mustachepascal

[mustachepascal]

can’t describe what I felt reading this!!!! SUCH A MASTERPIECE 😭😭😭👏👏👏👏👏

— A haunted body, part four: "I, the one who dimmed the Sun" ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (jackson!joel x f!reader)

fic masterlist | ao3 | capuccinodollupdates | previous chapter | next chapter

— Chapter summary: Joel returns your necklace. And slowly, curiosity begins to take hold of him, sinking deeper into his body. Inevitably, he tries to pull away—but you push him to the edge once more. This time, with brutal blows and power games. At night, he remembers. wc: 17k

TW!!!: This chapter contains mild and graphic violence, graphic depictions of murder, mentions of blood, death, and other sensitive themes. Reader discretion is strongly advised!!

A/N: I hope you like this one. Please don't forget to let me know your opinion in the comments, it helps me a lot! <3 (TAG LIST OPEN) (also, if you asked me to tag u but I didn't, please dm me to let me know!)

Jackson’s greenhouse. Evening.

Soft light pooled through the glass panels, catching on floating dust and the gentle sway of hanging vines.

Joel’s hand hovered over a yellow bloom, fingers nearly brushing the petal—then pulled back, abrupt, as though it might burn at his touch.

He lifted his gaze, instinctively sensing a shift in the air, and there you were, stepping inside. Not alone.

Zach walked beside you, his voice low, easy. He was good with people. Mid-thirties maybe, helpful, always around, always offering help when there was construction to be done or someone needed a second pair of hands.He was good at patrols too. A reliable man. 

Joel didn’t move. His gaze flicked back to the greenery in front of him. Rows of herbs, delicate flowers, sun-wilted basil and half-wild rosemary. He’d come looking for lavender. He liked the smell. Said it helped with sleep. But now he couldn’t quite remember what he’d needed it for.

Instead, he found himself tracing the edges of memory—gardens he used to walk past on his way home from work, backyard flower beds neighbors took pride in, places where he’d knelt in dirt with aching knees and the weight of normal life pressing warm against his back.

That was before. A different world, a different version of himself. 

Past tense. Past gone.

He straightened his back, and a quiet sigh slipped from his nose, barely audible, but enough to feel like a release. His spine ached, and so did something else.

When he looked up, you were there.

Just a few feet away, standing with a kind of ease that made his chest tighten. You didn’t acknowledge him. Not with a glance, not even a flicker of recognition. Your focus was entirely on the herbs in front of you—rows of thyme, mint, maybe basil. You reached out with the backs of your fingers grazing the leaves, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like the world itself hadn’t fallen apart in pieces and rebuilt itself into something quieter and violent.

Then, gently, you leaned in. He watched you breathe in the scent like it could fix something.

You looked—peaceful. That was the word that kept circling in his mind, irritating and impossible. How could you look like that? 

Joel stayed still. Watched you as if from far away.

That morning, he’d thought about it more than once. Not on purpose. Just flashes. Your face, the way you spoke like you didn’t owe anyone an explanation, the way you didn’t seem afraid even when you should be.

He knew you were hurt. Not visibly. But inside, somewhere in the place where people carried the real damage. Everyone who had survived this long carried something. That wasn’t a mystery. But you... You carried your pain like it didn’t belong to you. Or like it did, but you had made peace with it in a way that left him uneasy. There was something almost reckless in how your attention drifted toward ordinary things. Like the scent of herbs. Like sunlight filtering through dusty greenhouse glass.

He didn’t get it. Not even a little.

You smiled.

It was faint, genuine. Like the scent of those herbs, faint as it might’ve been, was something worth smiling about. And for a second—just one second—it looked like none of it had ever happened. Like pain wasn’t a language you spoke fluently. Like you weren’t made of the same brittle, exhausted material as everyone else here. As him, here.

How?

Something about that expression stopped him. Froze something inside him just long enough to hurt.

And then, your eyes lifted. They met his.

For a second, Joel didn’t breathe. Then he looked away too quickly, like he’d been caught staring at something he wasn’t supposed to see. Guilty.

He let out a tired sigh and dragged his hand through the soft scruff on his jaw, the gesture half out of habit, half frustration. He was ready to head out. Enough of this. He’d come for lavender, maybe, or just a reason to be alone for a while. Either way, he was done standing around smelling plants.

He turned to leave, but didn’t make it far.

“Joel,” you said, right in front of him now. With that familiar, disarming smile and a cloth bag cradled in your arms like you’d just picked it up from the market or packed it with something for someone else. For a moment, he thought you might hand it to him. “How are you?”

His body responded before his mind had the chance to intervene; eyebrows tightening, posture stiffening, a flicker of irritation or confusion crossing his face before he could stop it.

“Fine.”

You kept smiling. Your gaze swept over him, noticeable enough to make his shoulders tense slightly. He was suddenly aware of how he looked—dust on his shirt, sweat near his collarbone, the ache in his back he hadn’t paid attention to until now.

