lucymmiller

[lucymmiller]

oh sweet jesus

[lucymmiller]

let you wash all over me

summary: you spend a well earned day of rest at a lake with Joel, away from Jackson and your responsibilities. warnings: age gap (unspecified), my attempt at southern slang, unprotected p in v, I'm too tired to tag this properly but it's mellow and sweet

note: for the lovely anon who requested this – I hope it's what you imagined <3 inspired by Ethel Cain's Family Tree

"C’mon, sweetheart, gotta get there early."

You don’t argue with Joel, because you know he’s doing this for you – well, and for Tommy. You haven’t been in Jackson long, and with summer on the brink of arriving this trip is long overdue. So you let Joel help you onto the back of the horse and run your fingers through its satiny fur, so white in the rising morning sun it almost hurts your eyes. Joel hands you a backpack and you put it on, then scooch to make room for him. Perhaps another day he will teach you how to ride, too, so you don’t have to burden the poor animal with both your weights in this heat.

The sound of the hooves on the soil is soothing as Joel guides the mare trough the woods with steady hands. You’re both quiet, not because there’s nothing to talk about, but because that’s the sort of effect these morning hours always have – everything is waking up, still sluggish from the dark, fresh and new. You close your eyes, the flecks of sunlight painting a mosaic of color on the insides of your eyelids, and rest your cheek against Joel’s back. Here, away from prying eyes and judgmental stares it’s easy as breathing, and from time to time you feel Joel’s fingers ghost over your knee, as if to check you haven’t fallen off.

It’s still cool enough to enjoy the ride, the breeze and shade of the trees offering solace from the heat. You sleep with your windows wide open each night to let the house cool down. You get to do that now. It took a while to sink in, but after a couple of months you didn’t fear the immediate outside anymore, only what lies behind the wall. But even now, even outside of Jackson, you can’t bring yourself to be afraid, not with your arms wrapped so tightly around the body you trust the most in the world. Perhaps you should be more alert, but there haven’t been a lot raider attacks recently. With the weather always comes an abundance of food, so even the most unfriendly of people in the woods don’t need to cause trouble right now. You’re protected by the seasons, at least until this new luxury of food practically running right into your mouths loses its effect. They’ll want something again, weaponry for instance, but if you’re lucky you get to spend this day with Joel in peace.

You press a kiss against his plaid-covered back, hear him hum contentedly in response. Even grumpy Joel Miller melts a little bit in the sunshine. You smile to yourself, open your eyes again and watch the blackbirds in the trees, singing to announce the start of a new day that doesn’t include a fight for survival.

"I’m happy," you whisper, aware that Joel can’t hear you over the sound of the woods. Your face is turned to his bad side, the one he always tilts just slightly away from you when you speak, so as to hear you better. Your happiness feels like a secret, like something you’re not entitled to in his world, but it’s real and glowing and warm and wears Joel’s scent and colors.

"Won’t take much longer now," Joel tells you, his voice softened by the peace of the past hour, and although you’re not particularly looking forward to learning how to fish, any time spent alone with Joel is precious to you.

He was right – after ten minutes you arrive at a little clearing and when you peer past Joel, you see the lake Tommy described to you, fed by a small river glittering in the sun. It’s so untouched by humans you feel almost guilty for disturbing it with your clumsy limbs and too loud voices. But when you slide off the horse, you spot a squirrel and its marble eyes are unafraid. You might be clumsy and human and loud, but you’re a part of this earth, however much humanity tried to rebel against it.

Joel guides the horse towards the lake, lets it drink languidly and ties it to a nearby tree so it can rest in the shadow. He pats its neck gently, a quiet thank you for getting you two here safely, and turns around to look at you.

"What?" he asks when he finds you already looking at him with a smile on your face.

"You like that horse."

Joel doesn’t seem embarrassed anymore when you notice these things about him, just turns towards the animal again and runs his big palm over its fur.

"Yeah, I do. I like you, don’t I? You’re a good girl," he mumbles, watching as the mare starts sniffing the ground in search of something edible. 

The two of you sit down by the lakeside for a couple of minutes and you get out your water bottle, offering it to Joel, but as always he lets you have the first sip. It’s not yet warm from the day as you let it run down your throat. Joel watches you quietly.

"You ready to fulfill your duty to Jackson?"

 At his question you shrug, eyes drifting over the lake.

"I’m not overly fond of hunting," you admit. Joel chuckles.

"You’re the only girl still alive who has a problem with killin’ animals."

He’s right and you know it makes you soft. But you just can’t imagine running an arrow through that squirrel you saw, not when animals are so much better than people these days. You aren’t above violence, wouldn’t be here if you were, but living in Jackson means you have the luxury of morals again, and you’d rather work in the greenhouses or kitchen than hunt or fish, though you you’d never turn down a hot meal. It might be hypocritical to eat but not want to kill them, but you don’t care. Joel’s hand finds your waist, and he presses a kiss to your temple.

"I like that about you, honey lamb."

That nickname he started calling you not too long ago, when your relationship turned into what it is now. It reminds you of where he’s from, his life in the south before the world turned cruel, and you know it takes a lot for him to bare that side of him so incidentally. You rest your forehead on his shoulder, inhale his sweat and soap, let him pull you close to him.

"How about we spend the day just swimmin’, hm?"

At that you look up and into his kind whiskey-eyes.

"Tommy would kill us."

"Ain’t no need for Tommy to know. I’ll take you again next week, tell him you need a bit more practice."

A whole day in the sunshine with Joel, swimming and eating the food he packed, without worrying about fishing or food or raiders or patrols. It seems too good to be true, but you won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Instead, you press yours against Joel’s, his graying beard scratching your skin softly, and run your fingers through his hair.

"Alright, hoss."

Joel laughs, cups your face in his hands and kisses your forehead.

"Take off your clothes, then, little lady."

You raise an eyebrow, cheeks pulled taut with your smile, and Joel shakes his head.

"You got a dirty head on your shoulders. Can’t go swimmin’ in jeans, can you?"

"Can’t go swimming at all," you admit, "I don’t know how."

For a beat, Joel just stares at you. Then he gets up, joints cracking, and crosses his arms I front of his body.

"You tellin’ me nobody’s ever taught you how to swim?"

You shrug, then shake your head. Joel holds out his hand to you and pulls you to your feet.

"We can’t have that," he says decidedly, and runs his finger over your cheek. "Can’t have my girl drownin’ on me."

***

"Alright now. First thing, you ain’t gonna sink. I gotcha."

Joel’s hands are on your waist, you’re in the water to your bellybutton. It’s cold, but not cold enough to drown out the heat of his skin on yours.

"Don’t let me go," you mutter, your torso tense with anticipation, and Joel squeezes you just once.

"Not gonna let go, I promise. You don’t gotta trust the water if you trust me. Just ease on in, I’m here."

You breathe in and focus on the warm feeling for Joel you harbor in your chest, then let yourself sink into the water. It’s shallow, you know you could always touch the ground with your feet, and Joel’s hands hold you steadily, dependably. But suddenly something slimy touches your foot and you flinch, your arms and legs paddling wildly. Joel wraps a strong arm around your middle and pulls you towards him, until you’re upright again, your back against his front, though you won’t let your feet touch the ground.

"’S just a weed, sweetheart."

"It – it wrapped around my leg!"

"Might be a fish tryin’ to flirt."

The amusement is evident in his voice and you aim a kick at his shin, which earns you a rumbling laugh in response.

"Easy, baby, you’re okay. Ain’t nothin’ down there that wants a piece of you, I promise."

Slowly you extend your legs again until your toes dig into the soft sand. You breathe out shakily and Joel paints soothing circles into your skin with his thumb. You try again, now reassured that Joel will catch you if you panic, and this time you stay afloat for a couple of seconds with Joel still holding you securely.

"Good, that’s good. Now kick them legs, baby, and sweep your hands through the water. That’s it, easy does it."

It works – you’re moving through the water on your own, Joel still holding onto you and walking next to you, but more for reassurance than to help you stay afloat. It’s an exhilarating feeling to glide through the water like a fish, to trust that you will float.

"See? You got it."

He doesn’t let go just like he promised, and when you kick your legs towards the ground and turn towards him, he pulls you close to his naked chest. His eyes flicker downwards and he thumbs the strap of your bra.

"That thing turns see-through in the water," he informs you, his eyes light and twinkling with pride and something else.

"Does it now?" you breathe, legs still kicking with the effort of staying afloat. Joel hums, then pulls you up and towards him so you’re half lifted out of the water. His lips touch yours, and he tastes like lake water and sunshine and so distinctly like home. You melt against him, trust that he will hold you, and go still in his arms. Joel moves his mouth over your cheek to the point right below your earlobe, over your neck up to the soft part beneath your chin so you crane your neck for him.

"Wanna have you right here," he mutters, "give the fish something to talk about."

You chuckle, but his words barely register with how quickly Joel’s mood changed, how quickly he has you unravelling in his arms.

"Please," you mumble, and Joel moves his hand towards your crotch, pushes the fabric of your panties to the side, and runs his thick fingers through your folds. He prods at your entrance softly, rubs your clit lazily until you’re pliant and relaxed for him, then pushes two of his thick digits inside of you. You put your forehead on his shoulder and wrap your arms around his neck, panting into his wet skin. As always he’s slow with it, and for once you really are unhurried, even though it’s the middle of the day. Your fingernails dig into his neck when he curls his fingers against that spot inside of you, your wet chest pressing against his.

"There we go," Joel mumbles, working his fingers relentlessly until you barely register coming, your orgasm an easy flutter deep in your stomach. You whine when he slips his fingers out of you, and instead reaches inside his boxershorts.

"You ready to come like you oughta?"

"Yes," you answer breathily and feel him align himself with your entrance. There’s no slippery mess between your legs like usually, not while you’re in the water, but it only hurts for the first couple of seconds. He pushes into you slowly and you ease your hips towards him until he’s fully sheathed inside of you, letting you breathe for a moment. It’s quiet around you, the only sound the water whenever you move and the birds in the trees.

Joel fucks you slowly, and your eyes fall closed after a couple of thrusts, the sensation of the cooling water on your skin and his cock deep inside of you relaxing you completely. He’s soft with you, letting you go limp in his arms and doing almost all of the work, his hold on you secure.

"Hm, honey lamb? You gonna come for me again?"

His voice is so close to your ear you shudder and he presses a kiss to the shell, little groans floating right out of his mouth and into your ear.

"Yes," you moan softly, angling your hips as Joel’s thrusts hit your spot every time, and he reaches down to rub at your clit with one hand, holding you up with his other arm.

It doesn’t take you long, and you bite into his shoulder when you do.

"I love you," you mutter into his skin, and as always those three words are what gets Joel there. His hips stutter and he pumps his load deep inside of you, cock twitching and throbbing and not pulling out.

"I love you too, my darlin’."

***

The rest of the day you lie around on the sun-warmed flat rocks at the edge of the water, letting your underwear dry and Joel ogle you freely, not another soul in sight except for your horse. He feeds you slices of apple and bread, traces the little flecks of sunlight on your bare skin, kisses your eyelids when you drift off some time in the afternoon.

