimples to appear within the dark grown out stubble covering his cheeks. 

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or concerned.”

“Why would you be concerned?”

“Because you know who I am now.”

Even though Matt wasn’t outright voicing his worry, you could hear it in the undertone of his voice. He must have been aware that you had written articles about the infamous Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, and now you knew the name of the man behind the horns. Letting out a deep exhale through your nose, you reached over and placed your hand on top of his, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Yeah, I do. You’re my lawyer. You helped put my ex in prison for life after he almost got me killed. And, you’re also my friend, who just happens to have a…interesting choice in night time hobbies.”

Matt arched one of his dark brows, a hint of humor in his smooth voice.

“I don’t know if I’d call it a hobby. Hobbies are usually fun.”

“Matt, you helped save my life, and his.”

Matt was quiet for a moment before he turned his hand beneath yours, palm side up, and curled his fingers around the back of your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze when he spoke.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

 A soft smirk gently graced the edge of lips as he nudged your shoulder with his own.

“You know, I’ve never had to work so hard to save two people in my life. Most people aren’t so stubborn and have at least some sense of self-preservation.”

“Okay, surely I wasn’t as bad as him-”

“Pretty close.”

Pressing your lips together, you rolled your eyes which earned a laugh from Matt, and he gave your hand another faint squeeze. After a comfortable silence fell over the two of you, he turned his head in your direction.

“You’re not gonna ask?”

“Ask what?”

Matt shifted in the chair and turned his body towards you, tilting his head to the side slightly when he heard the evident confusion in your voice.

“About me.”

Arching one of your brows in silent questioning, you looked at Matt curiously, and his own confusion was written clearly all over his face.

“I mean, everyone that’s found out has a lot of questions. You know, how does a blind man-”

“Matt, aliens came out of the sky and nearly destroyed New York. A giant purple asshole wiped out half the universe with a snap of his shiny rhinestoned glove, and then all those people magically came back five years later. Luke Cage has bulletproof skin. Jessica Jones is super strong. Thor is a literal norse god, Bruce Banner turns into a really big green guy, and according to Homeland Security, my boyfriend is a former homicidal maniac that is technically dead. No offense, but you being Daredevil is kind of low on my list of weird shit I have questions about.”

Matt was silent for a solid minute before a burst of laughter bubbled up and erupted from his chest. His lips spread into a wide tooth bearing grin, both of his dimples now deeply indented into his cheeks.

“Well, when you put it like that.”

Letting out a soft laugh of your own, you shook your head faintly. Matt opened his mouth to say something and then abruptly paused, turning his head towards the wall behind the both of you, his dark brows knit together. Your eyes flickered between the wall and the look of concentration on Matt’s face.

“What is it?”

“He’s awake.”

Matt barely finished his sentence before you let go of his hand and shot up out of your chair, rushing over to push open the door of Frank’s hospital room and step inside. Your heart was pounding in your ears and your hands were trembling watching Frank slowly regain consciousness, a soft pinch forming between his dark brows as he inhaled deeply through his large broken nose.

When his eyes finally fluttered open, you were already at his side. He blinked slowly a few times, faintly squinting as his eyes adjusted to the artificial light after being unconscious for two days. He glanced around the room in a state of hazy disorientation, but when his eyes eventually met yours, that blurry perplexity swiftly sharpened into clarity. For a minute, the two of you just silently stared at one another.

It was hard to see Frank like this, lying in a hospital bed, battered and broken. There were even more cuts and bruises he’d sustained after leaving you in that hallway. But even with the deep blooms of fresh bruises and the dark angry wounds that had begun to clot and heal on his face, he still looked every bit like the man you had fallen in love with.

Frank’s face was just as blank as it had been for the past two days while he was out. For a second you were worried that he had sustained some kind of head trauma the doctors had missed and that he was currently suffering from some form of amnesia, but you could see recognition in his eyes when he looked at you. He just wasn’t talking. You didn’t know if he was waiting for you to speak first or if he just didn’t know what to say after the way he’d left you, but you didn’t waste another second before firing off.

“Dinah told me about the deal you made with her. Were you ever gonna tell me?”

You didn’t bother trying to hide the anger on your face, or disguise it in your voice. For the past two days all you had been able to think about was the fact that Frank had told you he loved you and then left you behind, seemingly without intending to make it out of that situation with Billy alive. He had told you goodbye in that moment, and you had been too overwhelmed to realize it.

But when the shock faded, you were furious. 

The expression on Frank’s face was still unreadable, and the longer he went without speaking, the angrier you got. He stared at you for a moment before his gruff voice broke the tense silence.

“Yeah.”

“They found Schoonover and Rawlins both dead. Was that you?”

“Yeah.”

There wasn’t even a hint of remorse in his voice when he confirmed that he’d murdered two of his former superiors. It was firm and unwavering. Frank didn’t attempt to lie to you or defend his actions. He was completely unapologetic about it, just like he had been when he’d killed Cavella and Walker. Forty-eight hours ago, he’d wiped out Billy’s entire team like they were nothing, and there was no trace of guilt over it in his eyes.

You were still trying to reconcile the two versions of Frank in your head; the one you knew, and the one currently in front of you. The image of him in that bulletproof vest with the bloodied skull on his chest was seared into your memory.

“Why didn’t you kill Billy?”

Frank could hear the faintest of a waver in your voice, a break of raw emotion in your audible frustration and confusion. He turned his head to stare out the window on his left, though he didn’t appear to actually be looking at anything. There was a far away look in his eyes, but his face was as hard and cold as his rough voice.

“Dyin’s easy. He has to live with what he’s done.”

Letting out a dry scoff, you look a step closer towards Frank’s bed as your brows furrowed in disbelief.

“You think he’ll feel an ounce of remorse now?”

“I don't give a shit if he feels bad.”

Frank turned his head to look at you, displaying that familiar broody expression that you currently wanted to smack off of his face. He was looking at you like you’d just asked the most ridiculous question in the world.

“Every day he’s gonna look at that ugly, mangled face, and he’s gonna remember what he did. He’s gonna remember me. He's gonna spend the rest of his life rottin’ in a goddamn cell, knowin’ I put him there. Knowin’ that he had everything, and now he’s got nothin’-that he is nothin’. For him, that’s worse than dyin’.”

Revenge didn’t dull the sharp edge of Frank’s hatred for Billy, and it didn’t ease the grievance of his loss. If anything, it just seemed to rip open that wound even wider that had never really healed in the first place since that tragic day in Central Park. Getting vengeance on the three people who were the sole facilitators of his family’s murder didn’t bring Frank peace any more than wiping out all those men years ago did. Billy’s betrayal had twisted that knife further, cut Frank deeper, and you were afraid that it would never have a chance of healing now.

“Frank-”

“You uh…you should go.”

Those words were like a bucket of ice water being dumped onto your head, sobering your heartache and frustration. Frank wasn’t looking at you, and you couldn’t look at anything other than him. 

“What?”

The shock and disbelief rang clear in your breathless whisper, sounding as if the very wind had been knocked right out of your lungs, and it cut Frank to his core. He couldn’t look at you. He couldn’t see the hurt and perplexity on your face. He kept his gaze averted towards the window, a muscle feathering in his clenched bruised jaw.

“That deal I made with Madani, it’s over. She ain’t a miracle worker. She got me a second shot, she can’t get me a third one. And I don’t want it.”

“Frank-”

“You gotta walk away, Y/N. You gotta walk away, alright. You can’t…I’m not…you’re better off, alright. You’re just…you’re better off.”

“Don’t say that-”

“I am not the man you think I am, alright? I’m not. I…I’m just…”

Frank closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, and his large hands gripped the blanket so tightly that the bruises and cuts on his knuckles paled and went stark white. He muttered incoherently under his breath, letting out a shaky exhale, and when he opened his eyes they were blurry with loss and pain.

“I was done. I was…I was, I told Maria. I’d just gotten home the night before, and I woke up the next mornin’ and I was just…it hit me, ya’know? It was just time, ya’know? I wanted…I was done, I wanted to be with them. It’s where I shoulda been the whole time, ya’know? It just…I saw her face, and it hit me, and I just knew. I wasn’t goin’ back. And the kids, ya’know, I was…I was gonna tell ‘em that day. Tell ‘em that daddy wasn’t leavin’ anymore, that he was…he was stayin’.”

Frank’s tear filled eyes were darting back and forth as he stared off towards the window, his bruised and beaten face contorted in grief and guilt. The raw agony cracking in his quiet voice and the sound of him struggling to suck in a breath had you reaching out to grip onto his hand as heartbroken tears slipped down your own face. Seeing the tears slip down his face when Billy confessed to being involved in his family’s murder had gutted you, but seeing Frank cry like this…you could physically feel it breaking your heart.

“That day we went to the park, ya’know the kids, they were too old for that stupid carousel, but they just laughed and laughed and…ya’know they were smilin’ and so happy. And I was…I was too, ya’know. I was home, I was…I was with them, and I was stayin’, but I…I didn’t get to tell ‘em. And it’s my fault they’re gone. It was…it was my bullshit. I got them killed, and I nearly got you killed and I can’t…I can’t do that again, Y/N, I can’t.”