“Everything felt kind of empty today without you,” you said, light, almost teasing. “There was no one giving me dirty looks.”

He tilted his head, just enough. “Kind of empty doesn’t sound like the worst thing.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “If you weren’t right here, I’d think you were avoiding me. Are you?”

He gave a soft shake of his head. “Too much effort.”

The truth was that ever since that day at the school, he’d been more careful. Just enough to feel it. 

In the mornings, he made himself useful and nothing more—spoke only when required, kept his eyes fixed on tasks that didn’t involve you. But it got harder when you kept being you. Open. Friendly. Effortlessly warm, even when you weren’t doing anything at all.

And so he kept circling—choosing lunch tables two over from yours, stepping off the sidewalk when he saw you walking ahead, finding excuses to linger somewhere else entirely. The same way he had stepped back from that yellow flower earlier, like touching it might burn it.

Avoidance wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t noble. But it was quiet. And Joel had always been good at quiet.

You opened your mouth like you were about to say something but then Zach’s voice cut through the greenhouse, calling your name from across the room.

Your head turned instinctively toward him.

Joel watched you shift your weight, caught in that half-second of indecision. Then you glanced back at him, your expression unreadable for a moment, like there was something else.

Zach raised a hand in a casual wave. His posture was easy, unbothered. A half-smile played on his face. Joel nodded in return, barely lifting his chin.

“Well,” you said, adjusting the strap of the cloth bag in your hands, “I have to go. See you tomorrow.”

You smiled again, like it didn’t cost you anything. And Joel didn’t answer. Not with words, anyway. Just a quiet nod. And that was it. 

He stood there, watching as you walked away.

Then he exhaled and shook his head, faintly annoyed at himself.

He could’ve asked what was in the bag you were holding. He could’ve told you he’d finished fixing the necklace, that it was ready now, resting in the bottom drawer waiting to be returned.

But, as always, the words stayed where they were. 

Jackson’s office. Morning.

Joel was ignoring you.

No—he was really, really ignoring you now. You were sure of it.

It had been a week and a half since that morning at the school. Since your voice had nearly cracked in front of him and Erin, and he had reached for your necklace without saying much, promising he'd fix it. Since then, you'd kept your mouth shut about it. You hadn't asked once. Joel was good with things, fixing them. You trusted that. What you didn’t understand was the way he’d started acting around you after that.

As if being near you was even more unbearable than before.

He barely stayed in the office anymore. Came in, glanced over the patrol schedules as if he didn’t already know them by heart, shuffled some papers, made coffee, left. Sometimes tea. Always something hot. Always with his back turned.

When the two of you had to work together, he walked ahead without a word. Then, the moment it made sense to split up—he did.

“If I need you, I’ll let you know,” he’d said once, over his shoulder.

And that was it.

At lunch, if you entered the dining hall, he’d move. Subtly. Quietly. Two tables over. No eye contact, no words.

It didn’t even feel rude anymore. Just… quiet. But it was still rejection. Still confusing.

And, worst of all, it made you want to know him more.

It wasn’t logical. He was avoiding you, and your brain knew what that meant, but your body—your instincts—kept watching him. Noticing how he walked with that worn-out kind of weight in his shoulders. How he kept his gaze low until it wasn’t, until he looked out of the corner of his eye and something flickered there.

There was something he wasn’t saying. And you felt it every time he entered a room.

Joel was a mystery you had only secondhand clues about. People in Jackson talked, but always in shorthand.

Tommy’s brother. Used to run with dangerous people. Quiet, but decent. Helpful, if you caught him on the right day. Polite, in that old-fashioned way.

He had favorites, apparently—people he looked out for more than others. And he had a reputation for doing the right thing when it really counted. But still—there was a heaviness to him. And you wanted to know why.

You took the stairs to the second floor, the wooden steps creaking softly beneath your boots. Voices floated down the hallway before you reached the office. When you stepped inside, the room was already occupied.

“Why? What are you doing tonight?” Joel’s voice came first, slightly exasperated.

Ellie was standing in front of his desk, her backpack slung over one shoulder, arms crossed tightly over her chest like armor. She turned her head when she heard you come in.

“Hey, Snow,” she said, her mouth twitching into a grin that softened her whole face.

“Ellie,” Joel called again, firmer this time, but she didn’t respond.

You paused for a second, catching his eye briefly before moving past them to your desk, placing your bag down with more care than necessary.

The weather had been kinder today. Cool in the morning, with just enough sun to warm your sleeves. You’d left the house without a coat, letting the air settle on your skin like linen. But you knew it wouldn’t last; by the time noon arrived, the sun would be sharper, unforgiving.

“How are you?” you asked, your voice light as you turned back to Ellie.

“Just heading out,” she replied, adjusting the straps of her bag. “Just came to ask Joel something.”