When you wake up again, he is swimming, his strong shoulders and legs moving through the water and exuding power the way a big cat does. You watch him dive, come up again and shake his head like a dog, then float on his back for a while. He’s enjoying this day just as much as you are, you can tell. Head of patrol, brother to Tommy, partner to you – he has got a lot of responsibility. You’re glad he gets this day to relax and in the quiet of the afternoon you think he might be humming to himself, though he’s too far away for you to be sure.

He gets out of the water when he notices you’re awake, dripping all over the rocks, and you shriek when he reaches you.

"No – no, Joel, I just dr-"

But he’s already on top of you, his full body weight pressing into yours the way you like it, and his lips find yours. Your protests are muffled and even though you shiver from the cold water, you melt under his mouth. He kisses you for what feels like hours, drags his mouth over your shoulders and collarbone down to your ribcage and stomach. You let him, close your eyes again and are half asleep when his mouth finds your core.

It’s not really about coming, more about closeness, as he sucks on your clit, your brain halfway between pleasure and sleep. It’s lazy, indulgent, slow. He nips at your inner thighs, spreads one big palm over your stomach. You sigh, and weave your fingers through his locks of hair.

When you’re done, he kisses you again, and you taste yourself on him, as he slowly pushes his tongue into your mouth. You spend ages like this, perhaps years or millennia, you aren’t sure.

"I love you," he mumbles into your mouth. "Gonna take you here every year."

You smile.

"Gonna tell Tommy I forgot how to fish each year?"

Joel hums and drags his nose over your neck.

"Gonna tell Tommy to fuck off and let me have a day with my girl."

You chuckle and kiss his cheek.

"Alright, hoss," you say again, just to hear him laugh at your impression of a southern girl.

"Alright, honey lamb," he answers.

[lucymmiller]

not my house but i know my way around

Joel and Ellie’s home btw…

This is what Ellie, a child who grew up in an orphanage/millitary school before meeting Joel, was able to call home…

Joel finding or making an E for Ellie’s room? How just from a set design perspective you can tell Joel made such an effort for this house to be theirs 😭

[lucymmiller]

sometimes i forget how old and gray and miserable joel is until he’s standing next to tommy and im like.. omg you senior citizen… 😛

hug hello // hug goodbye

[lucymmiller]

joel miller parks his truck as far away from the entrance of any building ever, and he says it’s so it doesn’t get scratched up, but it’s really because he likes the extra little bit of time walking with you

[lucymmiller]

this is so fucking good are you kidding me 😭😭

hard drive

pairing: joel in his 50s x OF/cam model f! reader

Lonely and with an empty nest, Joel seeks companionship through a beautiful woman on a screen. What begins as a nightly habit slowly unravels into something more blossoming.

word count - 7.5K

rating - E

chapter content - non outbreak au, ellie and sarah are in the picture, lonely empty-nester joel, age gap (reader is in her 20s-30s, joel is in his 50s), sex work, sex livestream, online relationship, sex toys, impure thoughts, digital intimacy, yearning, masturbation m! and f!, cyber sex, joel's savior complex comes out to play, two people just wanting to be seen

author's note - i'm hoping to write this in a few parts but i've just been so excited for this story. hope you enjoy!

Joel wakes before the sun. Not because he has somewhere to be—he never does—but because his body forgot how to sleep in. No alarm. No plan. Just muscle memory and stiff joints, trained by years of early mornings and long stretches of quiet.

He sits at the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees. The floor is cold. The kind of cold that climbs your spine and doesn’t let go. Eventually, habit wins out. It always does.

He makes his way to the kitchen by feel, not bothering with the overheads—just the little stove light, flickering once before settling. The cabinets groan when he opens them, like they haven’t been touched in days.

He moves slow. Measures out coffee with the kind of precision that has nothing to do with taste and everything to do with control.

One mug. Always just one.

The dog shuffles in, slower than he used to be, and leans his full weight into Joel’s leg with a soft thump. Joel reaches down, scratches behind his ears.

“Mornin’,” he mutters, like it’s routine. Because so little else is

The house is clean. Too clean. Not for anyone else. Just to keep the quiet from echoing. He wipes down counters that are already spotless. Folds laundry that doesn't need folding. It beats remembering what silence used to sound like, back when someone else filled it.

There’s a photo on the fridge. Sarah and her husband, hands cupped around the soft curve of her belly. Someone added a filter and printed it from one of those little Bluetooth machines, like it was meant to last longer that way.

Taped beneath it, Ellie’s postcard: a fox in the snow. The back a familiar scrawl.

“Dina and I met a guy playing slide guitar at a bar in Missoula. Thought of you. Hope the dog’s still kickin’. Miss you, old man.”

He rereads it while the coffee brews, even though he already knows it by heart. Smiles, faintly Thinks of the voicemail that followed—Ellie’s laugh, something loud and cluttered in the background, her voice getting swallowed up by joy.

Sarah sends updates every couple of weeks. Nursery paint swatches. Little socks lined up in a drawer. The secondhand glider they finally decided on. She asked if he wanted to visit. He said yes. Meant it. Told her not to worry when she said they were booked solid for the next month. Didn’t want her to feel bad for living. That’s what he wanted for both of them. What he’d fought for.

But pride doesn’t keep you warm when you reach for someone who isn’t there.

He drinks his coffee standing. Puts on a slow record—one of the scratched ones—and wipes down counters already clean.

The sponge squeaks across the surface, shrill in the quiet. He doesn’t stop until his fingers ache.

Phone in hand, he leans against the sink. One missed call from Sarah. A text from Ellie: 

Found a bakery with bear claws the size of your head. You’d love it.

He huffs a soft laugh. Thumb hovering over the call button. Doesn’t press it. He taps Tommy’s name. It only rings twice.

“Hey, big brother,” Tommy says, too chipper for how early it is. It grates and comforts all at once.

Joel rubs his jaw. “You busy?”

“Nah. Maria’s out walking. Tryin’ to get the baby to drop, y’know? She’s been waddlin’ like a penguin for days.”

Joel huffs a quiet laugh. “She doin’ alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. Tired. Hormonal as hell. But good. Real good.” He pauses. “She said to tell you hi. Said if Uncle Grumpy doesn’t show soon, the baby’s first word’s gonna be disappointment.”

Joel smiles, caught off guard. “Tell her I said hi back.”

“You oughta come out. Just for the weekend. Guest room’s made up. Kids keep askin’ when you’re comin’.”

“Been busy,” Joel mutters, though he knows it ain’t true.

Tommy doesn’t bite. “What, reorganizin’ your record shelf for the fifth time?”

Joel doesn’t answer. Tommy’s voice softens. “You know you’re allowed to leave the house, right? Maybe even meet somebody.”

Joel snorts. “Ain’t lookin’ to complicate things.”

“Doesn’t have to be complicated,” Tommy says. “Could just be… nice.”

Joel leans against the counter, presses his thumb into the wood until the skin goes white. “House is quiet now. Sarah’s doin’ her own thing, Ellie’s off travelin’. Kinda get used to the stillness. Don’t know if I’ve got it in me to stir it all up again.”

“I gotta say, sometimes it feels like you’re the one doin’ the leavin’, even when you stay put. We got a lotta noise here. Kids laughin’, cryin’, fightin’ over cereal. It’s a mess. But it’s a good mess. And I just…I wish you wanted to be in it more.”

Joel swallows hard. His voice is low when he finally says, “I do. I just… I don’t always know how.”

Tommy waits a beat, then says gently, “You don’t gotta say nothin’ else. Just show up. That’s all we want.”

“Anyway, just think about it,” Tommy continues. “Ain’t sayin’ you gotta jump on some damn dating app or whatever Maria keeps tryin’ to push. Just… you still got time, Joel. Time to not feel so goddamn alone.”

Joel doesn’t answer right away.

His eyes flick to the fridge. To the photo of Sarah and her husband—her hand on the swell of her belly. To the postcard Ellie sent, taped just beneath it.

He thinks about how long it’s been since someone touched him and it didn’t come from memory. Since someone looked at him and saw something other than history.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, finally.

Tommy nods. “That’s all I’m askin’.”

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That night, Joel sat at his desk and stared at the screen like it might blink first.

He told himself he was just looking up chords for “Misery and Gin.” Something slow. Familiar. His hands hadn’t moved like they used to—not without protest—but some part of him still remembered. Some part wanted to remember.

He scrolled past blurry chord charts and out-of-tune covers, fingers hovering over the trackpad.

And that’s when he saw it. A sidebar. Bright blocks of color. Looping videos with no sound. Just motion. Skin. Suggestion.

He didn’t click. Not right away.

But he didn’t look away, either. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about sex. Nights got long. Bed felt colder when there wasn’t anyone pulling the covers off him. Desire and loneliness—he knew how to bury both. He had gotten good at it.

But tonight? Something about that link—those flickering, low-res previews—felt like it might break the silence for five minutes.

So he clicked.

The page came up fast. A grid of previews filled the screen. Women in soft lighting. Some posing, others laughing. A few trying too hard. Too much gloss. Too much noise. He was already moving to close the tab—

Then he saw you. 

You were on the floor in a tank top and panties, legs crossed, holding a mug in both hands like you were trying to warm your fingers. Hair twisted up, a few loose strands framing your face. You were laughing at something off-screen, the kind that started low and cracked wide open.

Your stream title was simple:

Come keep me company 🤍

It felt...human. Not slick. Not cheap. Just lonely in a way that mirrored something in him.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he clicked again. The stream opened quietly. Music played in the background, something soft and hazy he didn’t recognize. You were mid-story, leaning forward a little, one hand tracing slow circles on your knee.

“…and I swear, the guy had no idea his mic was still on. Just kept ranting about almond milk like it had personally fucked him over.”

You laughed, bright and real, and Joel found himself smiling before he even realized it.

“Y’all are a great crowd tonight,” you said, eyes scanning the chat like you could actually see them. “So quiet. So well-behaved.”

Your gaze lingered a little longer on the lens, your voice softening just a touch. “Almost makes me wonder what you're all doing with your hands.”

Joel’s breath caught.

The shift wasn’t obvious. Barely there. But he felt it. Like a string pulled taut under the surface, low and steady and impossible to ignore.

When your hand moved down between your thighs, it wasn’t coy or careful. It was familiar. Confident. Like you’d done it a hundred times for yourself, and this just happened to be a night you left the door open. You didn’t angle for the camera. You didn’t make a show of it.

Joel felt it hit, sharp and sudden.

It was the kind of hunger he hadn’t known in years. The kind that snuck in low and hard, blooming through his abdomen and down his thighs until his whole body felt tight with it. His cock swelled thick against his sweats, already straining toward his waistband, the tip wet and sensitive in a way that made him flinch. He shifted in his seat, dragging a palm over his thigh like he could calm it down, but it didn’t help.

He hadn’t felt like this in a long time. The need to be seen. Touched. Pulled out of the quiet he’d settled into like a second skin.