Out of all the things you were expecting Frank to say when he finally woke up, this wasn’t it. This was not how you’d imagined this conversation going. Your heart ached seeing Frank so distraught and hearing the pure anguish in his voice. You couldn’t even begin to imagine the weight of his trauma or the sting of that suffering, and you knew why he was afraid, but this couldn’t be it. It just couldn’t. Not after everything you had been through together.

When he started to push you away for a second time, something within you snapped, and it set your bloodstream ablaze.

“No.”

“Y/N-”

“No.”

Frank snapped his head up in your direction when you yelled at him. You’d lost your temper with him before, but not like this. The sheer force behind your voice and the fire burning in your eyes caught him off guard. 

“You don’t get to do that.”

Hearing the accusation in your tone, the melancholy lingering along his bottom lash line faded and his face shifted into an expression of crestfallen puzzlement. 

“You don’t get to tell me that you love me and then push me away.”

Frank’s dark brows knit together suddenly, frustration creasing along his forehead as he looked up at you and spoke in a defensive tone.

“Hey, I do love you. That’s why I’m pushin’ you away, don’t you get that? I’m not draggin’ you down with me-”

“Oh so I don't get a say in this anymore? That’s it? You’re just giving up?”

“I’m doin’ what’s best for you-”

“That’s bullshit!”

Frank watched as you let out a dry and incredulous short laugh void of any humor. His brown eyes tracked you as you walked towards the end of his hospital bed, furiously pacing and stressfully running your hands through your hair. He let out a deep exhale through his large broken nose and shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment as his face twisted up in anguish. 

“Oh c’mon Y/N. Look I know you, alright? I know that you’re brave and you’re smart and you’re strong, but you are so goddamn stubborn and I cannot let you throw everything away for me.”

“So it's okay for you to risk everything, but not me?”

Frank’s features were contorted in exasperation tinged with frustration when he finally looked at you, and your own features were a convoluted tangle of irritation, despair, and treachery.

“C’mon, don’t do that, alright? It is not the same thing-”

“You’re not even gonna try-”

“You know what I am now, alright? You know what I did.”

The hardened edge to Frank’s rough voice caused any rebuttal to lodge in your throat. He was making you face it. That complicated truth you’d been wrestling with and trying to hide from, he was shining a light right on it and shoving it right in your face without mercy.

“I did it. I murdered all those people. That’s my life, that’s my world, and that’s what I do. You really wanna be a part of that?”

The familiar sting of saltwater started to burn in your weary eyes. Frank’s aggressive demeanor visibly softened seeing the glossy evidence of how he’d upset you. He was being a relentless asshole, and he knew it, but he thought it was for the best. The further away you were from him, the safer you were. 

When you turned away from him, it tore through the remaining thin strings keeping Frank’s heart together. A faint sheen glimmered in his own eyes as he looked at the back of your head, and a devastating silence fell over the room. This time when he spoke, his voice came out quieter and much more gentle as he tried to reason with you.

“C’mon sweetheart, you…you know who I am-”

“I know you’re the man that’s saved my life more times than I can count.”

Turning back around, you looked at Frank with a heavy wave of tears threatening to spill over your lash line at any moment.

“And you’re the only person that I've ever been able to depend on, besides myself.”

There was a pleading look in Frank’s warm glossy brown eyes when he whispered your name, but you couldn’t stop.

“I know you’re the only person that’s ever taken the time to truly understand me. You listen to me. You support me and encourage me. You actually read my work. You put up with my shitty mood swings. You’re patient with me, even when I don’t deserve it. You remember things that I tell you. You make me laugh as much as you make me wanna rip my hair out. You frustrate me more than any person I have ever met in my entire life, and you push buttons that I didn't even know I had, but I have never felt happier than I do when I’m with you.”

Letting a few stray tears fall, you walked slowly around the edge of Frank’s bed, coming to stand by his side as you looked down into his warm brown eyes. 

“I told you months ago, I’m safer with you. I meant it then, and I still mean it now. Okay everything…everything that’s happened…who you were…it doesn’t matter, okay? It doesn’t change anything, not for me. It doesn’t change how I see you or how I feel about you. Okay, it doesn’t change the fact that I-”

Your breath caught in your throat as the words that had been buried in your chest clawed their way to the surface. You had known since that day at the cabin. Deep down, a part of you had always known. In the midst of waiting for the perfect moment to finally say those words, and hiding from them in fear of saying them out loud, you almost didn’t get the chance to. For the last forty-eight hours, you’d been haunted by your own mistake. 

You knew better. You knew time was too precious. You never got to tell your mom you loved her one last time, and you’d been so paralyzed by your own apprehension, you almost never got to tell Frank at all. You swore to yourself that if he woke up, if you got the chance, you weren’t going to waste it. 

“-that I love you.”

Sometimes when Frank looked at you, it felt like he could see right into your soul, and at this very moment you wanted that to be true, because you desperately wanted him to know that’s where these words were coming from. You wanted him to feel it. 

Frank swallowed thickly when he heard the crack in your voice, the irrevocable emotion in it,  saying those words he didn’t think he deserved to hear. For a moment he was speechless, and all he could do was stare into your teary gaze. 

Finally speaking the words that had been lingering in your heart for so long felt like a weight being lifted off your chest. You had been terrified that you would never get to say it back, that Frank would never know just how much you loved him. Now, you weren’t going to let him forget it. You weren’t going to let him push you away because of how he felt about himself. You weren’t going to let his past, or anything else, come between you. Not after all this time and everything the two of you had gone through just to get here.

When he opened his mouth to speak, you shook your head and cut him off.

“No. I don’t want to hear any more of this shit about walking away, because that’s not fucking happening. We’re gonna figure this out, and we’re gonna do it together. Do you understand me?”

Frank’s face fell slightly as he looked up at you, giving a subtle shake of his head with an apologetic look shining in his soft brown eyes.

“Sweetheart…there ain’t no warm, cozy ending. Not for me. Alright, when it gets out-”

“Do you really think Homeland Security is going to let it leak that they were involved in a cover up for the Punisher?”

Frank lightly clenched his jaw as he looked up at you, his eyes flickering over your face. That name had never bothered him when the media gave it to him, or when anyone else referred to him by it, but hearing it from you made his stomach twist with shame.

“Dinah doesn’t need to perform any miracles because not a single fucking person in that department is going to hang themselves out to dry like that. Homeland already has their story about what happened, and none of Billy's men are alive to contest it.”

“There’s Bill.”

“You cracked his head like a goddamn egg and his jaw is wired shut. Even when he heals, with they evidence they found on him, no one is going to listen to a fucking thing that comes out of his mouth. And Dinah is making it her personal mission from God to convict him with as many life sentences as New York will legally allow. So what’s your next excuse?”

Frank arched one of his dark brows at your snappy tone, noticing that the sadness that had previously been lingering on your face completely transitioned into a familiar expression of firm stubbornness he was used to seeing in you. His eyes dropped down to take in the way you’d placed your hands on your hips, a stance of yours he’d come to associate with defiance and rebellion. Flickering his gaze up to meet your challenging stare, amusement faintly crinkled around his eyes. 

“Guess you got it all figured out, huh?”

“You were unconscious for two days.”

Frank let out of a puff of air past his lips at your deadpan response. Glancing away for a moment, he slowly shook his head before looking back up at you, his warm brown eyes roving over your figure. Cocking his head to the side, his tongue darted out to wet his lips as the ghost of a smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth.

“Ya’know, you’re kinda scary when you’re all pissed off. Sexy, but scary as hell. Anybody ever tell ya that?”

“If you think I'm scary, you should see my boyfriend.”

Frank straightened up a little as he looked at you, his warm brown eyes searching your gaze deeply. After a moment, he dropped his head to look down at the gray thin blanket covering his lower half, brushing his thumb over the clear plastic tube connected to the I.V. in his arm.

“You’re still lettin’ me keep that title, huh?”

Frank’s voice was quiet when he spoke, almost hesitant. Crossing your arms over your chest, you turned your head for a moment as you looked around the hospital room, dragging your teeth along your bottom lip before looking back down at him with a faint shrug of your shoulders.

“I can always demote you back to bodyguard, but I'm not paying you.”

Frank let out a deep chuckle, faint crinkles appearing around his eyes as he gave a subtle shake of his head.

“Nah, I don't want that.”

Lifting his head to look up at you again, his warm brown eyes flickered over your face. He slowly reached out to grab your arm and gave it a gentle tug, prompting you to uncross your arms. His warm calloused hand gradually caressed your arm from your elbow down to your wrist, taking your hand to hold gently, but tightly, like he needed your touch to ground himself in this moment, and to anchor himself to the idea that you still wanted him.

He couldn’t wrap his head around it, and you could see a flicker of hesitation in his concentrated gaze as he stared down at your hand, brushing his thumb along the back of it. Letting out a soft exhale through your nose, you gave his hand a faint squeeze of reassurance, and you opened your mouth to speak, but abruptly paused when you saw Frank slip his free hand down beneath the collar of his hospital gown. His hand was in a loose fist when he pulled it back out, slipping the chain from around his neck and over his head. When he opened his palm, he stared down at the gold wedding band silently.