Joel stood from his chair, already halfway through whatever caution he was about to issue. “Ellie, I need you to—”

“Jesse’s waiting,” she cut in, breezing past him. “Relax. I’m not gonna do anything reckless. Don't worry.” Her tone was playful but practiced. She reached out and gave him a quick, familiar hug before heading toward the door.

She smiled at you once more, and then she was gone.

Joel was still in the middle of the room, unmoving, his gaze fixed on the spot where she’d just disappeared. He was wearing a cream shirt today, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and dark jeans that hung low on his hips.

“Everything okay?” you asked.

He blinked, as if waking up from a dream, and took a small step back, almost instinctively.

“Yeah,” he said, voice clipped.

You nodded, turning your attention to the notebook you’d been holding. It felt oddly heavy in your hands. You flipped it open to a page filled with rushed notes and meandering doodles—lines drawn out of boredom or nerves, hard to say.

You let your eyes skim the paper, pretending to search for something important. Then you looked up again.

Joel had moved back to his desk. You watched him open a drawer, his broad shoulders turned to you.

Your gaze drifted to the back of his neck; a few strands of silver curling against his skin. The contrast was startling, beautiful in an accidental kind of way. You didn’t look away. Not immediately.

He turned around just as you dropped your gaze. You cleared your throat, a sound too sharp in the quiet.

Then he crossed the room. No words, just the measured sound of his boots against the floor until he stopped in front of your desk.

You looked up.

Joel was standing there, holding a small wooden box between his hands. Rectangular, maybe the size of a glasses case. His eyes flicked to yours for only a moment before he placed it gently on the desk in front of you.

“I finished it yesterday,” he said.

You reached for the box. The wood was smooth under your fingertips, clearly sanded with care, varnished until it caught the light. In the center of the lid was a carved heart, filled with tiny flowers, winding vines. You recognized the pattern instantly. It matched your necklace exactly—every curve, every petal.

Your thumb traced the edge of the carving, and something inside you stirred, something quiet and warm that made your chest feel full all at once.

You lifted the lid with care, your fingers almost reverent.

Inside, nestled on a small black pillow, your necklace lay fixed. The silver chain gleamed faintly, polished to a brightness it hadn’t had in years.

“I polished it a little,” Joel said, already turning back toward his desk. “It’s silver, so it wasn’t complicated.”

You leaned in, opening the heart. Your brows furrowed.

The paper inside was now sealed beneath a delicate layer of something transparent, almost invisible. It held the content in place, protecting them from air, from moisture, from your clumsy fingers.

You didn’t say anything for a second. Then you gently laid the necklace back inside the box, careful not to disturb the arrangement. But you didn’t close the lid. You didn’t want to.

You stood, chair scraping softly behind you, and walked toward him. He had his back to you, hunched slightly over some paperwork or maybe just pretending to be busy.

“Joel,” you said. Your eyes stayed on the box in your hands. “This is beautiful.”

He paused, then straightened up and turned. He looked at you.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

“Did you make the box?”

He gave a short nod. There was something in his expression you hadn’t seen before. Not quite embarrassment, but something adjacent. A flicker of self-consciousness that made you want to reach for him.

You blinked quickly, feeling the sting behind your eyes. You swallowed it down.

“It’s beautiful,” you said again, running your thumb over the wood. “You did a beautiful job. Thank you so much for this.”

“It’s nothing,” he repeated, quicker this time. “I just thought—you could keep it in there when you’re not wearing it. If you’re not gonna wear it. I mean... at some point.”

You smiled, nodding, letting his words settle between you.

“I am going to wear it,” you said, lifting the chain gently from its place. “It turned out perfect. I can’t even tell where the break was. And it’s so clean now, it looks brand new.”

“Do you want me to put it on for you?”

You looked at him. Instantly, he seemed to regret saying that. 

“Or not,” he added quickly, already backpedaling.

But you reached out anyway, holding the chain between your fingers, offering it to him without a word. There was a brief pause before he took it, his hand brushing yours.

Then you turned around and gathered your hair, lifting it off your neck.

You could feel him hesitate behind you—not visibly, not audibly, but in the charged stillness that settled between your bodies. And then, he moved closer. He hadn’t touched you yet, not really, but you could feel him. The warmth of his presence.

“You’ve touched my neck before,” you said, voice light, teasing. “No need to be shy now.”

Behind you, Joel clicked his tongue. “You’re gettin’ too smart for your own good.”

You laughed.

He brought the chain around your throat, his hands steady as he lined up both ends at the nape of your neck. When his fingers finally made contact with your skin, you felt it—an involuntary reaction that started in your spine and bloomed outward. Your cheeks went warm.

“Done,” he said, his voice softer now.

You turned back around slowly, letting your fingers find the charm resting at the center of your chest. You looked down at it, tracing its familiar shape, then looked up again.

“Thank you. Really. It was kind of you to do this for me, Joel.”

“It was nothing.”

But you kept your eyes on him.

“No, it wasn’t. In fact,” you said, narrowing your eyes playfully, “I think I might reconsider breaking your fingers after all.”

A sound escaped from his chest. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.