The way you let yourself feel pleasure, without apology. Like you didn’t care who saw, or maybe forgot anyone was there at all. Your body tensed, lips parting, eyes fluttering shut, and Joel forgot how to breathe. He could feel it hit his chest like a fist, like your release had pulled something from him, too—left him clenching the mouse with one hand, straining in his sweats, the ache so sharp it almost felt like grief.

He wanted to touch himself. The urge was sharp, restless, pooling low in his stomach and pressing hard against his waistband. His cock was swollen, already leaking through the soft cotton of his sweats. Still, he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because watching you in the aftermath unraveled something in him. The way your chest rose and fell. The way your hand slipped away like it wasn’t needed anymore. You looked soft, dazed, like you’d chased what you needed and found it. There was no performance left in it. Just quiet satisfaction, the kind that came from doing it for yourself. And that wrecked him. Because it wasn’t about the camera. It wasn’t about who might be watching. You wanted it for you. And somehow, that made him want you more than anything else had in years.

You stretched, slow and sleepy, fingers brushing your collarbone before tucking your hair behind one ear. “Alright, lovers,” you murmured, voice low and lazy from the afterglow. “That’s it for me tonight. Be good to yourselves.”

Then you smiled—smaller this time, softer. Like you didn’t owe anyone anything.

The screen dimmed. The silence that followed hit harder than Joel expected.

He sat there in the dark, cock still aching, hand gone limp in his lap. His chest rose, then again—shaky. A breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, barely audible.

—--------------------------------------

Joel told himself he shouldn’t go back.

The first night had been a weak moment. Curiosity, loneliness, whatever excuse made it easier to swallow. He’d meant to leave it at that.

But the next night, he was there again.

A soft lamp glowed from your dresser, casting amber light across your skin. The bed was unmade. A blanket half-kicked to the side. You lay across the mattress, one leg bent, the other draped off the edge, body loose like you hadn’t thought twice about how it looked.

Music drifted low from a speaker—something slow, mostly rhythm and breath. Your laptop was propped up on a pillow. You scrolled through chat, smiling without speaking.

And then, without ceremony, your hand slid down.

Fingers skimmed your navel, lingered for a moment, then dipped lower. You eased your thighs apart, just enough to slip your hand between them. No warning. No shift in expression. Just movement. Fluid and natural. Like this was how your evenings ended—with your fingers between your legs and your head tipped back against the pillow.

Joel’s cock pulsed hard, already aching in his sweats. He adjusted slightly in his chair, trying not to grip the waistband, trying not to reach. But the pressure was relentless. Sharp and thick, the kind that settled low in his stomach and refused to fade.

On screen, your fingers moved slowly over the front of your panties. Rubbing yourself through the fabric at first, finding the rhythm like you’d done this a thousand times and didn’t need to think about it. Your hips shifted just a little, chasing the pressure. Then you slid the fabric aside.

His eyes were glued to the screen—completely still, breath shallow. You moved the fabric aside with practiced ease, revealing the slick pink of your pussy, soft and glistening in the low light. Folds delicate, lips plush and parted, the kind of sight that made Joel’s mouth go dry. He hadn’t seen something that pretty in years—maybe ever. Not like this. Not with someone so unabashed, so sure of herself it made his chest ache.

Joel sat frozen, the only movement the slow rock of his hips against the seat. His hand hovered, then rested low over his erection, thick and aching, tip already wet. He didn’t stroke. Just held. Let it throb in his grip, full of something he still wouldn’t take.

You came quietly, breath catching as your body arched, then folded in on itself. No theatrics. Just a soft, honest release. After, you stayed still, hand between your legs, chest rising slow, eyes fluttering open, dazed and distant.

It felt like you were alone. Like he shouldn’t be seeing this.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His cock pressed against his palm, dampening the fabric, desperate for relief. He could’ve finished. Easily. But he didn’t.

Not while you looked like that. Unguarded. Untouched by anyone but yourself. He didn’t want to ruin it. He just wanted to stay with you.

—---------------------------------------------------------------

What brought Joel back night after night was your voice.

You talked easy and warm, like every stranger mattered. You laughed without trying to sound cute. You filled silence without making it heavy. And somehow, you didn’t feel far away.

You felt like something he didn’t know he was still allowed to want.

Some nights he barely watched, just let your stream play while he tuned his guitar or shuffled through things that didn’t need fixing. Other nights, like this one, he sat still and just... listened. Let your voice fill the room. Like keeping an eye on you made something in him settle.

Still, his body betrayed him. The arousal came fast and hard—sharp, familiar, and constant. It would’ve been easy to give in. Just a few strokes, one imagined moan, and he’d be gone.

But he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

Because this wasn’t just lust. Not anymore. It was habit. It was comfort. It was the only way he knew to make sure you were okay. And that felt more important than getting off.

But tonight, something shifted.

Some asshole in the chat wouldn’t stop spamming your name—asking for attention, pushing boundaries, demanding things like he was owed them. You ignored him once. Twice. But Joel saw it—the way your shoulders tensed, the flicker of strain in your smile.

Something in him lit up.

That old reflex. The one that used to kick in when Sarah got hurt or Tommy ran his mouth too far. Protective. Immediate. Automatic.

You weren’t his. He knew that. You’d probably seen worse. But he made an account anyway.

Didn’t think about the name. Just typed it out. LoneStar67. One message. Direct.

“Drop it.”

The guy didn’t stop right away. Of course not. But Joel kept at it. Quiet, steady. No threats. Just presence. Control. Something that said, enough.

Eventually, the chat went quiet.

And then you looked up. Read the name out loud. Smiled, soft and real.

“Thank you, LoneStar67.”

Joel felt it deep in his chest. Like he’d just been handed something he didn’t know he needed.

His cock still ached, worse now. He glanced down and found his hand already there, pressed firm through the fabric, knuckles white.

This time, he didn’t stop.

He slid his palm lower, fingers curling around the thick shape beneath his waistband. His breath caught. Head tilted back just slightly. Your voice still filled the room.

He didn’t move fast.

Didn’t stroke.

Just held.

Because right now, it wasn’t about getting off. It was about being here. About knowing you felt safe again. About the way your voice softened when the tension left your shoulders. The way you said his name.

Even if you didn’t know who he was.

—--------------------

You noticed him right away after that night.

LoneStar67.

It wasn’t just the way he shut that guy down—it was the way his name kept showing up after, quiet but constant. If someone in the chat got pushy or crude, there he was. A short message. Just enough to let them know someone was watching. Someone had your back.

You started seeing the pattern. He didn’t flood the chat or toss out tips to get your attention. He wasn’t flashy. But he was always there. Right when your stream started, right until the end. He didn’t say much—just enough to let you know he was watching.

Especially the night your setup gave you hell. The ring light kept shorting, the whole stream lagged, and someone was already mouthing off in the chat about the delay. You were two seconds from snapping when you caught it:

LoneStar67: “Take your time. We’re here.”

You smiled. Couldn’t help it. The timing, the tone—it calmed you instantly.

“I appreciate it, LoneStar,” you said, glancing at the screen. It wasn’t flirtatious. Not really. But your voice softened. Warmer than you meant.

His reply came a beat later.

LoneStar67: “Just looking out.”

You waited, eyes lingering on his name, expecting more. Hoping, maybe. But nothing else came. And for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, that left you a little bummed.

The restraint was… curious. Maybe even a little frustrating. Your chat could be a mess—commands, crude asks, things no one would dare say face to face. But not him. Never him.

And that made you wonder. Why not? Was he older? Married? Just not interested? Or was it something else you couldn’t quite place?

You started testing it. Little things. Slower moves. Softer light. Holding eye contact with the lens a bit longer. Letting your voice drop, just enough.

Still nothing from him. No shift. No reaction.

Just that steady presence. Quiet. Watching. Always there.

So one night, you decided to make it obvious. Just for him.

You figured with his username this would grab his attention. You pulled on an old Texas Longhorns t-shirt before the stream—soft from years of wear, thin enough to cling, tight enough to tease. No bra. Your nipples pressed against the fabric, dark and visible in the low amber light. You didn’t mention it. Just let it sit on your skin, casual and deliberate.

Half an hour in, you straddled the toy, slow and steady. No theatrics. Just the grind of your hips, the quiet rhythm of need building under your skin. The hum of background music filled the silence, and you let yourself get lost in the feel of it—wet and aching, slick thighs tightening with every shift.

But what made you wetter wasn’t the toy. It was the idea of him. Watching. Wanting. Sitting in the dark somewhere, jaw tense, cock hard, hand still.

You scanned the chat, barely blinking. Waiting.

And then–

LoneStar67: "Look at you."

It hit you like a pulse. Low and hot. Straight between your legs.

You held eye contact with the camera a little longer after that. Slowed your hips. Let your hand drift lazily over your stomach, slipping just under the hem of the shirt like it meant nothing.

You didn’t say his name. Didn’t call him out.

But your smile turned knowing—small and secret, meant for someone.

“Thought you might be here,” you murmured, soft enough it could’ve been for anyone.

But it wasn’t. And you both knew it.

—--------------------------------------

Something in Joel cracked open.

His cock had been hard for minutes, straining against his sweats, aching for relief. His hand had just been resting there—like that meant it didn’t count.

But this time, he moved.

Fingers slipped under the waistband, wrapped around the heat of it. Thick. Leaking. He dragged his thumb up the length, breath catching, hips twitching forward.

And then—without thinking—he typed something.

He almost shut the tab. Almost backed out before it could matter.

But then you smiled.

Small. Soft. Like you knew.

“Thought you might be here,” you said.

That was all it took.

Joel gripped himself and stroked, slow and steady, matching your rhythm. One hand on the desk, holding still. Eyes locked on your body. Pretending it wasn’t a screen. Pretending it was real.

He came harder than he meant to.

Joel stayed even as the stream slowed to its quiet end.

You’d already come, already slipped into the soft hum of your wind-down voice, talking aimlessly about your day. Nothing special. Just the little things. But he listened. Still. Like always.

His body was loose, spent, but his mind hadn’t gone quiet. If anything, it felt clearer. Calmer. His shoulders had dropped without him noticing—more relaxed than they’d been in weeks. Maybe longer.

Then came the ping.

A soft sound. Barely there. He almost didn’t check.

But it was you.

Hey.

He blinked. Stared at the screen, like it might change. Like maybe it wasn’t meant for him.

Replies flooded his head. All wrong. Too eager. Too cold. Too much.

He typed what felt real.

Hey.

You answered fast. Said you couldn’t sleep. Said the stream had you wired. He told you he felt the same. Conversation unfolded slow from there—gentle, unhurried. The kind that made time slip by.

Then you said it.

Thanks for always showing up. For making the space feel a little safer.

Joel read it twice. Three times. His hand hovered over the keyboard.

Then he typed.

Didn’t mean to cross a line earlier. That comment—‘look at you.’ I just… I didn’t want you thinkin’ I’m some creepy old man.

A pause. He exhaled. Rubbed a hand over his jaw.

It had been a long time since a woman messaged him like this. Since he let someone see even a part of him.

Your reply came quick.

You didn’t. That’s why I liked it.

Joel froze.