A soft crease of confusion nestled between your brows when he let go of your hand, but before you could say anything, he reached for your left hand and pulled it towards his chest. A sharp gasp caught in your throat when Frank slowly slipped the golden band onto your ring finger, brushing his thumb over it gently. It was entirely too large for your finger, but Frank grasped your hand in his gently so the ring wouldn’t slip off. 

Lifting his head to meet your stunned expression, there was a softness in his warm brown eyes and a nervous smile on his lips as he lightly squeezed your hand. He guided your palm to rest on his chest over his heart and covered it with his other hand.

“Think I’d like a promotion better.”

tags: @thyme-in-a-bubble @day-dreaming-goddess @messymissy @itwasthereaminuteago @strawberry1042 @queenofthenoobs @wanda2themax @xcastawayherosx @avengerstower-houseplant @stevenknightmarc @ponyosmom35 @babygal-babygal @wellwwhynot @oldermenaremyreligion @combustiblemeow @tired-night-owl @fairykiss32 @danzer8705 @calkissed @fxckahs-blog @lemon-world1 @polskiperson @imperihoe @v4leoftears @harperdoodle @spideyvibez @joalslibrary @cherry-berry-ollie @sorrowfulfragmentation @kdogreads @sumo-b98 @blackhawksfanatic @gloryekaterina @whistle1whistle @starbritestarlite @callmebrooklynbabes @hallway5 @scarletfvckingwitch @bifuriouslatina @soupyspence @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @wonwoosthetic @linguist-breakaribecca @nerdytreeflower @mrs-bellingham @smhnxdiii @s3riou2 @slavic-empress

[lemon-world1]

🥹 oh boy

SAHD!Frank Castle Headcanons

I picture Frank being an amazing, hands-on father if he ever managed to fall back into that role again and I just think he'd make such a wonderful stay-at-home-dad. I couldn't resist sharing some of my SAHD!Frank headcanons so they're below the cut! And I'm also just going to make him a girl dad here because he absolutely is in my mind.

I could also certainly be persuaded to share some girl dad!Frank Castle headcanons...

With the ridiculous cost of daycare, you and Frank would eventually come to the conclusion that it was just more cost effective to have one of you stay home with the girls. And while you might be tempted to do it yourself, you'd also know how much Frank would cherish being present for every moment with his kids. He'd never want to miss a single thing after the tragic loss he'd experienced, and you'd have already seen his steadfast devotion during your pregnancy. While he would argue that you should be the one to stay home with them, eventually you would win out.

On weekdays, Frank would be awake early every morning--possibly even before your alarm went off. He'd always have a mug of hot coffee or tea made for you whenever you finally stepped foot into the kitchen. And when you did, you'd find him preparing breakfast for the girls. He'd always make you up a plate of whatever he cooked, insisting you eat something before you were out the door for work ("You gotta eat, baby. Just a few bites, c'mon."). And Wednesdays would forever be known as pancake day in your house.

Frank would never run out of activities to do with the kids, even if you found some of them to be very 'Frank.' He'd have them help him build things (a new bookshelf, a baby crib, a birdhouse, etc), and he'd teach them what tools to use while he's at it. He'd have them assist him with changing the oil in the car, fixing a leaky sink, or preparing vegetables in the kitchen for dinner (with child-safe knives that he always complained to you later about how "they can't cut for shit."). When playfully teased about the things he teaches them, he'd tell you he wanted your girls to learn "the real shit they won't get from school."

Every Friday is Library Day in the Castle house. Frank would take the girls to the library in the morning for story time where he would sit back and watch with a big grin on his face as his girls sat "criss-cross applesauce" among all the other kids and listened to the books with rapt attention. Aftwerwards, he'd let them pick out new books for bedtime for the upcoming week. Then he would always make the morning extra special by taking the girls out for brunch.

He loves nothing more than to free up more time for all of you to spend together as a family on the weekend, so he would be the dad running errands during the weekdays with a toddler holding each of his hands (or a baby strapped to his chest in a carrier). He'd be out grabbing groceries, hitting up the hardware/home improvement store so he could work on projects around the house, or he'd be taking the kids to their doctor/dentist appointments so you wouldn't have to think about it later.

Frank would be the cool dad at all the parks, the one not afraid to play with his kids and push them on the swings. He'd be making small talk with the other moms and setting up play dates for his girls. He'd also be the one all the other kids flocked to on the playground whenever he was there because he was known to easily be persuaded into playing hide and seek or tag.

A few times throughout the month, Frank would stop by your work just before your lunch break to drop off food with the girls as an excuse to see you ("Had to come see my favorite girl. Wanted to make sure you're not workin' too hard."). You always loved it even more on the random occasions that your lunch came with a bouquet of flowers--either store bought or freshly picked on a walk by him and your girls.

If Frank knew you had a big presentation coming up or that you were just having a rough week/day, you could always count on coming home to something he made with the girls--pictures they colored or crafts they made--to cheer you up ("S'posed to be a butterfly ring or something. Shit, I don't know. Girls wanted to do somethin' with pipe cleaners. Blame YouTube.")

At the end of a long work day, you'd come home to see that dinner was almost finished cooking most nights. You'd either find Frank out back with a beer in one hand grilling while the girls were playing in the yard, or he would be in the kitchen surrounded by high-pitched laughter.

And when you came home from a long day of work, you could always count on Frank greeting you with the biggest smile. He'd wrap you up in his big arms and give you the sweetest kiss, even if he had to pause cooking dinner ("Missed you today, sweetheart. Hope you're hungry."). It would be the thing you looked forward to most at the end of every day, especially on particularly difficult days.

[lemon-world1]

To be Known (To be Loved)

Frank Castle x f!reader

WC: 2500

Warnings: mentions of blood/gun violence, so much fluff & domestic bliss

Author’s note: so what if I want him to settle down and have a soft life and dote on his girl, don’t worry about it!!

It’s not that you were clumsy or lacked focus. That was the opposite of true. Nobody had an eye for detail like you. That’s what landed you your job as a crime scene analyst. The FBI even contracted you out from time to time when they did jobs in the city. They did today, actually. And though you had been doing this for years, sometimes it still made your stomach churn. And traffic was a bitch coming home, and you forgot to take the ground beef out of the freezer so you were trying to scrape some kind of meal together, chopping what was left of an onion with a too dull knife, and your hand slipped.

It wasn’t too deep, just a perfect slice into the tip of your pointer finger. It stung in the cold stream of the sink you were quick to plunge it under, your eyes already watering from the bruised onion you had been attempting to dice.

Not a big deal, just slap a bandage on it and remember to ask Frank to bring his kit to sharpen your knife set this weekend.

You sniffled and got back to work, sautéing scraps of leftover chicken with some fresh veggies, adding lemon and white wine and garlic and herbs. The air filled with aromatics and the sound of your 80’s playlist.

The tension that spent it days lodged between your shoulder blades was starting to wear away. All you needed to completely feel at peace was the sound of the key in the lock and boots down the hall.

Frank was a lot of things. Dangerous and safe, rough and gentle, commanding and kind. And he was always on time for dinner. Whether he limped to the door dripping blood or showed up early with a bottle of wine and flowers, he was dependable above all.

You didn’t even have to glance at the clock to know he would be there soon. You could feel it in your cells, like the waiting would be soon over.

AC/DC’s fast guitars faded into REO Speedwagon’s Can’t Fight This Feeling, and you found yourself humming along to the ballad. The opening and closing of drawers and the sizzled of the pans drowned out the quiet thump of boots against wood while Frank paused for a second to admire you, a love drunk smile plastered on his face.

He set a paper bag down on the island behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, pressing warm kisses to your cheek, rough stubble scratching your smooth skin. You relaxed into his embrace, eyes drifting shut for a moment as you leaned against his strong chest and inhaled deeply the lingering smell of pine from his shower this morning.

“How’s my baby girl doin’?” Frank hummed into your neck, pressing a trail of kisses to the exposed skin he could get to with the collar of your shirt in the way.

“Got in a fight today,” you sighed dramatically, holding you hand up so he could see your finger wrapped delicately.

“Baby,” he lamented with equal drama, drawing your hand to his mouth to lavish in kisses.

“I’ll kill the guy,” he said sincerely, baby browns boring into yours, holding your hand to his cheek with a tender grip around your wrist.

“He’s in the sink,” you gestured over your shoulder, “If you can remember to sharpen him and his friends this weekend.”

“Course baby doll. Smells good in here,” he peeked over your shoulder at the pans simmering on the stove, “I brought dessert. Cannolis from Tony’s,”

“You’re too good to me,” you clasped your hands over your heart.

It was Friday, which meant Frank was home for the weekend.

His boots by your bed. His body next to yours. Breakfast together and movies on the couch and unlimited snuggles.

“You look tense, everything okay?” he queried as he brought his broad hands up to work out the knots in your shoulders.

“Just a long week,” you shook your head, “All I want is to take a long shower later.”

“I’ll clean up after,” he kissed your cheek once more and gave your shoulders a squeeze before setting off to find something to keep him busy.