“What?” you asked, squinting at him. “What was that look?”

“What look?”

“That look. That face.” You tilted your head, crossing your arms. “Don’t you think I could break your fingers?”

Joel shook his head slowly. “Didn’t say that.”

“Ah,” you said, your tone suspicious, “because I can.”

He mirrored your stance, folding his arms across his chest.

“I’m sure of that,” he said with a nod. Then, after a pause, he narrowed his eyes just slightly. “How many fingers we talkin’? You got a record?”

You lifted your chin. “Enough. Why? You doubting me?”

“Not at all.”

You looked at him without speaking, your expression steady. Something flickered behind his eyes—amusement, maybe, or disbelief—but underneath it, you could tell: he didn’t believe you. Or maybe he did, just not fully. Not enough to take the idea seriously. Not enough to imagine you actually winning.

Joel shifted his weight slightly, leaning back against the edge of his desk, arms still folded across his chest.

“Yeah, well. I don’t believe you,” you said, stepping closer. “I can see it in your face. You don’t think I could take you. But I could. I’m faster than I look.”

Joel tilted his head, a crooked smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m sure you are. Though, correct me if I’m wrong, I found you bleeding in the snow not that long ago, didn’t I?”

You nodded, unfazed. “Yeah. I won. You should’ve seen the other guy.”

Joel snorted. “Don't be smug.”

You rolled your eyes and took a small step back, still mirroring his stance with your arms crossed. You let your gaze rest on him for a moment, then sighed with exaggerated disappointment.

“Fine,” you said, shifting your weight. “Try me.”

“What?”

“Come on.” You uncrossed your arms and took another step back, as if you were clearing space between you. “Try me. You really think I couldn’t get you off me if I wanted to?”

He frowned, clearly caught off guard. “I’m not gonna fight you.”

“I never said fight,” you replied with a shrug. “Just… see if you can hold me down. See if I can get you off me. That’s all.”

He raised a brow. “You said you weren’t gonna break my fingers.”

“I said I’d consider not breaking them.”

Joel huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. No.”

You exhaled, loud enough for him to hear it, and walked backward until your legs bumped against the edge of your desk. You leaned against it, arms folded, mirroring the posture he’d worn moments ago. Your eyes narrowed in challenge.

“What’s wrong? Afraid your knees can’t take it?”

Joel raised his chin. “Watch it.”

“Or is it your hip? Getting stiff with age?”

“I’m not that old.”

You tilted your head, teasing. “Don’t tell me it’s because I’m a woman. That’d be disappointing.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, standing up and brushing a hand down his face. “You were more tolerable when you weren’t talking. Go back to that.”

“If you win, I’ll stop bothering you.”

“Sure you will.”

“No, really,” you said, stepping away from the desk, slowly making your way toward him. “You win, and I’ll leave you alone. Cross my heart.”

Joel stared at you like you were some strange creature that had wandered in off the street.

“You’ve lost it. I’m not wrestling you in the middle of the damn day.”

“I’m not talking about a fight,” you said with a shrug, tone light, almost cheerful. “It’s just a matter of resistance. You keep me still, hold me down—I lose. Simple.”

His brow furrowed, like he was trying to make sense of what exactly you were proposing.

“And what exactly do I get out of this?” 

“I’ll leave you alone,” you repeated, stepping a little closer. “Peace and quiet for as long as you want it.”

Joel looked away, scanning the room, then glanced toward the hallway. He hesitated.

Then, without saying a word, he turned toward the open door, stepped forward, and shut it quietly.

The moment the door clicked shut, something shifted in the air. Your pulse kicked up, wild and uneven, like it had been startled out of rhythm. That familiar sensation swept over you again—not fear exactly, not anything close to it. This was the kind of tension that made your skin prickle, made your hands itch for contact. Not dread, but something closer to anticipation.

It reminded you of being sixteen, back at military school, all raw edges and unspent energy. Those stretches of time between lessons, when everything was too quiet, too orderly. When you and Frances would sneak out and throw yourselves into sparring matches with the girls—knuckles bruising, lungs burning, laughter catching in your throats between hits. There was something honest about it. Something beautiful, even. A release, like exhaling after trying not to cry.

You stepped forward. Joel had already turned, and when his eyes met yours, it was clear he’d made up his mind. He started toward you and you felt your mouth pull into a crooked smile, something sharp and giddy dancing just beneath your ribs. 

He took another step. You didn’t move.

And then, suddenly, he lunged.

His hands found your waist with startling precision, and before you could even breathe in, your body was twisting through the air. He tried to spin you, to pin you down, but you caught his shoulder mid-motion. Your fingers clung tight, and using the force of his own momentum, you dragged him with you.

You hit the desk together with a loud thud, his chest pressed to yours, his forearm braced against the surface just beside your head. His face was close, so close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. His breath was rough against your cheek, and his skin was already flushed.