It had been a long time since anyone flirted with him. Or really saw him at all—soft around the edges, a little unsure, worth noticing for more than what he could do. Most days, Joel didn’t feel like the kind of man someone teased. He felt useful. Reliable. The guy you called when something broke, not the one you stayed up thinking about.

He didn’t respond right away.

And just when he started to wonder if he’d let the moment slip, another message popped up. Like you’d waited for him, then stepped in to carry the silence.

Not gonna lie, I kinda liked that you couldn’t hold back… kinda surprised you’re even here, to be honest.

He stared at the screen for a long beat. Then:

Only reason I’m here’s you. Always has been.

You blinked. Stared longer than you meant to. You’re shocked at how it didn’t feel like a line to you. Just honest. 

You blinked once, then typed:

This? Me in a Texas tee with a half-dead ring light and an anxiety twitch? This is the highlight of your night?

He didn’t answer right away. You figured maybe you’d overplayed it—too much snark—but then:

Well damn, you forgot the part where you made me lose my mind for fifteen minutes straight.

The rest came easy after that.

You asked what he did. He kept it vague—said he worked with his hands, mostly. Construction, repairs, whatever needed doing. You joked that he was a walking fantasy, and he told you to cut it out.

You asked what brought him to your stream in the first place.

You told him about your first stream—how awkward it felt, how long you spent picking an outfit no one cared about. Lit candles you didn’t even like.

“And now?” he asked.

A pause. Then:

“Now I care more about who’s watching.”

The hours passed without either of you noticing. Conversation drifted from music to bad dates. Joel laughed hard at a story about your ex and a botched roleplay scene. His dog was curled up at his feet. A low playlist hummed in the background. He wondered what you were listening to. What your room looked like. If you were sitting cross-legged or curled up in bed.

His clock ticked past 2 AM.

“I should probably get some sleep,” you typed. “My legs are killing me. Haven’t moved since nine.”

And Joel hated how much he didn’t want the night to end. Before Joel could figure out how to sign off, another message popped up.

“I don’t really do this…But you don’t seem like a creep. So if you want to… you could text me?” 

“On one condition.” You continued. 

He stared at that part.

“I get to know your real name.”

His thumb was already reaching for his phone. He opened a new message.

Hey. It’s Joel.

—-----------------------------------------

You started texting the next morning.

Just a quick “hey” from you, a dry “mornin” from him.

But it didn’t stop.

You talked all day. Every day.

You sent photos of your breakfast with dumb captions. He teased you about burnt toast. He learned your routine—when you streamed, when you went to the gym, how you took your coffee with oat milk and exactly three ice cubes. You loved little things. Old songs. Warm socks. Inside jokes.

You learned he liked quiet mornings. That he kept to himself. That he was always fixing something, even when no one asked. He told you about Texas, about music, about the old mutt curled up at his feet most nights.

Not everything, though.

He still hadn’t told you his age. You hadn’t asked—but he knew you could tell. In the way he spoke. In the quiet pauses. The wall wasn’t to push you away, just to protect whatever was left standing behind it.

But you still stayed. So when you went live a few nights later, Joel didn’t hesitate.

He was already logged in.

And there you were.

Hair down, soft light behind you, something low playing through your speaker, more atmosphere than music. You stretched across the bed, one knee bent, eyes locked on the camera with that look he was starting to recognize as you typed on your phone.

Coy. Quietly smug. Like you knew something he didn’t.

Like you were waiting for him to catch it.

His phone buzzed.

You: You watching, LoneStar?

His chest tightened. Fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Him: Course I am.

You smiled. Slow. Like you could feel him watching. Like you knew exactly who his eyes were on.

Then came another message.

You: Been thinking about doing a private stream soon… Not for just anyone, though.

Joel’s stomach tightened.

He shifted in his chair, legs spreading without thinking, cock aching hard against his sweats. His hand twitched at his thigh, wanting to move. Just a little.

But this time, he didn’t pull back.

Your message sat on the screen—innocent on its own, but with your voice, your gaze right into the lens like you were looking straight at him—it felt intimate. Intentional.

Joel exhaled slowly. Ran a hand over his face, then down to his phone.

Him: Not just anyone, huh? Then yeah. I’d love to.

You looked into the camera and smiled—bright, excited. The kind of smile that made something flutter deep in his chest.

Then his phone buzzed again.

You: Can’t wait to see the handsome man I’ve been talking to.

—----------------------------------------

The stream had ended twenty minutes ago.

Joel was still at his desk, hands curled loose in his lap, heart thudding like he was waiting for something he shouldn’t want.

The room was dark now, lit only by the low glow of his monitor. Your last words still echoed in his head. That smile. The way you said you couldn’t wait to see him.

He should’ve let it go. Signed off. Gone to bed like he always did. Instead, he sat there. Waiting.

Then it came.

Incoming Video Chat Request 

His stomach dropped.

For a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. You were asking to see him. Not just hear his voice. And that terrified the hell out of him.

What if you saw him and changed your mind?

What if all the little things you liked, the quiet jokes, the steadiness, the care, what if none of that mattered once you saw the lines on his face? The gray in his beard? The years?

What if all you saw was a lonely old man?

Joel stood too fast, ran a hand through his hair. Wiped both palms down the front of his jeans like it might settle him. It didn’t.

He tapped out a quick reply:

One sec.

Then paused. Looked around his room like it might offer reassurance.

It didn’t.

He angled the webcam low, kept the frame tight—just his chest, his collarbone, his flannel. Just enough to ease into it. Just enough to hide the parts of himself he wasn’t ready to offer yet.

Then he hit accept. The screen lit up.

There you were.

Propped against the same pillow he recognized from your streams. Makeup still fresh. Hair mussed just enough to be real. Your lips were a little pink at the edges, like you’d been chewing on them out of nervousness.

And when you saw him, you smiled. Bright. Unfiltered. Not performative. Just you.

Joel’s breath caught. His throat went tight. But he kept his voice steady, even if the edges frayed a little.

“Fair warnin’,” he said, rough and low. “You ain’t gonna like what you see.”

“Joel, there’s not a single version of you I wouldn’t want to look at right now.” You smiled. 

He didn’t move.

Just sat there, fingers curled around the edge of the desk, your words sinking slow and heavy into a part of him he’d kept quiet for years. He hesitated—then reached for the camera.

He adjusted it, tipped it and let you see the real Joel Miller. 

—--------------------------------------

You weren’t sure what you expected.

But when the screen shifted and Joel’s face came into view, it knocked the air out of you.

He was handsome.

Not in some curated, filtered kind of way. Not like the men who filled your inbox with flexed arms and forced smiles. Joel looked real. Solid. The kind of man you could lean into without thinking twice.

There were lines around his eyes, a heaviness in the set of his mouth—worn in, not worn out. His hair was swept back, going gray at the edges. Stubble roughened his jaw like he’d tried to shave and changed his mind halfway through. His collar was loose, his shoulders broad, but he sat stiff like he didn’t quite believe he belonged here.

And still—he looked at you. Let you look back.

No mask. No pose.

“Holy shit, Joel. You’re hot, you know that?”

Joel looked up, caught off guard. A quiet huff left his chest as he shook his head. “You need your eyes checked.”

You grinned, settling your chin in your hand. “No, I don’t. I just finally get to say it to your face.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched you. A little softer now. Like he wasn’t waiting for the joke to land or the punchline to come.

The conversation drifted after that. Nothing big. You told him about your day. He listened. You teased him once or twice, watched his mouth twitch like he might actually smile. He shifted in his chair, rubbed the back of his neck, but stayed right there.

At one point, you leaned in a little, voice quieter now. “I like the way you look at me.”

His gaze sharpened just enough to feel it. Then he said it. Low. Real.

“You’re somethin’ else.”

“You mind if I ask how old you are?” you asked, voice soft, almost careful.

Joel hesitated. His jaw flexed once. That old instinct to pull back, to guard what little he still kept close, flickered through him.

“Fifty-six,” he said finally, voice rough.

He waited for the shift. The flicker in your expression. The math behind your eyes. That quiet recalibration he’d seen before, where interest dulled just slightly.

But it didn’t come.

You smiled. “Good. I like knowing.”

And just like that, something in his chest let go. You weren’t trying to flatter him. You weren’t fishing. 

Still, he didn’t relax all the way. Not when you leaned in a little more, voice dropping low.

“I don’t usually do this,” you said. Honest. No act. No script.

“I know.” Joel’s voice was quiet. “Didn’t figure you did.”

You looked at him then, really looked. “But I wanted you to see me.”

His pulse kicked up.

He’d been trying to be good. Careful. Not let this slide into something it wasn’t supposed to be. Because you weren’t just some girl on a screen. You were funny. Smart. Warm. And if he fucked this up by giving in too fast, by making it about his need instead of yours, he didn’t know if he’d forgive himself.

But the way you were looking at him now, there was no mistaking it.

“I been seein’ you,” he said. Soft. True.

That did something to you. He could see it, the way your body shifted, the way your mouth parted just slightly.

Then your fingers slipped to the hem of your shirt, slow and sure.

“Wanna keep looking?” you asked.

And Joel didn’t have a single good reason to say no.

You lifted your shirt slowly, letting it rise over your stomach, then higher. There was no act to it, no script. Just skin and intention. Your breasts were soft in the glow of the screen, nipples already tight, a flush blooming across your chest. You didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. This was yours. And it was for him.

Joel watched like he’d never seen anything so real. Like he didn’t want to miss a second. His eyes followed every line of you, slow and careful, like he was trying to memorize all of it.

You heard a quiet shift on his end, the rustle of fabric. His chest rose quicker now. His hands stayed out of frame, knuckles flexed tight against the edge of the desk. But still, he didn’t move.

He was trying to be careful. Trying not to break something that already felt too good to be real.

You looked into the camera.

“Joel,” you said, soft but sure. “You don’t have to hold back.”

His breath hitched.

“I’m trying not to,” he said, voice low. “Just don’t wanna turn this into somethin’ it’s not. Don’t wanna turn you into that.”

“I know that,” you said gently. “And you’re not.”

Something in him loosened. Just slightly.

Then your hand moved lower, fingers slipping between your thighs. Not to perform. Just to let him see. To let him in.

Joel’s breath caught.

And this time, he didn’t fight it.

He let himself want. Let himself feel it—your trust, your body, your eyes on him like he was worth watching.

Like you’d chosen him.

You stayed like that for a moment, bare and open, your hand resting between your thighs, breath shallow. The silence between you wasn’t tense, it was thick with something else. Anticipation. Want. Trust.

Then you shifted back slightly on the bed, the movement slow, deliberate. Your legs parted just enough to let the shorts ride higher on your hips. The fabric was thin, soft, and now visibly damp, clinging to the heat between your thighs. You weren’t wearing anything underneath.

Joel’s eyes dropped.

His breath faltered.

He didn’t speak, but everything about him shifted. His grip on the desk tightened, jaw locked like he was holding back something feral. You could feel it through the screen, the way his want built like a storm in his chest.

Your fingers moved, just a light press, a soft rub through the cotton, and his reaction was instant. A sharp exhale. His eyes flicked up to your face, then down again, like he couldn’t decide which part of you he wanted to burn into memory first.