He was always tightening screws and changing lightbulbs and air filters, doing whatever he could to make your life easier. Sometimes, on particularly hard weeks, you would unplug your router and call him to come tinker with your internet. Any big or small gesture he could give you, he would jump through hoops to do. You had never felt as secure or adored in any relationship before Frank.

After dinner, and of course your favorite dessert, Frank set off to clean the dishes so you could hop in the shower.

The shower took a few minutes to heat up, so you took your time removing your necklace and the makeup you sported to work. Your cheeks puffed from the scrubbing, and steam was starting to paint the edges of the mirror in front of you.

The last thing you did was peel off the bandage on your finger. The skin was still split badly, deep purple peeking out from under it. It would hurt for a few more days at least, you reasoned.

You left a pile of clothes in front of the mirror, and stepped behind the glass wall of your shower. Another shitty Friday in the books. This would be sure to wash away at least some of your woes.

Your neck turned under the hot stream, letting the water distribute over your hair, and only when you reached up to run your fingers through it were you met with sharp pain.

You hissed and quickly retracted your hand, “Shit.”

The force of the water was like a hundred small knives driving into the exposed nerves. The pain burned hotter than it did when you cut it.

Tentatively, you placed it back in the stream to see if it just needed a second to adjust, but were met with the same intense pain.

You choked down a sob. It was silly, really. When you thought about the loss you saw today and the blood stained carpet, the empty seat at someone’s table tonight, it was ridiculous to be this upset over a shower.

All you wanted was to wash away someone else’s pain and move on with your life, and you started feeling selfish. Words of self ridicule started ringing in your ears, and you pressed your forehead against the cool tile wall, crying softly, willing yourself to pull it together.

You heard the shuffle of Frank entering the adjacent room to sit on the edge of the bed and tug his boots off, thud of his gun on your nightstand, and the unbuckling of his belt.

“Somethin’ wrong?” his low voice rumbled over the running water.

“I can’t wash my hair,” you admitted pathetically, sniffling from the corner, “It stings so bad.”

“You’ve sewed yourself up with no anesthesia and gunshot wounds and I’m sitting here crying about a little cut,” you continued.

You heard the pad of Frank’s feet on the tile as he stepped into the shower and wrapped himself around your wet frame.

“I don’t expect you to be tough as nails, sweetheart,” he murmured into your shoulder, pressing a kiss there, “I love that you’re so tender. You’re too good for all this shit. Stay that way.”

He cradled the sides of your head with two strong hands and turned you to face him, catching your mouth in a long kiss. Frank kissed like he was a starving man and you were the first food he had seen in days. It was enough to make your stomach flutter.

He pressed a quick kiss to your forehead before gathering your hair into the water and raking his wide fingers through it.

“What are you doing?” you asked with red eyes.

“My girl said she wanted a shower,” his voice came out husky. Brow furrowed with concentration, he smoothed water through every strand, cradling your scalp so gently.

Overcome with emotion, you tucked your forehead into the safety of his neck, nuzzling your nose against his throat as he worked the tangles out of your hair.

The same hands that had snapped necks and pulled triggers were lathering your hair in shampoo and holding your hips close to his.

Your hands wandered his arms and back, grazing over scars and wondering how he got so lucky every time. He must’ve had one hell of a guardian angel. Whatever it was, you felt equally lucky to be here with him, to be his.

The two of you stayed mostly silent. Frank asking the occasional question.

“‘S’that hurt? Is this okay?”

When he finished with your hair, you stepped out of the way so he could quickly wash himself off, reaching for the shampoo you kept on the shelf for him.

Sometimes when he was gone for days at a time, you would wash with his soap and sleep wrapped up in one of his shirts.

Frank drew you into his embrace once more, and you rested easily against his chest with warm water creating pools and streams over the shape of your bodies together.

“I could stay like this forever,” you murmured.

“I couldn’t,” he said dryly, “My back is killing me.”

“Let’s go lay down, old man,” you teased, reaching to turn the water off.

“Alright smartass,” he laughed with one of his crooked half smiles, following you out of the shower and pinching your ass, eliciting a yelp.

Frank pulled on a pair of joggers and perched on the counter watching as you towel dried your hair. He leaned slightly forward with his hands curled under the edge of the counter. The muscles in his arms and chest were perfectly sculpted, glistening under a light layer of condensation while the steam filtered out of the bathroom.

You chose one of Frank’s black tee shirts and a pair of old cotton undies.

Frank waited patiently while you dabbed on a few creams and moisturizers, fussing with your hair and examining the split ends.

“Beautiful,” he hummed, leaning into your space to steal a quick kiss.

“Almost done,” you reassured, raking a cream through your hair.

“Take your time. I’m enjoying the view,” he smirked, craning his neck to take a peek at your ass while you leaned forward into the mirror.

“Perv,” you teased.

“Only for you, baby,” he smiled.

It was autumn in New York. The sun set quicker and quicker each night. Lazy orange light colored your room with flashes of brown and crimson leaves just outside the window. On your nightstand burned a cinnamon candle, and the rest of the lights were dimmed to set a warm mood. The sun and flickering flame cast wispy shadows on the wall.

On the tv across from your bed, there was a Great British Bake Off marathon playing with the volume low. Frank had pretended not to be interested at first, but it wasn’t long before he was criticizing cakes alongside you. It was something you could both agree on as background noise.

Frank sat straight with his back against the headboard, and you nestled between his legs leaning against his chest.

Callused fingers ran up and down your arms, toying with your hands and occasionally slipping in your sleeve to caress your shoulders. Physical touch was one of your chief love languages, and Frank was fluent. He had spent enough of his life alone and longing that when you were together, he indulged in every touch and kiss.

A deep exhale parted your lips and he shifted slightly.

“Is somethin’ else botherin’ you?” he asked after a considerable length of silence.

You didn’t know how to answer.

“Just seems like more than a cut finger got you in a funk today,” he nuzzled his nose against your cheek, pressing half a kiss there.

“I don’t want to bring work home with me,” you clamped your eyes shut and buried the side of your face into his chest.

“I come home caked in the shit I deal with every day, and not once have you made me feel like it’s an issue to you. You can talk to me,” he said matter of factly at first, but his tone softened into a gentle pleading.

Let me in.

You drew in a shaky breath.

“It was another homicide today. Guy killed his girlfriend. Don’t know why. Shot her in the stomach four times. She was dead when we got there, but her face,” you trailed off, “I’ve just never seen someone look so afraid. I don’t know if he was there when she died, or if she was alone, or what’s sadder.”

He sat in silence, intently listening.

“I know you see this kind of stuff every day, but it still gets to me,” a tear rolled down your cheek and you quickly swiped it with the back of your hand.

“Hey, hey,” he said softly, tugging at your shoulder to turn you towards him.

You swung a leg around so you were straddling him, your hands toyed with the chain around his neck.

“Baby, the people I see are bad people. People like your guy that got away today. Seeing the other side always hurts. You’re not weak for that,” he hummed. A strong hand cupped your cheek and turned your head slightly up to look him in the eyes.

“I’m sorry that happened,” he whispered. His brown eyes were overflowing with sincerity.

You wondered how one man could contain such wild contradictions. Gentleness and violence didn’t often walk hand in hand, but they did when Frank Castle was around.

His voice was like gravel and velvet. His kisses were both hungry and adoring.

With one hand on your face, his other rested at your waist, balling up the tee shirt and rubbing circles against your hipbone with his knuckles.

“You’re good at what you do. ‘S’okay that it weighs on you.”

“You too,” you countered softly, and you saw another level of defense in his eyes melt away, the corners of them softening almost imperceptibly.

“C’mere,” he pulled you into a tight embrace. The warmth of his bare chest burned through the thin barrier of his shirt across your frame. His arms felt like a fortress around you. You had never been afraid since he came into your life.

“You’re my peace, you know that? None of the rest of that bullshit matters to me. This is what matters,” he murmured softly into your ear.

You pushed lightly off his chest to look him in the eye once more, “You’re really sweet, you know that?”

He scoffed and turned his head with a shy grin, pink creeping into his cheeks, “Don’t go around tellin’ people that. Ruin my street cred,” he laughed lightly.

His heart drummed steadily beneath your hand. He made it another week and so did you. And you would keep making, you had vowed. For moments like this.

[lemon-world1]

The minute he would close the door I’d fall apart like a Jenga tower.

Reading the past few chapters hurt so much it feels as if I was going through a real heartbreak.

@chvoswxtch I admire your writing so much! I love all the raw emotions it evokes, but please, be gentle with our brittle hearts and poor Frankie 😭

a little more time

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

summary: you're starting to question just how much patience you have left for frank.

warnings: swearing, frank getting ganged up on by our latest dynamic duo, more angst than an early 2000s emo playlist

word count: 3k

a/n: & here is the second half of this week's double drop. enjoy the calm while it lasts, bc the storm is right around the corner. as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

[previous chapter] | [series masterlist]

Frank raised his right fist to knock three times against an apartment door labeled 6F. The person who the apartment belonged to was still a mystery to you. Neither you or Frank had spoken a single word to each other the entire short drive over. Instead, you’d sat stiffly in the passenger seat, arms crossed tightly over your chest, glaring out the window.