But you moved before he could settle into the hold. You twisted sharply, arched your back, and ducked beneath his arm. Your elbow connected with his side—hard enough to hurt, hard enough to throw him off. He grunted, body curling instinctively, and you shoved him back, planting your feet beneath you again.

Joel laughed. A real laugh, rough and surprised. His eyes flashed.

Then he charged again.

You moved to duck out of his reach, but Joel was faster this time. His fingers caught your wrist, and in one clean motion, he spun you around and pressed you against the wall. Your chest met the surface with a dull thud, your cheek flattened to the cool paneling. His hand splayed across your back, anchoring you there, and for a moment you were both still; breathing heavily, lungs working in tandem, hearts pounding hard enough to hear.

“Give up?” he murmured near your ear, voice low and hoarse with effort.

You smiled. Without answering, you slipped your leg behind his and kicked, a quick, precise motion that knocked him just off balance. He faltered. That was all you needed. You twisted out of his grip and turned, shoving him backward until his back hit the edge of the cabinet near the desk.

Joel caught himself before he could fall, but you were already on him. You grabbed his right arm and forced it behind his back. It wasn’t meant to hurt, just to bend him forward, remind him you were quicker than you looked.

“You’re out of your damn mind,” he muttered, breath catching.

“And you’re not keeping up,” you shot back.

That made him react. In a burst of motion, he twisted, yanked his arm free, and shoved you square in the chest with his forearm. You stumbled, landing on the floor with a thud. But you didn’t stay down long—you rolled onto your hands and knees, already scanning for your next opening.

Joel was coming at you again, but you caught him mid-stride. You swept a leg beneath him, throwing his balance, and before either of you could recover, you both hit the ground—him first, then you on top.

You tried to pin his wrists, aiming to lock him beneath you, but he anticipated it. He moved with you, not against you, using your momentum to flip the two of you over. In an instant, he had you pinned, one arm on either side of your head, your wrists trapped beneath his hands. His weight pressed into you, heavy and solid, anchoring you to the floor.

You wriggled beneath him, more out of instinct than strategy. Your pulse was wild, thrumming all through your body. It was overwhelming, how aware you were of every point where he touched you.

Joel’s face hovered above yours, his breath ragged.

“You giving up? Or do you want to walk out of here covered in bruises?”

You smirked, breathless. “Is that a threat? Or a promise?”

And just like that, while his grip loosened ever so slightly, you took your shot—wrenched one wrist free, slipped your fingers around his neck, not forceful, just enough to throw him off. Then you shoved up with your legs, wedging one thigh high between the two of you, pressing it into the space beneath his hips. He grunted as his balance tipped again. You felt the shift before it happened.

He was losing control. And you weren’t done yet.

Joel let out a low, breathy laugh as you scrambled to your feet, the sound rough around the edges. You caught a glimpse of him pushing up from the floor, a small groan slipping past his lips. Still, he moved after you, slower than you but with a steady, unmistakable intent.

You took a step back, your hands instinctively lifting as if to say easy now, but it didn’t matter—he didn’t pause, didn’t flinch. Joel lunged again.

You twisted, sidestepped him just in time, but he pivoted with you. The air between you turned charged, every motion a tug-of-war for control. His hand caught your arm. Before you could brace yourself, he pulled you hard against his chest, spun you, and pressed you back—your front connecting with the wall beside your desk. The force of it knocked the breath from your lungs.

You were pinned.

His body caged yours completely, your back flush to him, the heat of him impossible to ignore. One of his hands flattened beside your head, bracing his weight. The other gripped both of your wrists, holding them firmly above you. You could feel his breath at your ear, warm and uneven, the tension between you taut like wire. His jaw was clenched, and his proximity felt almost unreal.

“Is that really all you've got?” he murmured, voice pitched low, brushing against the shell of your ear.

You parted your lips to say something back, something sharp or reckless, but the moment shattered.

The door slammed open without warning.

Tommy strode in casually, mid-thought, but stopped cold as soon as he saw the two of you. His brows drew together instantly.

You jerked away from Joel like the wall had burned you.

You reached up quickly, fixing your hair, trying to find your breath. Joel took a wide step back. He turned away, already halfway to the desk, picking up a stack of papers like nothing had happened.

“Tommy… hi,” you said, voice higher than usual, not quite steady. You didn’t dare look directly at him as you crossed the room and sank into your chair, pretending to shuffle through your notebook, your pulse still thrumming under your skin.

Joel said nothing. Tommy still hadn't moved. And your skin still tingled where Joel had touched you.

"I... I just came to check how everything was going," Tommy said, stepping farther into the room with a kind of casual purpose, though there was a flicker of curiosity behind his eyes. He had a rifle slung over one shoulder and wore a plaid button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms.

Joel didn’t turn around. He kept his back to both of you, flipping through the same stack of papers he'd already looked at twice.

“So, everything okay in here?” he asked, letting his gaze rest on you before switching to Joel. “Joel.”