He didn’t try to hide it anymore.

One arm moved out of frame, slow and controlled. His shoulder lifted, and you could picture it—his hand wrapping around his cock, thick and aching, slick at the tip, finally giving in to what he’d been holding back since the second you lifted your shirt.

He let himself have you now. All of you. Your flushed skin, your parted lips, your fingers slipping beneath your shorts, your breath catching every time your eyes locked on his.

You moved for him. He touched himself for you.

And in that moment, it didn’t feel like performance. It felt like confession.

“I can tell you take care of everybody else,” you said softly, your voice a slow pour of warmth. “Always carrying something for someone.”

It landed hard. Too real to dodge.

Your fingers moved between your thighs again, slow and wet, breath catching softly.

“So how about tonight,” you whispered, “you take care of yourself?”

Joel exhaled rough through his nose. One hand slid out of frame, slow like he still wasn’t sure he should.

“Don’t gotta be perfect,” you breathed. “You don’t have to prove anything. Just let go. You’re allowed to feel good.”

He wrapped his fingers around his cock, thick and flushed in his palm. He moved slow at first, like he didn’t trust the moment to stay. Like if he went too fast, it would vanish.

Then your voice hit him again.

Low. Sweet. Just a little wrecked.

“Jesus, Joel.”

His eyes stayed low, focused on the desk, breath dragging through clenched teeth. His thumb swept up the length, catching at the tip, already wet.

Then came the next part—softer, almost a hum.

“Of course you’d have a cock like that.”

Joel froze for half a second.

It unsettled him because it landed too deep. Like it carved a space in him. No one said shit like that to him. Not like they meant it.

He groaned low in his chest, the sound pulled from somewhere he hadn’t touched in years.

“Touch yourself, baby,” you murmured. “Don’t stop. I want to watch you feel good.”

His hand moved faster, strokes slick and tight. His legs were spread wide beneath the desk, his body tense, trembling with restraint. His jaw clenched, face flushed. Mouth slack now. Every part of him undone.

You whispered again, filthier this time, and that was it. “Cum for me, please.” 

He came with a groan—raw, guttural. His body jolted forward as he spilled over his hand, across his stomach, soaking the band of his jeans. His eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving, hand still gripping tight around the base like he couldn’t let go yet.

And for once, he didn’t feel ashamed.

Because when he looked back at the screen, you were still there. Still watching. Still smiling.

He saw the way your body moved, how your thighs trembled, your hips rocking into your hand. You tipped your head back, mouth falling open, trying to stifle a moan that still made it through, low and needy.

Joel couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. He watched you unravel, cheeks flushed, lips parted, your fingers working tight between your legs like you couldn’t stop now, not with his eyes on you.

He should’ve been spent. Should’ve leaned back and let the moment settle.

But the sound of your orgasm wrecked him. The sight of you shaking, breathless and needy, pushed him past any thought of restraint. He imagined what you'd look like if it were his hands making you feel that way, his mouth, his fingers, his body over yours, pulling those sounds from you until you broke apart beneath him. The fantasy hit too hard, too fast, and it lit something up in him again.

His hand moved before he could stop it. Gripped the base, already half-hard again, his cock twitching in his fist. He stroked once, breath catching, the weight of it still hot and slick in his palm.

Then again.

He let out a moan, surprised by how quickly it built, how sharp the second release hit him. His cock throbbed, twitching hard as more cum spilled over his hand, thick and warm. His chest rose fast, jaw clenched as his body trembled through it.

He hadn’t expected to come again. Not like that.

But with you still spread out on the screen, flushed and wrecked and smiling just for him—there was no holding anything back.

You looked so goddamn beautiful like that. Skin flushed. Chest rising slow. Eyes lidded but still on him.

He didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t find the words that fit.

He glanced around, hand sticky, breath still uneven, and realized he hadn’t thought this far ahead. No towel in reach. No plan for what came after.

He muttered something under his breath and stood, shifting the laptop with him out of habit. The camera wobbled a little, then tilted just enough to show you more than he probably meant to. A glimpse of worn floors, a shelf full of records, a lived-in couch draped with a throw blanket. The hallway behind him was dim but warm, the kind of space that looked like it held stories.

You perked up, chin resting on your arm. “Wait… are you giving me a tour now?”

Joel glanced at the screen, caught off guard. “Wasn’t tryin’ to.”

Your grin widened. “Too late. I’m already invested. Keep going.”

He shot you a look but didn’t argue. Kept the camera propped up on the counter while he grabbed a towel from a nearby drawer. You watched his shoulders roll as he cleaned himself off, muscles shifting under the soft fabric of his shirt, the flushed line of his stomach still visible.

“You always this prepared?” you teased.

“Usually just this messy,” he said, drying his hands. But his voice was light. More open than it had been minutes ago.

You kept watching. Not for the view—not just for that—but because this was him. Unfiltered. A little awkward. A little shy. You liked him like this.

He caught the way your eyes lingered on his body. The slow curl of your mouth. It made something settle low in his stomach again, not arousal, not exactly. Just the comfort of being seen. Of being wanted.

He sat back down, pulled the laptop closer, cleared his throat.

“Hope that was alright,” he said, voice low. Like it wasn’t the best thing he’d felt in years.

You smiled, soft and sure. “Joel, it was perfect.”

His stomach pulled tight again. Not with heat, but something deeper. Something that ached in a better way.

You were curled back on the bed now, one arm tucked beneath your head, the other resting lightly across your stomach. The screen lit your face in soft gold. You looked relaxed. Real. Still watching him.

Neither of you said anything for a while. The silence felt soft and settled, like a blanket pulled up after a long day.

Joel leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out under the desk. You asked if he always kept his place that clean. He chuckled, said no, not unless company was coming over, which earned a sleepy grin from you.

You shifted on the bed, asked about the records behind him. He told you about the stack he kept by the player. One was missing a sleeve. You teased him about that, said it gave character. He said he liked that word.

And just like that, you were back in it. Conversation easy again, like nothing had happened — or maybe like everything had, but it didn’t scare either of you off. Just made the air between you feel more certain.

Something had changed. Quietly. Without either of you naming it.

You broke it gently. Voice low, half-muffled by your pillow.

“I know I keep saying this, but I really don’t usually do this with other viewers. The texting, the private streams. Any of that.”

Joel laughed once, soft. “Me either.”

You looked at him again, more serious now. “But I’m glad it was with you.”

Joel didn’t know what to say to that. Just nodded. You yawned. Shifted a little deeper into your pillow.

“You gonna text me in the morning?”

His voice came quieter this time. “Yeah. I will.”

And he meant it. He stayed on the call long after you fell asleep, watching the soft rise and fall of your chest. The way your lips parted. The sound of your breathing, steady in his ears.

When he finally closed the laptop, the room felt too quiet.

But for the first time in years, the quiet didn’t feel empty.

It felt full.

Like something had started.

And this time, he didn’t want to let it go.

[lucymmiller]

just watched materialists, and oh my goodness!!!!! stylistically stunning in a way that differs from what we’ve seen from celine song so far, but you can still tell that it’s her artistic expression behind the camera. i have yet to really think about the film in more depth, but in general, i adored it and think it’ll make its mark in modern romances.

[lucymmiller]

SEE YOU AT THREE

chapter twenty-three: MOMENTUM

🌟 a no-outbreak!joel miller series 🌟

RATING: Explicit (18+ only) | PAIRING: Joel x ofc (reader format/pov) WORD COUNT: 9.3k CW: Smut (unprotected piv, dirty talk but like... romantic? nelle runs her mouth basically, creampie), characters are a little tipsy when they hook up but are sound of mind & very enthusiastically consenting, implied panic attack/aerophobia.

read from the beginning | series masterlist | main masterlist

SUMMARY: You and Joel return to the hotel, then to Austin.

CHAPTER PREVIEW:

Joel tilts his head to lick into your mouth, crushing his nose against your cheek. “Killin’ me all night,” he mumbles, voice wrecked. Then kisses you again, letting out a soft grunt that dissolves into a breathless, “So fucking beautiful.” And your body throbs, all of it. Every inch of you dizzy as you claw at his lapels, yanking his suit jacket down the brawn of his arms as you moan into his mouth. Though nothing that happened tonight has changed anything between the two of you, your hunger feels different now. Urgent, life-tilting. Like if anything were to pull you apart in this moment, your heart might give out. Is it the ballroom you left behind? Your ghost inside it. The fact that Joel came all this way to watch you say goodbye, looked all you couldn’t make work in the eye, and still wants you. Maybe wants you more. He can’t stop bucking against you, knees bent to rock his length against your hips, and shoves one thick leg between yours to give you something to squirm on as his jacket snaps away and to the floor. 

read chapter 23 on ao3. *available for registered ao3 users. more info here

💌 you can follow @foxglovenotifs and turn on notifications or subscribe on ao3 to get alerts for future updates!

dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

[lucymmiller]

tween!sarah who was obsessed with watching ocean documentaries and dad!joel who quietly prayed to be able to save enough money to take her scuba diving one day

[lucymmiller]

Harry Castillo was not a romantic man.

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

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

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

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

He didn’t look up from his drink.

“They?”

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t laugh.

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

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

Simone didn’t blink.

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

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

“You want me to find someone.”

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

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

“And if I don’t?”

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

He sighed, jaw clenching. The drink went untouched.

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

୨♡୧

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

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

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

She was halfway through her third slide.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sighed like it physically hurt him to care.

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

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

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

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

୨♡୧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

୨♡୧

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t say a word.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[lucymmiller]

something like easy ; chapter 2

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Synopsis: The dreaded burnout. The bar. Temptation that holds you too tight. The second Miller brother. The peace offering. Warnings: no use of y/n, reader is referred to as 'ma'am' on occasion and she/her, domestic fluff, slow burn, tension, maternal fluff, bonding over sarah, dialogue heavy, tommy flirts with u duhh. joel is awkward.

w.c 6.5k

It had been four, maybe five days since things had really started to press in on you.

The rhythm was familiar by now: mornings in Joel’s truck, Sarah in the backseat humming along to the radio; afternoons just the same, your bag heavier with ungraded papers and your brain swimming with numbers—how much the car would cost, how much was left in your account, how many hours you could scrounge up after school without breaking.

A part-time job didn't seem too bad. Right? You can handle it. Waitressing on the side.

You picked up every extra duty they’d give you.

Club meetings. Event prep. Lunchtime supervision. Anything.

You even looked up local cafés and evening retail shifts, half-drafting applications you never had the energy to submit.

It wasn’t sustainable. The exhaustion clung to your bones. You hadn’t truly slept in days, not full REM sleep, not with your brain turning like it did—worry bleeding into the sheets.

There were times you’d sit down to grade and stare at a sentence for ten full minutes, not even seeing it.

You felt dimmed, like a bulb on its last few flicks.

And still—you showed up. Every morning. You smiled at Sarah. You thanked Joel. You adjusted your blouse in the rearview mirror like it would somehow fix the dark circles under your eyes.

It didn't.