A minute later, the sound of a lock twisting broke the tense silence, and the front door was opened. A tall man stood in the doorway, his dark brown eyes wandering over Frank from head to toe and back up again. He was somewhat obstructed from your view since Frank was standing right in front of you, but you saw the way his full lips pursed in lighthearted disapproval before he lightly smacked them.

“Aw, shit.”

“Good to see you too, Curt.”

“Wish I could say the same. You know, most friends do normal shit. Go fishin’ down in Florida, maybe golf or somethin’, but you, you’re always draggin’ me into some bullshit. So what kinda trouble you bringin’ me now, Frank?”

“Told ya I needed you to look after somethin’ while I was gone for a bit.”

The man wore a light gray long sleeved henley, and the top of three buttons was undone. The waffle knit fabric stretched tightly over his biceps when he crossed his arms over his chest, lifting one of his dark brows in question with a look of suspicion on his face.

“Yeah, you didn’t say what though.”

Frank finally stepped aside, and the man fully came into view before you. When his dark brown eyes landed on your figure, an expression of surprise softened his skepticism. His onyx brows lifted in a show of disbelief as he glanced between you and Frank, giving him a pointed look.

“She’s with you?”

“Yeah. Curt, this is Y/N. Y/N, this is Curtis.”

Looking up at Curtis, you did your best to give him a polite smile along with a faint nod of your head.

“It’s nice to meet you, Curtis. Frank’s told me nothing about you.”

“Well that makes two of us.”

Indents of puzzlement creased along his forehead and without another word, Curtis reached his right hand out to wave his palm back and forth in front of your face, which took you by surprise and made your brows knit in curiosity while you blinked a few times. Frank looked at Curtis inquisitively. 

“The hell you doin’?”

“Just checkin’ to see if she was blind.”

“Why?”

Turning his head to look at Frank again, Curtis looked him up and down once more with an expression of dubiety.

“Couldn’t think of another logical explanation of what the hell she was doin’ wit’cho ugly ass.”

Blowing a puff of air past his lips, Frank shook his head and turned to glance around to his left. Meanwhile, you had to cover your mouth to stifle the laugh that Curtis conjured with his quick response. Shaking his head, Curtis reached out to take your bag from you, stepping aside and gesturing for you to come inside, all the while side-eying Frank.

“Could’ve at least carried her bag for her, damn.”

Frank looked genuinely offended by the implied accusation that he hadn’t even attempted to be a gentleman, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop from smiling at the way he scrunched up his face in defense.

“She wouldn’t let me.”

“Mhm.”

Curtis’ apartment was modest and simple, not overly decked out in furniture and decor, but definitely more homely than Frank’s. It felt awkward standing in the middle of a stranger’s living room that you had just met, knowing that you were supposed to be staying here for a few days. That thought had something from Frank and Curtis’ exchange suddenly sticking out in your mind.

Frank had told Curtis he needed him to keep an eye on something, not someone. 

Turning around to face them, your narrowed gaze landed on Frank and creases of irritation swiftly knit between your brows.

“You didn’t tell him that I was coming, did you?”

Both men’s heads snapped in your direction when you spoke. Curtis glanced between the two of you with a comical look on his features as he picked up on the fact that Frank seemed to be in trouble with you. It was evident how hard he was trying to suppress a smirk. Frank on the other hand turned to face you fully, and he returned your expression of irritation with his own annoyed, broody scowl. 

“Didn’t wanna ask over the phone-”

“And you didn’t think to ask in person before you packed me up and dropped me off?”

Curtis had his arms folded over his chest, and he was fighting to hide his amusement behind his right fist. His broad shoulders were subtly bouncing, and the sound of his snickering caused Frank to snap his head in his direction with a deep frown. Clearing his throat, Curtis turned to look at you with an easy going smile and gave a loose and dismissive wave of his right hand.

“Look it uh, it ain’t a big deal, alright?” 

“It is when he’s the only one here who seems to know what the fuck is going on.”

The tension between you and Frank was thick, almost visibly lingering in the air, and Curtis quickly picked up on it. He’d placed your bag on the floor by his feet, but in an effort to diffuse the situation, Curtis reached down to pick it up in his left hand and loosely gestured with his right towards a hall around the corner from you.

“Here, why don’t we get you set up, alright? I uh…needa talk to Frank right quick.”

Curtis regarded you with a sympathetic glint in his eye, and it had guilt filling your bloodstream like lead. Your presence here was an imposition, whether he would say that out loud or not, which you figured by his kind nature he wouldn’t. It wasn’t fair of you to stand in the middle of his living room and argue with Frank, disrupting the peace of his home and causing him to feel uncomfortable. Silently nodding your head in agreement, you gave Frank one last forlorn glance before you turned to follow Curtis. 

In the midst of your disappointment, both in Frank and yourself, you noticed that Curtis seemed to walk with a slight limp. It wasn’t overly apparent, and you’d only observed it because your eyes were on the ground in front of you following the heels of his shoes, but it stoked your curiosity. Frank hadn’t told you anything about him, you hadn’t even known he existed until today, but he was clearly someone important if Frank was leaving you in his trusted care. Your mind began to wonder where that integrity stemmed from. When he placed your bag down on the edge of his bed, you quickly shook your head and spoke up. 

“I’m not kicking you out of your own room.”

Curtis turned his head to look at you and studied you silently for a moment. His deep brown eyes flickered between the door of his bedroom and your own gaze. Taking a step in your direction, he reached out with his right hand and gave your shoulder a comforting light squeeze. 

“We’ll talk about that later. Why don’t you just sit down for a minute, take a deep breath. Unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.”

You hadn’t even been consciously aware of the fact that you were doing all of those things until Curtis pointed them out. Sucking in a deep breath, you let it out in a slow exhale through your lips, trying to release the frustration and stress in your body along with it. When you sat down on the edge of his bed, your shoulders slumped in exhaustion, and you folded your hands in front of you with your forearms resting on your thighs, staring blankly ahead at the wall.

“So, this kind of thing is normal with him?”

Slipping his hands into the pocket of his jeans, Curtis looked over at you while leaning back against the wall and granted a nod of his head.

“I’ve known Frank a long time. Kinda gotten used to him bein’ a pain in my ass.”

“And you put up with it?”

There seemed to be an unspoken understanding between the two of you at that moment. The way that Curtis looked at you told you that he knew what you were really asking him with your veiled question. 

Should I continue to put up with it?

Letting out a deep exhale of his own, Curtis pursed his full lips and a contemplative look covered his features. After a moment, he returned your interrogative stare with an expression of empathy and lightly shrugged his broad shoulders.

“I’ve never known Frank to do somethin’ without a purpose. Whether it’s right or wrong, I can’t say. But, the intentions come from a good place. Most of the time.”

The way he spoke that last part caught your attention, and you looked up at him in intrigue. He had trailed off a bit, his dark brown eyes wandering towards the empty space next to your side. You wished you could read the thoughts currently passing behind his eyes. Curiosity creased along your forehead as you tilted your head to the side in question. 

“Most of the time?”

Curtis’ eyes focused back in your direction and he held your gaze silently for a few seconds. You could see on his face that he knew he had said maybe just a little bit too much. He turned his head to glance towards the open bedroom door once more before returning your look of query. His lips faintly tugged into a reassuring smile when he nodded his head in your direction.

“Like I said, there’s always a purpose.”

While Frank and Curtis were conversating in the living room, you took a moment to look around the quaint space of Curtis’ bedroom. Eventually your eyes fell on your bag that sat on the mattress to your right, and all of a sudden it seemed to dawn on you that Frank had packed it for you. Unable to deny your curiosity, your fingers reached out to tug back the zipper, peering inside to see what clothing and necessities he’d chosen.

On one side of the bag, a pile of clothes were folded neatly, and on the other was your toiletry case. Thumbing through the pile of clothes, you felt a tightness in your chest seeing that Frank had chosen outfits that you would’ve picked for yourself. They were ones you wore regularly, and he’d even packed your favorite pajamas. Knowing that you liked to be overly prepared and have options in case you changed your mind, he’d made sure you had enough choices for a week, and he even managed to fit two other pairs of shoes in the bottom.

Frank had grabbed all of the essentials to pack in your toiletry case, everything that he knew you used regularly, and even a few things he must have just thought you might need. He hadn’t just randomly grabbed a bunch of things to shove in a bag and go. Frank had thoughtfully chosen every single item in this bag with you in mind. While you sat there with your bag open, staring at the contents inside, an unexpected wave of emotion built up along your waterline, and you hadn’t even noticed until you felt a trail of wetness cascading down your cheek. 

A light knock on the bedroom door made you quickly wipe away the evidence of your emotional turmoil with the sleeve of your shirt, and when you turned your head, you saw Frank standing there in the doorway. He looked considerably calmer than he had twenty minutes ago, and seeing the remnants of sorrow shining in your eyes, his rough features softened into raw remorse. Glancing at your open bag sitting beside you, Frank looked down for a moment and cleared his throat.

“I uh…grabbed what I thought you would.”

Hesitantly lifting his head to meet your gaze, you saw that his warm brown eyes were full of unspoken apologies. Giving a faint nod of your head, you dropped your gaze down to your lap and spoke quietly.