Joel didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah. Everything’s fine,” he said, sharper than necessary, like the words had been waiting behind his teeth. He stood upright and walked around the desk, lowering himself into his chair. “Ellie’s not joining us for dinner tonight.”

Tommy gave a small nod, then turned to you, his tone shifting into something warmer.

“That’s actually why I came by. Maria and I were wondering if you’d like to come over tonight. Dinner with us. And Joel and... Just Joel.”

You felt Joel’s stare, the weight of it—how pointed and immediate it was. Like he was trying to will you into silence with his eyes alone. Still, you smiled.

“I’d love to,” you said simply, letting the warmth reach your voice but not overdoing it.

Tommy beamed. “Great. We’ll see you at seven, then.”

“Seven o’clock it is,” you confirmed.

There was a moment of quiet as Tommy lingered, his eyes flicking between the two of you again. His lips pressed together in a half-smile. Then, with a small nod, he turned and left, the door falling shut behind him.

You let out a long breath, the kind that only comes after holding something in for too long. A smile, amused and quiet, tugged at your lips.

Joel made a noise—something between a snort and a sigh—and shook his head, not looking at you.

Tommy and Maria’s house. That same day. Evening.

Something had shifted.

Not entirely new, things had been off from the beginning. But now the strangeness had taken on a different texture. Joel noticed it immediately. It was in the way you didn’t look at him after lunch. Not overtly. You weren’t dramatic about it. But he noticed.

Hours after Tommy had wandered into the office and caught the two of you mid-wrestle, you were both in the dining hall. Joel stepped backward without checking his surroundings and collided with you.

He winced. You smiled. You both startled, your shoulders brushing.

“I’m sorry,” you said at the same time.

He turned to you, already bracing for your annoyance. But you were smiling—kind of. Your expression was hard to read, like you were caught off guard too. And your cheeks—he swore they were flushed. He turned to look at you again, a crease between his brows, but you were already walking past him, quiet.

Later, out in the stables, he stood beside Tommy, brushing dust off his jeans, watching Shimmer paw at the ground. Tommy was mid-thought about something else entirely when he changed course.

“So what’s going on with Snow?” he asked casually, resting both arms on the fence.

Joel didn’t answer right away. He hoped Tommy would just let it hang there, floating into nothing.

“What’s going on with what?” he asked anyway, noncommittal.

“You know,” Tommy replied, shrugging, not looking at him.

“No, I don’t.”

Tommy hesitated, as if trying to phrase it more gently, but then gave up.

“Okay, look—I don’t really know how to dance around this, so I’ll just ask. Why the hell did it look like you had her pinned against the wall? Is this... is there something going on? Or has this weird tension finally morphed into something we should be having an official discussion about?”

Joel shook his head immediately. “Forget it. It was nothing.”

“So you admit it’s something weird.”

“There’s nothing weird.”

“Then what was that?”

Joel squinted at him. “I told you to assign her somewhere else.”

Tommy let out a laugh through his nose. “Yeah? You didn’t look too bothered about it earlier.”

Joel turned toward him. His jaw tightened. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Tommy grinned, unbothered.

Joel didn’t smile back. Or maybe he just didn’t get it. Or maybe he did—and didn’t want to.

Now, hours later, Joel straightened up from where he’d been leaning against the kitchen counter, posture stiff, pretending to do something useful. The front door had opened—he heard it. And then your voice. Light. Warm. Cheerful like you didn’t know how to be anything else.

He closed his eyes briefly. That voice had become a kind of headache lately. Persistent, impossible to ignore, and entirely your fault.

He lingered in the kitchen longer than necessary, arms crossed, gaze fixed on nothing in particular. But eventually Maria came into the room, arms folded, one eyebrow lifted.

“What are you still doing in here?” she asked, not unkindly. But the subtext was clear: Move.

He sighed and pushed off the counter, dragging his feet into the living room. You were there, sitting, mid-laugh. Your eyes flicked up when he entered, and the conversation stopped immediately.

Joel took the armchair by the window, the one slightly turned away from the others. He didn’t say anything. Neither did you.

There was a stretch of silence, not uncomfortable exactly.

“So,” Maria said eventually, turning toward you with a smile. “How’s work going?”

Joel looked at you, his expression unreadable. Part of him—some petty, irrational part—wanted you to say it was terrible. That you were miserable. That working with him had become so unbearable you were ready to quit.

But you didn’t say any of that. Instead, you smiled.

“Great, actually,” you said brightly. “I think I’m doing really well.”

There was a pause. You tilted your head toward him, your tone still pleasant but edged now. “Of course, I might not be the best person to judge that. Right, Joel?”

He stared at you, caught. Opened his mouth, closed it. Then opened it again.

“If I were you,” he said, finally, “I’d keep my options open.”

Maria blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tommy jumped in before the silence got heavy again.

“Snow’s doing a good job,” he said, trying to smooth things over. “Right, Joel?”

Joel looked down at his hands. Said nothing. Pretended there was something under his fingernail that needed attention.