That Thursday, as the sun started to dip and the school building cleared out, you sat in your classroom, alone. Half the overhead lights were off, casting the room in a warm orange hush. A half-eaten granola bar rested next to your gradebook. You hadn’t touched it in hours.

You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes, leaning back until the chair creaked beneath you. The sigh that slipped from your lips was long, heavy—like it might drain the weight from your chest if you gave it enough room.

His scent reached you before his voice did—earthy and worn, something between whiskey and cedar. It wasn’t strong, not overwhelming, just… him. Like the smell had sunk into his skin over time, something he carried without meaning to.

The knock was soft. Just a few quiet taps on the threshold—gentle enough to be polite, familiar enough to need no introduction.

“You’re early,” you murmured, voice low as you blinked at the clock through tired, stinging eyes. “Sarah’s got soccer today.”

“I know.” Joel stepped inside like he’d done it a hundred times, his gaze flicking to the posters tacked up on the walls—half inspiration, half personality. The whiteboard still wore the day’s lesson in fading marker. “Tommy’s pickin’ her up at four.”

You shifted slightly, angling your head toward him without lifting it fully, attention still caught on the half-graded papers scattered at your side.

“I ain’t here for Sarah,” he added after a pause, stepping closer—measured, easy. The kind of slow he did when something mattered.

Then, quietly—no softness in the words, but not unkind, either: “You need a break.”

"Oh?" You huffed, mock-nodding, your head tilting towards the paper, "You wanna grade thirty essays?"

He ran his tongue along the front of his teeth, fighting the grin. He did that a lot with you—kept the smile tucked away.

“I was thinkin’ of gettin’ you a drink,” he said, his voice low but not quite serious.

You didn’t look up right away. Just let your pen tap against the margin of a half-finished sentence, your eyes lingering on someone’s run-on paragraph.

Fuck, a drink would be nice.

Then you exhaled through your nose, something between tired and amused.

“A drink,” you echoed, finally glancing up at him. “It’s three-thirty on a Tuesday.”

"Almost four," He shrugged, hands in his pockets. “So we’ll call it a late lunch.”

You leaned back again, this time slower, letting the plastic chair groan under your weight. “Joel Miller, are you tryin’ to kidnap a public school employee?”

He chuckled at that—low, rough around the edges. “Nah. Just lookin’ to borrow you for an hour. Maybe two.”

Your eyes lingered on him—tired but soft.

He looked like he hadn’t slept much either.

Callused hands, that ever-present tension in his shoulders, the kind that didn’t come from work alone. Single father. Business owner.

But, nonetheless, he wanted to take you out.

You. He was worried about you.

"You don't gotta rescue me, you know," you murmured, quieter now. "I can handle a little burnout."

He tilted his head, brow raised just enough to make the next words land a little heavier.

"Yeah, I know,"

"Doesn't mean it doesn't owe you a lil' whiskey."

And there it was—that quiet way he showed up. Not with grand gestures. Just a knock on your door and the offer of something warm when the world felt cold.

You glanced at the pile of essays again. Then at him.

"Give me five minutes," you said, already capping your pen. "And you're buying."

The bar wasn’t quiet, but it was the kind of noise you could sink into. Familiar. Low music, worn leather stools, fairy lights draped like an afterthought, and the clack of pool balls from the back corner.

The regulars barely looked up when you walked in.

Joel didn’t hesitate. “The usual,” he murmured, a slight nod toward the bartender.

The usual? That caught you off guard.

So this is a haunt. His haunt.

He gestured toward you, voice dipping lower. “Coke and rum.”

The bartender was already reaching for the bottle.

You leaned one elbow on the bar, the wood cool beneath your skin. “Just because I teach middle schoolers doesn’t mean I drink like one.”

Joel huffed—more breath than sound—and turned his head toward you, one brow arched, amused.

“You sayin’ that like a Coke and rum ain’t got bite.”

You gave him a look over the rim of your glass, once it was slid your way. “I’m sayin’ I expected you to go straight whiskey. Maybe even neat.”

He shrugged, taking a sip of his own. “That’s for the nights that don’t end well.”

You matched his pace, a slow sip, eyes not leaving his. “And what kinda night is this?”

He paused—just enough to let the silence hang a little longer than it should have. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to answer, or wasn’t sure if he should.

“That depends,” he said finally. “You plannin’ to grade essays the whole time we’re here?”

You smiled into your drink. “You gonna talk the whole time we’re here?”

His laugh cracked the air between you—quiet but warm. The kind that settled in your chest longer than it should.

“You tryin’ to get rid of me already?”

“No,” you said, too quickly. Then softened it. “Just… keepin’ my distance.”

His gaze settled on you—slow, steady. Not heavy, but intentional.

“Yeah.”

You looked away first. The lights caught the rim of your glass as you turned it in your hand, fingers restless.

“Lines get blurry fast,” you murmured.

“Only if we cross 'em.” That damn southern drawl.

“And if we already have?”

He didn’t answer—not with words. Just tapped the edge of his glass against yours, a soft clink in the space between heartbeats.

“To blurry lines,” he said.

You smiled—tired, wry, a little too knowing.

. . .

Maybe the Coke and rum did have a bite.

Or maybe it was just the heat rising in your chest—the kind that didn’t come from alcohol at all.

You laughed anyway, a little too loud, a little too surprised at yourself, and leaned further into the bar.

“And then I called his mom,” you said, half-slurring your disbelief, “and that woman—that bitch—had the audacity to call me a skank! All I said was her son cheated on a damn exam!”

Joel nearly choked on his drink. His hand came up to cover his mouth, shaking his head as he swallowed the rest down.

“You’re kiddin’,” he managed, wiping his thumb across his jaw. “Skank?”

You nodded, grinning now, all heat and disbelief. “Hand to God. Like I personally seduced her precious little honor student into forging test answers.”

Joel leaned on the edge of the bar, face tipped toward you, half in shadow, half in the amber light. There was a look in his eye—not just amusement. Something slower. Something like admiration, curled up quiet and cautious in the corners.

“Well,” he drawled, voice like gravel smoothed, “if it helps, you don’t look like a skank.”

You turned toward him, eyes narrowed, lips tugging at the corners. “You flirtin’ with me, Miller?”

He shrugged, noncommittal. “Just statin’ facts.”

“You don’t strike me as the compliment type.”

“I’m not.” He looked at you then, really looked—like he could see more than he had a right to. “But when I say something, I mean it.”

That silenced you a beat. Your glass circled on the bar top again, the condensation smearing into a hazy ring.

“You always this honest after one drink?”

His lips curled, barely. “Only when I want someone to hear it.”

Your breath caught—barely noticeable, but you knew he caught it.

Of course he did.

Joel didn’t miss much.

You tilted your head. “And what is it you want me to hear?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just reached for his glass again, but didn’t drink—held it like it gave his hands something to do.

“That burnout ain't gotta be tackled alone."

You didn’t look at him. Couldn't. Not right away.

Because it wasn’t just the drink burning now.

It was the way he said it—quiet, certain. Like a promise.

You swallowed. “That’s dangerous talk.”

Joel leaned in slightly, voice pitched just enough for only you to hear over the murmur of the bar.

“Yeah,” he said, “I’ve been known to be dangerous.”

Your eyes finally met his. Steady. Searching.

And for one long second, neither of you moved.

The pool balls clacked again in the background. Someone laughed near the jukebox. The fairy lights blinked softly overhead.

Flirting with a line neither of you were supposed to cross.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But God, it was tempting.

You blinked down at your drink. The glass had gone warm in your hand, the ice already melted into something diluted and forgettable.

“I’m gonna—” you started, already sliding off the stool. “I’ll be right back.”

Joel didn’t stop you. Just gave a small nod, like he understood more than you’d said.

The hallway to the bathroom was dim, lit by a flickering wall sconce and the glow from a neon beer sign. The moment you stepped into the quiet, you exhaled hard, pressing your palms to the sink.

Cool porcelain. Steady ground.

You hadn’t expected him to see you like that. To say what he said.

That burnout ain't gotta be tackled alone.

That was the kind of thing that lingered. The kind of thing that stuck in your ribs and echoed. You took your time washing your hands, letting cold water bite at your wrists until the warmth in your chest dulled to something manageable. But when you stepped back into the hallway, someone was waiting.

He wasn’t tall—not Joel’s kind of tall—but he blocked your way with the kind of confidence that came from cheap beer and too many unchecked nights.

“Hey,” he said, grinning. “Don't mean to scare you—Jus' thought you looked a little lonely over here.”

You gave a polite smile, small, measured, “I’m good, thank you...”

He stepped in closer.

“C’mon, just your number. We could get a drink sometime—just us.”

You sidestepped, trying not to stiffen. “I’m here with someone.”

He laughed, low and dismissive. “That guy you were talkin’ to? Please—He’s old enough to be your dad.”

You stiffened at that. Not from offense—but because you knew how fast this could go sideways.

“Move,” you said, calm but clear.

He didn’t.

“Move,” you said, again, this time feigning patience.

Not until a shadow fell across both of you.

Joel’s voice came low, calm, but cold in a way that cut clean through the noise of the bar.

"Move.”

The guy turned, half-laughing. “Relax, man. We were just talking—”

Joel didn’t touch him. Didn’t need to.

He just stepped in—that quiet, deliberate shift of weight that said—don’t make me say it twice.

“I ain’t gonna ask again.”

The space between them folded in on itself. You watched the guy’s confidence falter, mouth twitching as if debating something—and deciding against it.

He muttered something under his breath as he backed off, stumbling toward the pool tables.

You stood there, heart beating faster than it should’ve been. Joel turned to you then, jaw clenched, eyes scanning your face for something—anything.

“You alright?”

You nodded, but your voice didn’t come right away. So he softened.

“You sure?”

You nodded again, slower this time. “Yeah. Just—needed a minute.”

He stepped back, giving you space, but not far.

“You don’t owe me anythin',” he said, voice quiet now. “But if a guy gets in your way like that again? I'm thrownin' him through the fuckin' bar.”

You looked up at him. And whatever was behind your ribs, whatever had been rattling there since you first walked into this bar—it settled. Because it was sure. You were definitely falling for Joel Miller.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

He didn’t smile. He just nodded, then tilted his head toward your table.

“C’mon,” he said, softer now. “Your drink’s probably gone warm.”

You slid into the chair, soft in your approach, your fingers still carrying the phantom shape of tension.

“Talk to me,” you breathed out, like it might push away whatever still lingered in your chest. You signaled to the bartender for another. “Construction. Sports. Give me it all.”

Joel settled back against the worn leather of the booth, one arm thrown casually along the back, the other wrapped around his drink. He studied you a moment—like he knew what you were doing.

Like he’d done the same thing himself more than once. Filled his anxiety-ridden space with babbling nonsense.

“All right,” he said, with a slow, knowing nod. “Let’s see…”

You watched the way his thumb traced the rim of his glass, absent-minded. Steady.

Probably felt good.

“Tommy dropped a two-by-four on his foot last week,” Joel began. “Didn’t even flinch. Just stood there cursin’ like the damn thing owed him money.”

You laughed, the sound easing something between your ribs.

“Did he break it?”