“Yeah, thank you.”

Both of you had so much you wanted to say, but neither of you knew where to start, or what the right words were. The silence echoed loudly and the walls felt like they were tauntingly closing in around you. A sinking stone of intuition in the pit of your stomach had you prophesying the very real possibility that this would end with you left in bereavement, and that the romantic daydreams you had hand crafted in the back of your mind had been false fortune telling. 

Frank took a few cautious steps towards you, and you could see his boots come into view in your peripheral as you kept your eyes downcast towards the floor.

“Sweetheart.”

God, the way he uttered that one word made your chest ache. There were a million different emotions packed into those two simple syllables, and you could hear the tender longing in his deep voice softly calling to you. Frank knelt down in front of you, his large hand reaching out to cup your face. He slipped his fingers into your hair right beside your ear, gently grasping the back of your neck and he tucked his thumb under your chin to lift your head slowly. 

“Hey-”

Frank dipped his head to try and catch your eye. Swallowing thickly, you slowly lifted your line of sight to look at him, and the expression on his face broke your heart. His warm brown eyes were desperately pleading with you, darting between your lips and crestfallen gaze.

“-c’mon I don’t…I don’t wanna leave it like this.”

The warmth of his breath could be felt against your lips, and his eyes were frantically searching every inch of face for something…anything that could temporarily relieve this anguish until he returned with a permanent fix.

“Look if I could…if there was another way…”

Frank let out a deep sigh that trembled past his lips, and it was clear he was struggling to find the right words.

“Just…please. I’m gonna make this right, okay? I swear to you. I just…I need you to give me a little more time, alright? Just a little more. Can you give me that?”

It was hard to see Frank like this, the somber sheen to his eyes and the misery weighing heavily on his shoulders. He was asking for another strand of patience, but you didn’t know how much you had left, and it scared you to even think about what would happen when you ran out. It was unclear in your mind whether the love you had for Frank that was embedded deeply in the chambers of your heart could be enough to salvage the pieces he was leaving you with.

“Okay.”

Frank could hear the lack of conviction in your defeated tone, and it killed him. Deep down he knew he was asking too much of you without giving you any concrete reassurance in return, but he couldn’t see another path. All he could do was hope that your faith in him wouldn’t run out like grains of sand slipping through the narrow bridge of an hourglass, and that the consolation of your forgiveness could still be earned. 

His soft lips parted, and there was an intense emotion in his eyes when he stared deeply into yours. It looked like he wanted to say something so badly, but he cut himself off before he could. Leaning in, he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead and let it linger for a moment before pulling away and retracting his hand from your face.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. You’ll be safe with Curt, alright?”

A pang of disappointment quickly spread through you. For a second you thought Frank might be the first one to speak those three words. If there was ever a time you needed to hear them, it was now. But then again, you didn’t know if you were ready to say them back.

Running your hand through the roots of your hair and pushing it out of your face, you sucked in your bottom lip and grazed it with your top teeth before letting it go and nodding.

“Yeah.”

Frank eyed you wearily for a moment before hesitantly rising to his full height. He didn’t want to leave things between the two of you so unfinished like this, but he didn’t have a choice. He didn’t know if he’d made things better or worse in attempting to leave on a smoother note. When he reached the doorframe, he paused and turned to look at you again, and it bothered him that you wouldn’t look at him.

“I’ll see ya soon, sweetheart.”

There was no verbal reply from you, just another nod of acknowledgement. Frank lingered there for a moment in the doorway, silently begging you with his eyes to look at him, but your gaze seemed to be permanently fixed on the floor. The image of you sitting there looking so dejected and disappointed burned into his memory, and he knew it would haunt him, even long after this was all over. He wouldn’t forget the moment he’d let you down so badly.

The only goodbye you got was the resonation of Frank’s heavy boots fading, getting fainter and fainter the further away from you he got. A few seconds later, the front door opened with a soft creak, and a murmur was exchanged before the sound of heavy wood sliding back into a worn frame was completed with the soft click of a lock.

The golden hour dripped through the thin plastic blinds, coating the entire room in a sundrenched glow, but the warmth couldn’t penetrate the endless and echoing loneliness that dug deep into your bones knowing that Frank was gone, again.

tags: @thyme-in-a-bubble @day-dreaming-goddess @messymissy @itwasthereaminuteago @strawberry1042 @queenofthenoobs @wanda2themax @xcastawayherosx @avengerstower-houseplant @stevenknightmarc @ponyosmom35 @babygal-babygal @wellwwhynot @oldermenaremyreligion @combustiblemeow @tired-night-owl @fairykiss32 @danzer8705 @calkissed @fxckahs-blog @lemon-world1 @polskiperson @imperihoe @v4leoftears @harperdoodle @spideyvibez @joalslibrary @cherry-berry-ollie @sorrowfulfragmentation @kdogreads @sumo-b98 @blackhawksfanatic @gloryekaterina @whistle1whistle @starbritestarlite @callmebrooklynbabes @hallway5 @scarletfvckingwitch @bifuriouslatina @soupyspence @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @wonwoosthetic @linguist-breakaribecca @nerdytreeflower @mrs-bellingham @smhnxdiii @s3riou2 @slavic-empress

[lemon-world1]

@chvoswxtch I have to admit, reading this did hurt like a bitch. Such raw emotions. Oh god, I hope they’ll make amends. Anyway, I am certain you’ve got exciting stuff up your sleeve. Can’t wait for another chapter.

Xoxo

secrets

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

summary: in the aftermath of your fight with frank, you get more than one unexpected visitor.

warnings: swearing, lots & lots & lots of angst

word count: 4.4k

a/n: it's getting juicyyyy. friendly reminder y'all voted for a double drop this week, so chapter twenty one is coming this friday. enjoy. ;) as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

[previous chapter] | [series masterlist]

“You keep frownin’ like that, you’re gonna get wrinkles.”

Lifting your focused gaze from your computer screen to the source of a familiar voice, the creases etched along your forehead deepened at the sight of Billy standing in your office doorway, leaning against the frame with his hands tucked into the pockets of his perfectly tailored suit pants and that signature vain smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“What are you doing here?”

“Good to see you too, darlin’.”

Billy let out a dry chuckle, crossing the threshold over towards your desk in just a few quick strides. Leaning over your desk, Billy stretched his hand out to brush his thumb along the space between your eyebrows, effectively smoothing out the crinkles of concentration coupled with confusion. The gesture caught you off guard, and you blinked a few times in surprise as Billy unbuttoned the middle button on his dark gray suit jacket before sitting down in the chair in front of your desk.

“There, that’s better. Now, how ‘bout you at least pretend to be happy to see me.”

Billy arched one of his dark brows, that same smirk still gracing the edge of his lips in a silent tease. Looking over at him, it occurred to you that there always seemed to be some hint of mischief lingering in his deep espresso tinted eyes. Leaning back in your chair and folding your arms over your chest, you gave him a pointed look.

“What can I do for you, Billy?”

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.”

“I could be worse, if you’d like.”

Billy’s lips split into a full blown grin, and he let out an amused chuckle at the sass dripping from your dry reply.

“Nah, I’ve seen you pissed. I’d prefer to stay on your good side, sweetheart. You wanna tell me what’s got you in such a pleasant mood this mornin’?”

Being around Billy just made you think about Frank, and thinking about Frank only reminded you of the fact that the two of you weren’t in a good place right now. He swore to you the night you confronted him that he was going to wrap this job up as quickly as he could, but that meant he had to devote all of his time to it, which resulted in him being around even less than he had been last month. 

Two weeks had passed since you’d last seen Frank in person. When you woke up in his bed the morning after you’d shown up at his apartment to confront him, he was already gone. He’d left a note on his pillow saying that he would call you soon, but that call didn’t come for four days, and neither one of you had much to say. You thought hearing his voice after being apart for a while would make you feel better about the whole situation, grant you some sense of relief or jumpstart a spark of acceptance you couldn’t find beforehand, but it only made you even more pissed off about what was happening.

And then the call you had with him two days ago really set you off.

Frank had been trying to keep the conversation light, and there was an apologetic tone to his gruff voice, but you couldn’t bite your tongue. The more you sat alone with the vague explanation he had given you, the more his promise of reassurance felt like fraud. You drew blood first, like you always did, but after a round of back and forth passive aggressive exchanges, Frank lost his own temper and went on the defense.

“For Christ’s sake, what else you want me to say, huh? How many other ways I gotta apologize?”

“We shouldn’t even be in this situation right now, Frank-”

“Yeah, well we are, and you’re gonna have to find a way to deal with it cause it ain’t changin’ any goddamn time soon.”

Frank’s aggressive retort only incensed you further. The stress of the current job combined with the growing rift between the two of you eroded his patience into raw frustration, and you were matching his verbal lashes blow for blow.

“Just deal with it? Just deal with you being away and hiding things from me?”

“That’s the job sometimes, alright? You know first hand the kinda shit I gotta do. You know what my world’s like. I told you I was gonna do what I could to get this handled as soon as possible-”

“But this isn’t your normal job, Frank! Stop using that as a fucking excuse. You’ve never had to disappear to God only knows where before, and you’ve never kept secrets from me-”

“Oh for fucks sake. You think that’s what I’m doin’? Makin’ excuses? That’s bullshit and you know it. I told you what I could-”

“And that’s supposed to be enough?“

“It was enough for Maria.”