You exhaled a short laugh, not quite amused.

“He’s not going to admit it. He never does. He’s only vocal when I mess something up. Otherwise, he’s quiet. That’s how I know things are okay—because he doesn’t say anything at all.”

Maria laughed, the sound easy. “Well, communication is pretty key to keeping any machine running. Like gears, you know? If one’s silent, it’s usually broken.”

Joel felt your gaze on him then, like heat against the side of his face. He didn’t look up. Didn’t give you that satisfaction. He avoided your eyes, even when you all moved to the dining table.

Unfortunately for him, that didn’t matter, it didn't work.

You sat directly across from him anyway.

Dinner began easily enough. The conversation, at first, revolved entirely around Jackson—its people, its systems, its small, hard-won triumphs. You listened intently, asked questions with genuine interest. Joel could see it in the way your eyes lit up, your posture leaning just slightly forward, your voice rising when you spoke to Tommy and Maria.

You admired them. That much was obvious. It came through in everything you said; how you referred to the town, how you seemed to understand its structure without needing it explained twice. Joel had suspected, in those early weeks, that your endless curiosity was partly performative, a subtle way of getting under his skin. Now he saw it differently. It wasn’t about him. This was simply part of you.

“I know I’ve said this before,” you began, your plate empty now, your voice quiet but sure, “but I really am grateful you opened your doors to me.” You were looking at them when you said it. Only them. Not at Joel. “I honestly never imagined a place like this could exist in the kind of world we live in.”

Maria smiled at you. “Well, it’s very nice having you here. You’ve really blended into Jackson beautifully.”

You tilted your head slightly, a small, uncertain smile tugging at your lips. “Do you think so?”

Joel caught it—the hesitation behind your question. The need for reassurance. You were good at hiding it, but not from him.

“Of course,” Maria said. “At first I thought it might take you longer to settle in. Actually, I assumed you wouldn’t want to start working right away.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Oh no, I had to. I couldn’t let myself stay here without contributing something. It wouldn’t feel right. I needed to earn it.”

Tommy nodded thoughtfully. “No, but it makes sense. Your situation was... well, it wasn’t easy. Needing some time would’ve been perfectly natural.”

Maria looked at you then, more closely. Her tone softened. “But you’re okay now, right?”

You took a sip from your glass before answering. There was a pause—brief, but thick enough for everyone to notice. You set the glass back down carefully, then smiled.

“Yeah. My days are about as peaceful as they can be.”

Maria nodded, still watching you. “If you ever want to change jobs, just know you can. That’s always an option.”

Joel looked down at his plate then, his fingers resting against the fork but unmoving. Something about the offer scratched at him.

Tommy, sensing the shift, jumped in lightly. “It’s just a thought. Personally, I think you’re great where you are.”

Joel lifted his eyes toward you then, just in time to catch your moment of hesitation. It was brief. Still, he saw it.

“She’s fine,” he said, his voice level but faintly defensive. “I’m not a monster.”

Maria waved him off with a gentle smile. “It’s not about that, Joel. No one thinks that. It’s just important to make space for choice. Because, Snow, I was thinking—maybe there’s something else you’d rather be doing. Something you haven’t told us. Now that you’re feeling stronger, it’s worth asking.”

The table went quiet for a moment. You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes widened slightly, a reflex, and your eyebrows lifted in thought.

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” you said. A faint smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as your hand moved, almost unconsciously, to the delicate heart charm resting against your collarbone. You touched it with the tips of your fingers. “But I’ve always liked children.”

Across the table, Joel shifted in his chair. He leaned forward, resting both elbows on the wood and clasping his hands together. His gaze remained fixed on you.

“Really?” Tommy asked.

You nodded, still touching the charm.

“There’s always a need for volunteers at the school,” Maria offered gently. “Would you be interested in something like that? Teaching, I mean?”

Your smile wavered. “Oh, I don’t know. I’d need time to prepare. I mean, I don’t really know how to teach anything. I was under twelve when everything changed, so... I guess I missed most of what school used to be.” You laughed softly, almost apologetically. “I do like kids. I just don’t know if I’d be any good with them, not in that way.”

Tommy leaned back slightly. “Benji really likes you.”

Your head tilted, “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “You can always tell with kids.”

“They’re transparent,” Maria added, nodding. “That’s the thing about them. You always know where you stand.”

You smiled then, brighter, a flicker of genuine happiness. “Yeah. They are. They're... really honest. Sophie is always very—”

You stopped. The brightness faded just enough to leave your features bare. The air seemed to catch in your throat. You looked down.

“I’m sorry,” you said, adjusting slightly in your seat. You cleared your throat, like that might undo the moment. “Sophie, my kid—she was really honest. Transparent, too. All the time.”

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He was watching you now with a quiet intensity, and though he said nothing yet, he caught the way your eyes dropped, your fingers retreating from the charm at your chest.

Tommy and Maria didn’t speak for a beat. The silence wasn’t awkward, just careful.