“Hell if I know. Said he could walk, so I told him to shut up and finish the frame.”

You snorted. “Very nurturing.”

Joel smirked, barely. “He’s my baby brother. He’s lucky I didn’t nail his boot to the floor.”

The bartender set your second drink down. You wrapped your hands around it, letting the cold seep into your palms.

“Keep going,” you murmured, “This is good.”

He shrugged again, taking another sip of his own.

“Cowboys are trash this year.”

Your mouth curled around your straw. “Is that a sports opinion or an emotional outburst?”

“Both,” he muttered. “Every time I let myself hope, they piss it away.”

You leaned back, letting your leg stretch slightly beneath the table. “You ever think you’re loyal to the wrong team?”

Joel’s gaze flicked up, sharp. And for a second, it hung there—between the lines. Between the joke and the truth of it.

“Yeah,” he said, voice a little lower. “More than once.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him. He was good at staying guarded, but not with you. Not completely. And maybe that was the problem. This might be encroaching on dangerous territory.

"You might have to take me to the site one day," you hummed, your fingertip trailing the rim of your glass, slow, like you weren’t even thinking about it.

Joel’s eyes flicked down to the motion—just for a second.

“Wanna see all the cowboys workin’ on construction.”

He huffed, low in his throat. "You mean the bunch of half-sober idiots who can’t hold a tape measure straight?"

You smiled, lazy. “Sounds like a show.”

He leaned in a bit, elbow hitting the table as his fingers tapped idly beside yours. Close—but not quite touching. “Only show worth watchin’ is when someone forgets to anchor the ladder. You ever see a man try to fall gracefully? Ain’t possible.”

That made you laugh—shoulders shaking, the rim of your glass clinking against your teeth as you brought it up again. “God, I’d pay to see that.”

Joel tilted his head slightly, “You’re mean.”

You shrugged, all mock-innocence. “You’re the one making your brother work with a half-broken foot.”

A small grin tugged at his mouth, but he didn’t drop his gaze.

“You really wanna come out there?”

Your voice caught a little in your throat. The question had weight. Not just teasing anymore.

You blinked, leaned back a little. “Sure. Why not? I’ve seen what you look like in flannel. Seems like it’s only fair I get the full uniform.”

Joel’s mouth twitched, but his eyes didn’t move from yours, “You’re flirtin’.”

You met his gaze, unflinching. “So are you.”

Silence again—just long enough to feel it in your chest. Just long enough for it to shift the air.

Joel looked down, tongue pressing into his cheek, smile fading just slightly.

“You keep talkin’ like that,” he said low, “… you’re gonna make it hard for me to be the one with sense.”

You leaned forward just enough for him to feel it. Your voice was quieter now—barely above the hum of the bar.

“Not always lookin' for sense.”

He inhaled through his nose, slow. Eyes lifted to yours, and God, they were tired. Not from the day—but from restraint.

“You should be,” he murmured. “We both should be.”

You sat back again, your finger drawing lazy circles on the glass, cooling now against your palm.

“But we’re not,” you said.

And you didn’t mean the drinks.

. . .

The ride back was quiet. Not cold. Not awkward. Full.

Like the car itself couldn’t hold one more ounce of tension without splitting in half. You just stared out the window, the world blurring past under the streetlights—each one flickering overhead like a held breath. Every now and then, Joel glanced sideways, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

His hand gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary. Forearm flexing under worn denim. Jaw locked, enough of a tension to visibly tighten that tendon against his neck.

Not from anger.

Just discipline.

He pulled up to your place, engine idling low as you unbuckled slowly, fingers hesitating on the strap like it might delay something neither of you were ready for.

You looked at him. He looked back.

And then you both got out.

The porch light was on—soft, yellow, flickering slightly like the bar lights had. You climbed the steps first, keys in hand, heartbeat a mess.

Joel followed, slow behind you, boots thunking solid on each wooden step.

You stopped at your door.

Turned around. And there he was. He was always there, wasn't he?

God, he filled the space. Not just in size, but in presence. Like the whole night had been leading here—this stupid, quiet moment on your porch with keys in your hand and everything on the edge of falling apart.

“You gonna go in?” he asked, voice low, rough from disuse.

You swallowed.

“You coming in?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t move either.

So you tried again, “You walking away?”

Still nothing.

It was maddening—the way his eyes searched yours like there was some right answer hidden in the lines of your face.

Like maybe you would make the call so he didn’t have to.

Your hand found the doorknob near your lower back.

Gripped it. Loosened.

“I want you to,” you said.

It was a confession. Quiet. Unsteady. But true.

Joel’s jaw flexed. His eyes dropped to the space between your bodies, then back up—haunted, hungry.

“You think I don’t want that?” he muttered. “You think I don’t wanna lose my goddamn mind with you tonight?”

“Then why don’t you?”

His brow furrowed. “Because the second I do—we—"

He swallowed.

"We can’t take it back.”

You stepped closer, your voice thinner now. “And you think I want to?”

That cracked something in him.

He exhaled sharply, stepping forward until you could feel the heat coming off of him. His hand came up halfway—toward your hip, maybe your cheek, maybe just to touch—but it stopped short.

Hovering.

Trembling, just slightly.

“I’ve been good,” he rasped. “I’ve been so good.”

You nodded, eyes glassy.

“Yeah,"

"Yeah—you have."

You were drunk. You had to be.

I'm drunk.

Tell yourself that louder.

The porch felt too small. The space between your bodies felt even smaller.

You twisted the knob behind you.

The door clicked open.

Joel flinched, just enough to glance up, almost imperceptibly.

You both stood still.

He leaned in, just enough to brush his hand above the doorway entry, gripping the wooden sill between large palms. A barely-there touch. A quiet war cry.

“I should walk away,” he breathed.

A pause. A heartbeat.

Then another.

And then—he stepped back.

One full step.

Two.

His eyes stayed on you, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile.

“Night,” he said, voice barely holding.

You nodded, throat tight. “Night, Joel.” He turned before you could change your mind—or his. You watched him walk down the steps. Back to his truck. Back to restraint. The door stayed open behind you.

And you stood there too long. Just long enough to know this wasn’t the end of it. Not even close.

. . .

The next morning was hazy. You couldn’t remember your alarm going off—if it ever had. You just blinked awake to the sound of your front door being pounded on.

“Hold on—” you gasped, voice gravel-thick from sleep. You staggered forward in an oversized t-shirt, catching yourself on the hallway wall, “Jesus—fuck—hold on!”

The knocking didn’t stop. Just grew more insistent.

You unlocked the deadbolt, fingers fumbling, hair sticking to one side of your face. The door creaked open—and there stood Sarah.

Grinning. Smug.

Fully dressed, backpack strapped, ponytail bouncing as she leaned into the frame.

“You’re late,” she said, chipper as hell. “Like, late late.”

Too early for this much energy.

You stared at her.

Blinking.

“What—” Your brain still hadn’t caught up. “Sarah?”

“Hi.” She leaned slightly to the side and pointed a thumb over her shoulder. “Uncle Tommy’s in the truck. He says you owe him coffee.”

You rubbed your eye with the heel of your palm. “Where’s your dad?”

Her grin faltered slightly. Just for a second. “Had to go in early. Real early.”

Oh.

Right.

Last night.

That was awkward, wasn't it?

You nodded, stepping back with a sigh, dragging your hand down your face. “Okay. Give me—five minutes.”

“Ten,” she offered, skipping past you into the living room like it wasn’t a big deal. “You need ten. Trust me.”

You shut the door behind her and leaned your forehead against it.

Joel wasn’t here. But he’d sent his family anyway. And that said more than he probably meant to.

You turned back, watching Sarah drop her bag onto your couch like she lived here.

She picked up a framed photo from the shelf, tilting it toward the light. “Is this you in college? You had bangs.”

“Don’t make me regret letting you in,” you groaned, already rushing toward the bedroom to throw on something halfway professional.

“You already do,” she called after you, cheerful.

And in the back of your mind, through the rush of getting dressed, splashing water on your face, and brushing your teeth in frantic swipes—you wondered if Joel had thought about knocking himself.

Or if walking away last night had drained every last bit of willpower he had. Either way, he hadn’t come. And now his absence was louder than the rhythmic pounding in your skull.

The front door clicked shut behind you as you finally stepped outside, keys and dignity barely in hand.

Sunlight hit your face like a slap—sharp and uninvited. You squinted into it, dragging the last of your jacket over one arm and fumbling with your bag.

Tommy was leaned against the driver’s side of a beat-up red truck, arms crossed, chewing on a toothpick like it was something to do. His sunglasses were pushed up into the dark waves of his hair, and he gave you a once-over that felt just short of indecent.

“My kinda girl,” he drawled, grin crooked. “Hungover on a Wednesday.”

You slowed mid-step. Stared.

It took a second—longer than it should’ve—to register he was joking.

Flirting, even.

You blinked at him, caught between offense and amusement.

This is the second Miller brother.

Figures.

“I’m not—hungover,” you said, clearing your throat and straightening. “Just… running late.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, still grinning, pulling the passenger door open for you. “I been ‘not hungover’ plenty of times. Usually with the same look on my face.”

You gave him a sharp glance as you climbed in, brushing against the edge of his arm. “First impressions are really important, you know.”

He closed the door behind you with a casual thud. “Damn shame. I usually lead with worse.”

Sarah was in the backseat, humming to herself as she unwrapped a granola bar, completely unfazed by the exchange.

You settled into the passenger seat, trying to push hair behind your ear and not look like you’d just emotionally combusted twelve hours ago. Combusted when Joel took a fleeting step back, eyes raking over your body like he'd thought of you bent over the hood of his truck thousands of times.

Tommy rounded the front of the truck and got in, slipping the keys into the ignition. The engine sputtered to life.

“So,” he said, glancing over at you with something just short of amusement, “Joel said you teach middle school.”

You nodded. “English and History.”

He gave a low whistle, merging onto the road. “That’s brutal. Kids that age got no filter and no remorse. He didn’t mention you were a masochist.”

You cracked a small smile despite yourself. “Yeah, well. Some of us thrive in chaos.”

Tommy chuckled, clearly warming up. “Guess that explains you and my brother bein’ friends.”

The word hung there.

Friends.

You nodded slowly. “Something like that.”

Something easy.

There was a pause. Not heavy—just a hair too thoughtful. You glanced sideways, just in time to catch Tommy watching you with something quiet behind the smirk.

He looked back at the road before it could settle.

“Joel’s stubborn as hell,” he muttered, adjusting the visor as the sun poured in. “But he ain’t blind.”

Excuse me?

You stiffened a little, but before you could say anything, Sarah piped up from the back:

“Are we gonna stop for donuts or what?”

Tommy barked out a laugh. “Jesus, kid—you had one job. Guilt her into gettin’ coffee.”

Sarah leaned forward, eyes wide and innocent. “Please?”

You groaned, rubbing your eyes. “Fine. But you’re both getting decaf.”

Tommy snorted. “She’s ten, not forty.”

You turned to him, finally finding your footing again. “And you’re how old? Still flirting with teachers on school mornings?”