Those five simple words stunned you silent. They struck a nerve you didn’t even know existed, and Frank, blinded by his aggravation, just kept hacking away at it with his verbal arsenal.

“Ya’know, she never gave me this much fuckin’ shit, and she had to deal with way worse than you. I was away from her and the kids for months at a time, couldn’t tell her a goddamn thing ‘bout what I was really doin’, and she was never on my ass the way you are right now-”

“I’m not her, Frank!”

The only sounds on the line were yours and Frank’s labored breathing, shallow and heavy from yelling and exhausting your vexed emotions on one another. For several moments, neither of you spoke a word, until finally you broke the silence by gritting your teeth and delivering one last blow.

“You know what, don’t fucking call me again until this shit is over.”

Frank, being the stubborn ass that he was, hadn’t attempted to contact you to smooth things over or to apologize. It infuriated you, but in the same breath, you didn’t want to speak to him right now. 

Still, it wasn’t fair of you to take your sour mood out on Billy. He hadn’t done anything wrong. You were upset with Frank, not him. Letting out a deep exhale through your nose, you slowly dragged your palm down your face before leaning back in your chair. You hadn’t noticed how stiffly you’d been sitting until you felt a dull ache in your lower back.

“I…sorry. There’s just…a lot going on right now. I’m spread kinda thin so, I’m…a bit on edge.”

“A bit?”

When you shot him an unamused look, Billy let out a light chuckle and held up his hands in a show of faux surrender.

“Alright, alright. I didn’t come to here to fuck with ya. I actually came to ask a favor.”

An expression of surprise swiftly coveted your features. What could you possibly have to offer Billy Russo?

“A favor?”

Billy leaned back in the chair, adjusting the lapels of his suit before crossing his left leg over his right knee, placing his elbows on the arm rests. Maybe it was because your office was familiar to him, or maybe it was because he was so rich he felt like he owned everything, but Billy had a way of being able to make himself comfortable no matter what setting he was in. Fixing his deep brown eyes on you, that signature smirk of his graced his lips once again when he caught your look of intrigue and confusion.

“As you know, Anvil has a government contract with Homeland Security. It was a big deal for the company, and it’s proven to be a damn good business investment. As a matter of fact, it’s been so successful, that I’ve been meetin’ with a few other branches negotiatin’ another expansion, and recently closed a deal with the CIA.”

“Don’t government contracts kinda defeat the whole private military operation thing?”

“I didn’t hear you complainin’ when that Homeland contract brought you to me.”

Rolling your eyes at the smugness in his voice, you reached for the nearly empty iced coffee sitting on your desk.

“It wasn’t a complaint.”

“Anvil is more than personal protection, darlin’. It’s also convoy security, tactical operations, tailored training, and more. Most of our military contracts are outside of the U.S, so havin’ two on American soil is a huge deal.”

“If you’re trying to sell me on investing, I hate to break it to you, but I think the number currently reflecting in my bank account would make you cry.”

Billy let out a deep chuckle at that, his lips stretching open into a tooth bearing grin. Giving a faint shake of his head, he ran his right hand along the top of his head, smoothing his perfectly styled raven hair back into place.

“That’s not what I’m askin’.”

“Then how do I come into this, exactly?”

“The news hasn’t hit the media yet. Anvil’s hosting a Veteran’s Charity Ball this Saturday night, and I’m gonna make the announcement then. That, pretty girl, is where you come into play. I’d like you to personally cover the story.”

Looking across your desk at Billy, you could see by the look on his face that he was serious about wanting you to cover the piece. A slight furrow nestled between your brows at the idea.

“Why me?”

Billy cocked his head to the side, a sparkle of mirth in his eyes and a sly smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Why would I ask anyone else? You know me, you know the company-”

“Which is kind of conflict of interest-”

“I already cleared it with your editor. You bein’ under the protection of Anvil is classified through Homeland, and since we’re a private company like you mentioned, our records ain’t public. Besides, your editor seemed pretty confident you could write without bias. Look, I want you on this. I’ve read the work of some of the other journalists here, and I gotta tell ya, even if I didn’t know ya, I still woulda picked you.”

Hearing that Billy had already talked to Ellison about this was a surprise to you because Ellison hadn’t mentioned it at all to you. When had Billy talked to him about this? Why hadn’t Ellison told you? Perplexity shrouded your features as you looked over at Billy.

“Ellison didn’t say anything-”

“I asked him not to. I wanted to ask you first, in person. He gave it the green light, but ultimately, it’s up to you if you wanna do it.”

Being kept in the dark seemed to be a recurring theme in your life lately that you weren’t happy with, and it stirred up dull embers of irritation from your fight with Frank. A part of you didn’t want to do it purely out of immature spite, since Billy indirectly had a hand in creating the chasm currently deepening between you and Frank. But that wasn’t fair to Billy. You owed him your life as much as you did Frank and Dinah. Billy played a vital part in keeping you safe and protected from the Defenders of Freedom, and recording Steven’s confession ended up being the smoking gun in proving his involvement.

After a moment of silent contemplation, you let out a light exhale through your lips.

“Alright, I’ll do it.”

“Don’t get too excited, now. It’s only a fancy party with an extensive open bar and catering from all of the best restaurants in the city.”

Trying to fight the smile that threatened to escape across your lips, you looked over at Billy and arched one of your brows.

“Are you trying to bribe me to write you a good article, Mr. Russo?”

“Is it workin’?”

Billy’s mouth was stretched in a wide, wolfish grin, showcasing the top row of his dazzling pearly white teeth. His dark brows were raised slightly up his forehead, and he had that familiar devilish twinkle in his eyes. Giving a soft shake of your head with a dry laugh, you crossed your arms over your chest and relaxed back in your chair.

“What time?”

“Starts at seven, I’ll send a car for ya ‘round six-thirty.”

“You don’t have to do that, I can take a cab-”

“C’mon, you’re doin’ me a favor.”

“Hey, I never agreed to write a good article. I might make you look terrible, just for the fun of it.”

Returning your teasing smile with an amused grin, Billy chuckled with a shake of his head. As he stood up and fixed his maroon tie, he motioned towards your office door with his head.

“Alright, c’mon.”

Staring up at him with a puzzled expression, you let out a soft laugh while he buttoned the middle button of his suit jacket.

“What?”

“I’m takin’ your bratty ass to lunch. Maybe after some food you’ll be a bit nicer.”

Making a show of rolling your eyes in faux exasperation, you stood from your chair and locked your computer before closing your notebook.

“No promises.”

“Well in my experience, you’re more tolerable when you’re fed.”

“Keep talking. Your article is getting worse and worse.”

“I’m sure a few glasses of expensive champagne will fix that.”

Billy turned to take a step towards the door and then abruptly paused, turning back to look at you with another teasing grin.

“Oh, and do me another favor, would ya? See if you can get Frankie to drag his ass out and make an appearance. I think he’s forgotten how to use his phone.”

The mention of Frank’s name instantly tarnished the light hearted mood Billy’s banter had put you in. Letting out a dry scoff, you slipped your phone into your purse and pulled the straps over your shoulder.

“I wouldn’t hold your breath. That job you and Madani have him working has not only turned him into a ghost, but also a complete dick. I’ll let you deal with him.”

Tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, you started to round your desk when you looked up and caught the expression on Billy’s face, and it made you stop in your tracks. His sharp features were suddenly void of their usual playful warmth, and there was no charming smirk etched onto his mouth. His lips were set in a firm line, outlining his chiseled jaw that was covered in a perfectly trimmed dark beard, and his dark brown eyes looked nearly obsidian. 

“The job with Madani?”

There was a faint serrated edge to his tone when he spoke, but you didn’t miss it. Billy’s stare was intense, and you realized he probably thought that you knew something you shouldn’t. Crossing your arms over your chest, you let an irritated exhale escape through your nose as your gaze drifted towards the window of your office.

“Don’t worry, he didn’t tell me anything. Not where he was going, not what he was doing, nothing. So whatever top secret thing you two have him doing, it’s still top secret, alright?”

There was a long pause of silence, and your annoyance started to fade into a feeling of perplexity when you looked back at him and saw a look in Billy’s eyes that you didn’t know how to read. There was a sudden coldness to him, and an emotion you couldn’t decode hidden in his steely gaze. The tense quietness in your office sent an uneasy shiver down your spine, but then it was like a switch was suddenly flipped, and Billy reverted back to the version of him you’re familiar with.

He plastered that charming smirk on his lips again, but you noticed this time, it wasn’t accompanied by the usual mischievous glint in his eyes. 

“Trouble in paradise?”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you dropped your gaze down to the floor for a moment before letting out a heavy sigh.

“I don’t like being lied to, or kept in the dark. I know your line of work is…complicated, I just…I thought Frank and I didn’t have any secrets between us.”

“Sometimes lyin’ and keepin’ somethin’ hidden is the only way to protect someone from the pain of the truth.”

Lifting your head, you met Billy’s intense gaze with an incredulous and inquisitive look.

“You really believe that?”

“Trust me, some secrets are better left buried, darlin’.”

»»———　　———««

The following evening when you came home from work, all you wanted was a long soak in a hot bath and an entire bottle of wine. The stress of the last two weeks wasn’t just taking a toll on you emotionally, it was also physically manifesting in your body. Closing the front door behind you, the lock sounded with a click when you twisted the oval knob, and you lazily tossed your keys onto the side table in the entryway before carelessly tossing your purse onto it as well. 

Coming around the corner into your living room, you nearly had a heart attack when you were suddenly met with the sight of a large figure sitting at your dining table, waiting in the dark. Clutching at your chest in panic and jumping nearly two feet in the air, your voice came out in a shrill shriek.

“Jesus Christ, Frank!”

Frank didn’t physically react to your outburst. He sat as still as a statue in one of the chairs, slightly hunched over with his thighs spread wide, his forearms resting just a few inches above his knees. A bit of dark stubble coated his cheeks and sharp jawline, and his grown out hair was a tousled mess of ebony waves resting against his forehead instead of being pushed back in their usual style.

The swift scare of Frank’s intrusion, his silent treatment, and the lingering resentment you’d been harboring for the past two weeks had you glaring at him.

“How the hell did you get in here?”

His deep brown eyes were fixated on you and his plump lips were set in a stubborn line. Frank’s rugged features were even more pronounced in his resting semi-permanent broody expression. Wordlessly, he lifted one of his large hands, showcasing a set of keys on a ring pinched between his thumb and index finger. One of which, belonged to your front door. 

After everything that had happened at your last place, you couldn’t stay there anymore. You’d quickly moved into a new place that happened to be closer to the Bulletin, and as far as you knew no one had died in it, and there weren’t lingering bullet holes under the paint. Frank had helped you move and set up your security system for you again. You’d forgotten that you’d given him a spare key so he could get in while you were at work.

When you crossed your arms over your chest in a defensive stance, Frank caught the pissed off look on your face, and when you opened your mouth to lash out at him, he quickly cut you off with his rough voice before you could get a word out.

“Said not to call. Didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout comin’ to see ya.”

The snippiness of his comment made you narrow your eyes in his direction. Clenching your jaw, you pursed your lips tightly as your face contorted into a portrait of annoyance. You were about to snap back at him when you noticed out of the corner of your eye that there was a packed bag sitting on the dining table next to him.

It was yours.

Eyes flickering between your bag and Frank, you stared at him in a mixture of irritation and confusion.

“What the hell is that for?”

“I gotta leave town for a bit. I told ya I’d make sure you were taken care of while I was gone, so you’re gonna stay with a friend of mine.”

“And you didn’t think to ask me if that was something I even wanted to do?”

“It ain’t up for discussion.”

Frank hadn’t been this cold towards you since the early days of when he was your bodyguard. For a moment your exasperation evaporated, wondering if things between the two of you were worse than you thought. Picking up on the slight change in your body language and facial expression, Frank let out a deep exhale through his large nose and slowly stood up from the chair.

“I can’t do what I need to do if I’m worryin’ ‘bout you bein’ alone here, alright? It’s just for a few days.”

“Frank, I’m not in any danger anymore. No one is actively trying to kill me. If you’re that worried about me being alone, Billy can stop by-”

“No.”

The aggressive tone of Frank’s voice and the roughness of his tone caught you off guard. Frank glanced away from you, his eyes darting around your living room for a few seconds before they finally returned to you. His left hand was tightly grasped in a fist, but on his right, his index and middle finger twitched. A sharp exhale escaped his large nose, and his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip quickly before he spoke again.

“Look you wanna be pissed at me, be pissed at me, but don’t put yourself at risk cause of it. Maybe you’re right, yeah? Maybe you ain’t a target no more. But I’d rather know you were safe than have to deal with the fact later on that I shoulda done more. I ain’t takin’ that risk again.”

It was like a light bulb went off in your head when he spoke that last sentence. In the midst of your own tangled mess of selfish feelings, you hadn’t once stopped to think about how Frank felt about all of this. A sinking feeling of remorse settled in your stomach hearing the frustration but also the lingering pain in his voice when he spoke. 

I ain’t takin’ that risk again.

He’d had his entire family ripped away from him in one single moment, right in front of his eyes, of course he was fucking paranoid. From your perspective, Steven was facing life in prison, and all the remaining members of the Defenders of Freedom were gonna rot with him, so you didn’t think you had anything to be worried about.

But Frank saw danger everywhere. He anticipated it. He planned for it. And that’s what he was doing right now. 

Frank was doing the exact same thing he’d been doing every single day since he met you: keeping you safe.

Letting out a deep sigh, you looked down at the floor for a moment to gather your irrational thoughts and rein in your impulsive emotions. When you raised your head, your eyes flickered from the packed bag sitting on your dining table back to Frank’s unrelenting stare. Running one of your hands stressfully through the roots of your hair, you made a faint gesture of throwing your hands up in concession.

“Alright, well if you’re not leaving me with Billy, I’m assuming you’re not taking me to Madani either. So, does Matt know I’m coming?”

Frank’s steely expression crumbled at the mention of Matt’s name. He pulled a face like you’d just asked a ridiculous question, a furrow of annoyance and confusion settling between his thick brows.

“You think I’d leave you with him?”

Letting out a dry scoff void of humor, you rolled your eyes with a shake of your head and folded your arms across your chest.

“Just because he’s blind-”

“It ain’t got shit to do with him bein’ blind.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is I don’t trust him to keep his fuckin’ hands to himself, and I ain’t lettin’ him pull that ‘poor blind orphan’ shit on you.”

A look of surprise crossed your face as your brows lifted slightly up your forehead, and it took every ounce of self control not to laugh or show any indication of amusement. Frank wouldn’t leave you in Matt’s care because he was worried he would…hit on you?

Letting out a grunt, Frank grabbed the handles of your bag in his left hand and swiped it off the table.

“He’s too preoccupied at night anyway.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Bein’ the goddamn Devil. C’mon.”

When Frank walked past you towards your front door, you turned around to watch him, narrowing your eyes in irritation.

“Can you at least tell me who you’ve employed to babysit me then?”

Frank paused at your front door, which he took up the entire frame of, and his head dropped between his shoulders for a moment. You could hear him audibly voice his frustration with your attitude when he let out another sharp exhale before turning to look at you over his shoulder.

“A friend of mine.”

“Yeah, you said that. A friend of yours, that you’ve never mentioned before. Do I have to have some kind of top secret security clearance for you to tell me their name?”

There was a scowl on Frank’s face as he glowered at you, turning around to face you fully. He dropped your bag on the floor with a light thud, scrunching up his face for a moment as he inhaled sharply through his large nose, cocking his head to the side.

“Christ. This what you wanna do right now, huh?”

Returning his glare with just as much vehemence, you let out a dry and humorless laugh as you gestured around loosely.

“No, Frank. This isn’t what I want-”

“Look you wanna keep bustin’ my goddamn balls, fine. But do it from the truck, yeah? You can antagonize me with your bullshit all you want while I drive, but we got somewhere to be.”

Clenching your jaw, your hands balled into frustrated fists at your sides. For a moment the two of you were locked in some kind of silent staring contest. You were so sick of every conversation with Frank lately turning into an argument that ended with the two of you at each other’s throats. You didn’t have the patience to combat his stubborn dedication to being a self righteous asshole. Gritting your teeth, you stormed forward and grabbed your own bag as you brushed past him out your front door, swearing under your breath.

“Dick.”

Frank pursed his full lips and nodded his head, turning around to follow you after forcefully shutting your front door behind himself.

“Yeah yeah, get in the goddamn truck.”

tags: @thyme-in-a-bubble @day-dreaming-goddess @messymissy @itwasthereaminuteago @strawberry1042 @queenofthenoobs @wanda2themax @xcastawayherosx @avengerstower-houseplant @stevenknightmarc @ponyosmom35 @babygal-babygal @wellwwhynot @oldermenaremyreligion @combustiblemeow @tired-night-owl @fairykiss32 @danzer8705 @calkissed @fxckahs-blog @lemon-world1 @polskiperson @imperihoe @v4leoftears @harperdoodle @spideyvibez @joalslibrary @cherry-berry-ollie @sorrowfulfragmentation @kdogreads @sumo-b98 @blackhawksfanatic @gloryekaterina @whistle1whistle @starbritestarlite @callmebrooklynbabes @hallway5 @scarletfvckingwitch @bifuriouslatina @soupyspence @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @wonwoosthetic @linguist-breakaribecca @nerdytreeflower @mrs-bellingham @smhnxdiii @s3riou2 @slavic-empress

[lemon-world1]

@24sevengeek In love with this artwork 🥹 Used it as my wallpaper, hope you don’t mind 🤍🖤

[lemon-world1]

I desperately need help!! 😫 I lost a fic I was reading and I lost it 😭 Please, if anyone could hel me find it 🫣 It was about Joel being insecure and shy to tell the reader he likes her because he was “too old” and Ellie’s making fun of him. Pretty please, if anyone finds it, I’ll appreciate your comment 🥹🤍

Thank youu in advance! 🥹