He gave you a lopsided grin. “Only the late ones.”

You stared at him a beat, then shook your head, laughing under your breath as the truck rumbled down the road, tension bleeding slowly out the windows.

Oh, fuck these Miller brothers… They're a terror.

. . .

The classroom was quieter now, the buzz of middle schoolers replaced by the soft hum of the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds. The morning wasn't bad, just busy.

You sat at your desk, fingers grazing the cool plastic of a Tylenol bottle as you popped two pills and swallowed them dry. The headache throbbed behind your eyes, a dull pulse that matched the rhythm of your racing thoughts.

You shifted in your chair, eyes drifting to the window beside you. Outside, the world moved on—cars rolling by, kids playing somewhere distant, the trees swaying in a lazy breeze.

But inside, your mind replayed last night like a half-forgotten song. The bar’s dim light, the buzz of the quiet crowd. Joel’s rough voice, the way his eyes searched yours like he was trying to read every unspoken word. The heat between you that wasn’t just the whiskey. How close you’d come to crossing that invisible line—and then pulled back, both of you weighed down by something bigger than desire.

You traced the rim of your coffee mug, thinking about the porch light flickering, Joel’s hand flexng above your doorway, and then the slow retreat—his step back into the night. His step from you. A part of you ached for the surrender, the reckless pull of what could have been. But another part knew it was safer this way.

The week passed in a blur of early mornings and half-slept nights. Each day, like clockwork, Tommy pulled up outside your place in that beat-up red truck. He never texted first. Never knocked. Just parked with the engine idling and waited—Sarah in the back, munching on something, always grinning.

And not once did Joel show.

Not Monday.

Not Wednesday.

Not even Friday.

You found yourself listening for his truck every morning anyway. That low rumble—that too-smooth knock on your door. But it never came.

Just Tommy—with his easy smirk and leather jacket and shameless one-liners—too young to be intimidating, too charming not to notice.

"You know," he said one morning as you slid into the passenger seat, hair still damp from your shower, "... you get prettier every time I pick you up. At this rate, I’ll start takin’ longer routes just to drag it out."

You huffed a breath, glancing out the window. “You’re really good at flirting.”

“I know.”

“But I’m not interested.”

Just a second. Then his hand slid off the gearshift, and he gave a short laugh. “You're direct.”

You turned to look at him. He was your age, maybe a little younger. Good-looking in that roughneck Texas way. Confident, too. Built like someone who worked with his hands and smiled like it never cost him anything.

He should have been your type. He wasn’t.

"There’s someone else.” You trailed off, fingers curling in your lap.

You didn’t say Joel’s name. You didn’t have to.

It's like he already knew.

Tommy gave a slow nod, pulling onto the road. His voice—when it came—was quieter than you expected. You bit the inside of your cheek. Watched the sunrise spill gold across the hood of the truck.

“He’s a good man,” Tommy said after a while, “Stubborn as a brick wall. Carries too much. Says less.”

You exhaled softly. “Yeah.”

“Still,” he added, glancing at you with something like warmth, “… you ever change your mind, you know where I park.”

You snorted, "You mean directly outside my house at 7:05 on the dot?”

“Seems so, ma'am.”

The silence in the truck wasn’t awkward.

You were halfway through your coffee, trying not to overthink the outfit you’d thrown on in a rush, when Sarah piped up from the backseat like she'd been waiting for the exact right moment to ruin your life.

“So,” she started, chewing on the last bit of her granola bar, “… are you and my dad ever gonna, like… kiss or what?”

You choked on your coffee.

Actually choked. Had to cover your mouth and cough so hard that Tommy reached over and rolled the window down in case you were about to throw yourself out of it.

“Sarah,” you gasped, coughing into your sleeve. “What the hell?”

Tommy was already laughing. Hands still on the wheel, shaking his head like this was the best thing that had ever happened to him, “Oh, please keep goin’, kid. I’ve been waitin’ all week for this.”

Sarah just shrugged, smug. “I’ve seen the way you two talk to each other.”

You turned around in your seat, wide-eyed.

“We talk like coworkers. Like responsible adults.”

Sarah rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle she didn’t pass out. “No, you flirt like you're in a movie. It's painful. Have you ever seen Sweet Home Alabama—”

Tommy let out a low whistle, cutting her off. “She’s not wrong.”

“I hate this truck,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face, “... I want out of this truck.”

Sarah leaned forward between the seats. “I mean, you’re cute together. He gets all weird around you. Like, more awkward than usual.”

“He’s not awkward.”

“He is, though,” Tommy grinned, flicking on his turn signal. “Gets real quiet. Real… intense. And don’t think I didn’t hear about him almost murder that guy at the bar.”

You turned sharply toward him. “You know about that?”

“Oh, yeah. They said he had that look. Like, one wrong move and that guy was gonna end up under a concrete slab by Monday.”

Sarah nodded, completely unbothered. “Dad gets protective—You should see how he gets when the guy at the grocery store bags our eggs under the milk.”

You groaned, turning your face to the window.

“This is my nightmare.”

Tommy chuckled, pulling up to the school. “Nah, sweetheart. This is just the prequel.”

You reached for the door handle, cheeks burning. “I’m walking home. Cardio is good—”

“Sure you are,” he smirked, throwing the truck into park. “But hey, if Joel ever forgets how to speak in full sentences again—"

You stepped out without a word, slamming the door behind you—Sarah’s giggling echoing all the way down the sidewalk.

If the Millers weren't already your nightmare—now, they really are. Especially this bunch.

. . .

Saturday snuck up fast.

The headache was gone. The stack of essays, finally graded. Your whiteboard was clean, your planner wasn’t groaning at the seams, and—for the first time in what felt like weeks—you didn’t feel like you were drowning in caffeine and late nights.

So, you got dressed. Nothing dramatic—just jeans, a soft tee, and the jacket you always threw on when you didn’t want to look like you were trying.

Then you grabbed the six-pack.

You stared at it in your fridge for a full minute before taking it. Just something decent—cold, crisp, a little expensive for your usual.

You told yourself it was a neighborly thing.

A friend thing.

A “thanks for not letting me get harassed at a bar” thing.

Definitely not a “why haven’t you looked at me all week” thing.

The Miller house sat tucked behind a patch of trees, late sun casting long shadows across the drive. You could see Tommy’s truck parked out front, but it was Joel’s silhouette you caught through the living room window—shoulders hunched, head down, like he was working on something with his hands.

You swallowed.

Then you knocked.

It wasn’t long before the door opened—Joel standing there, brows faintly raised, a little surprised.

He looked good.

Unshaven, relaxed, flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows. That quiet sort of tired that only made you want to stand too close and ask too much.

You held up the six-pack by its cardboard handle, “Thought I’d bring a peace offering.”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

Hot.

“Didn’t know we were at war.”

You shrugged. “You haven’t driven me all week.”

Joel’s eyes flicked toward the street, then back to you. “Tommy’s been helpin’ out. Figured you could use a break from my grumpin’.”

“I can handle your grumpin’,” you said softly. “What I can’t handle is being avoided.”

That landed. There was a stretch of silence. Wind brushing through the trees. The slow click of a porch light flickering on overhead.

“I wasn’t avoidin’ you,” he said finally, voice low. “Just… giving you space.”

“For what?”

Another beat.

“Temptation.”

Your stomach fluttered, sharp and sudden.

Your fingers curled tighter around the beer.

Is he always this vocal?

Joel shifted his weight, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Last week got close. Closer than it should’ve. I didn’t want to—” He exhaled, eyes darting away. “Didn’t want to push my luck.”

You stepped closer, just a little. Close enough to smell the cedar on his shirt, the faintest hint of sawdust still clinging to him.

“I’m a grown woman, Joel,” you said, “If I didn’t want close, I wouldn’t have brought the beer.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. He looked at the six-pack, then back at you, eyes dark with something that made your stomach twist.

“Alright,” he said, stepping aside and opening the door wider. “C’mon in.”

The laughter hit you first—loud, unfiltered, rolling through the house like it had been waiting all week to let loose.

You followed Joel inside, six-pack in hand, and found Sarah and Tommy at the kitchen table, halfway through some chaotic board game spread out in a swirl of cards, dice, and soda cans. Tommy looked like he was mid-argument with the rulebook, while Sarah had a smirk that said she already won an hour ago.

“Oh no,” Sarah groaned playfully when she saw you, “She’s here. It’s over for you, Tommy.”

Tommy threw up his hands. “I ain’t even done my turn yet!”

“She’s got teacher brain,” Sarah said, pointing at you dramatically. “She’s gonna strategize and destroy you. It’s science.”

You laughed, holding up the six-pack, “I just came to drop off peace offerings and maybe steal a chair.”

“Steal my dignity while you’re at it,” Tommy grumbled, sliding over to make space anyway. “I’ve been losin’ to this one for an hour straight.”

“I’m ten and I know how to read the instructions,” Sarah said sweetly, passing you a handful of brightly colored cards. “You want in?”

You looked to Joel, who was already pulling open a couple beers and handing you one without asking. He gave you a look—quiet, steady. There was something soft in it. Something that settled in your chest.

“Only if someone explains the rules,” you said, taking the bottle and sliding into the chair beside him.

“Rules are mostly pretend,” Sarah said, flipping a card toward you. “Tommy just makes up new ones when he starts losing.”

“That happened one time.”

Joel sat beside you, sipping his beer and stretching his legs under the table.

His knee bumped yours once—just a little—and stayed there. He didn’t move. You didn’t, either.

The game was chaos. Tommy kept accusing Sarah of cheating. Sarah kept stacking cards and making sound effects. You played a full round without knowing who was actually winning.

No one brought up work. Or stress. Or exhaustion. It was just the four of you, surrounded by soft lamp light, the sound of dice clattering on wood, and the feel of something so normal it almost didn’t feel real.

You caught Joel watching you once, somewhere between your second beer and Tommy’s third fake rule. He didn’t say anything. Just looked for a moment—like he was memorizing something.

And you let him.

authors note: uncle tommy.. gnhnhnhnhhhggh save me...

tags: @mielsonrisa @tw1lightstar @therewastherewas @justsarahbella @blckstonescherrycherry @pedritotito @lucymmiller

[lucymmiller]

joel and ellie were doomed from the start. joel, whose life purpose is to nurture, to make sure the people he loves survive. ellie, whose life purpose, in her mind, is to die. both of them feel lost without their purpose, yet both of them took it away from the other.

[lucymmiller]

modern AU where joel gets so frustrated whenever ellie carries big ass cases of water herself after grocery store runs. he thinks her back’s gonna give out by 30.

[lucymmiller]

missing him a little extra today 💔

[lucymmiller]

Thinking about the Joel and Tommy window symbolism

[lucymmiller]

joel’s backstory adds so much more depth to his reaction during sarah’s death scene. he felt like he failed as a father because he let his little girl die, but also because he did something, that in his mind, was way worse than anything his own father ever did.

[lucymmiller]

the fact that tommy’s probably mulled over this part of the night repeatedly since abby. he probably regrets leaving too early and not getting to spend time with his big brother before- [GUNSHOTS]

see you next year