Tommy smiled eventually, voice warm. “Sophie’s a beautiful name.”

You looked up again, the gratitude in your eyes unmistakable. Your expression shifted, something between relief and sorrow, and you nodded.

“It is,” you said quietly. And then, after a breath, “I’m sorry. This is... the first time I’ve said her name out loud.” You looked down at your plate. “I—I—”

“You’re pretty transparent,” Joel said, and his voice surprised him. 

You looked at him, eyes wide again, but different now. He didn’t falter.

“And honest, too,” he added. “I’ve seen that. It’s nice that Sophie brought that out in you.”

You held his gaze. There was nothing performative in your silence. Then you smiled.

Joel didn’t look toward Tommy or Maria. He didn’t need to.

You nodded slowly. “Thank you,” you said. “It’s nice to think that.”

“That’s right,” Joel murmured, reaching for his glass again. He took a sip and looked down at his plate.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, your voice quieter now. Joel glanced up at you, expecting the apology to be aimed at him, but you were looking at Tommy and Maria instead. “I didn’t mean to make dinner uncomfortable—”

“Oh, please,” Maria interrupted, shaking her head. “Don’t say that. You felt safe enough to say her name. That’s not something to apologize for. That’s a gift.”

You nodded. Joel could tell you were trying to end the moment there.

But then your voice returned, softer now. “Thank you. I just think about her all the time. About how much she would’ve liked it here.” You smiled faintly. “I mean, I’m still freaking out over everything. She would've been ten times worse.”

Tommy chuckled. “Anything in particular?”

“Movies,” you said instantly, and your face changed. Something brighter flickered through you. “I love movies. Always have. When I was a kid, I’d spend whole summers watching them on this tiny little TV with built-in VHS. And with Sophie, I used to tell her about them. She didn’t get to see many, but every night I’d describe one to her like a bedtime story.”

Maria’s eyes softened. “What kind did she like?”

You let out a breath, almost a laugh. “Romantic comedies. Mostly because they were so bizarre to her. The idea that the worst thing that could happen to you was getting your heart broken by some guy? She thought it was hilarious.”

Joel noticed the way your mouth curved to the side, revealing the smallest dimple in your cheek.

“I remember once I told her the plot of Bridget Jones’s Diary. Sophie thought it was absurd. She was like, ‘That’s her biggest problem? Who to kiss?’ Meanwhile, we were running from infected. She said the people in those movies were weak and lame.”

Tommy laughed, shaking his head. “She wasn’t wrong. Unfair.”

“Totally unfair,” you agreed, your tone playful. You rolled your eyes dramatically and looked down for a moment, like you were laughing at your past self.

Joel sat very still.

There was something in the way you were telling the story, open, light, even funny, but with something fragile just beneath it. Like you were holding the memory in your hands, carefully, so it wouldn’t crack.

“How old was she?” Joel asked before he could stop himself.

The question caught the air between you like a thread pulled too tight. His own voice sounded strange to him.

He regretted it instantly.

But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t shrink.

“Twelve,” you said.

Joel didn’t say anything. He met your eyes, and something in his chest gave a quiet, private ache.

You held his gaze, your expression unreadable. Not guarded, just... steady.

Then Maria spoke again, gently breaking the quiet.

“I’m sure we’ve got some rom-coms tucked away, if you ever feel like watching one.”

Your head turned to her, and the smile that returned to your face was genuine. “Really?”

Tommy started listing the titles they’d collected over the years—things they'd found in the ruins of forgotten living rooms, in cardboard boxes in basements, in abandoned stores where dust clung to every inch of hope. The rom-coms had been surprisingly easy to find. People used to keep them everywhere.

Joel didn’t say another word.

He sat back, the conversation moving on around him, but his mind stayed anchored to a single name.

Sophie. Twelve years old. Gone.

And yet, somehow, still part of the way your voice softened.

When dinner ended, Joel stood without thinking. He hadn’t said much—he realized that now, in hindsight—but it didn’t feel strange. Words hadn’t felt necessary.

Tommy said something as Joel moved toward the door. Something friendly, about the patrol schedule or maybe the new fencing around the east perimeter. Joel nodded automatically, barely absorbing the words. His attention had drifted elsewhere.

You were already at the door, arms wrapped around Maria in a warm, familiar hug. Then you stepped back and smiled at Tommy, and he smiled at you, and the exchange—though simple—was soft in a way that made Joel look down at his hands.

He followed your lead, hugging Tommy, murmuring something kind in Maria’s direction. It was automatic, habitual.

By the time he stepped outside, you were already moving. You descended the porch steps, boots touching the ground with quiet rhythm, and walked ahead, your silhouette folding easily into the stillness of the air.

The night was beautiful. Mild, hushed, the air washed clean by an earlier rain that left everything smelling of cedar and damp earth.

Joel started walking too.

Not after you. That wasn’t the idea.

His house was in the same direction. That was all.

Still, as your shape shifted through the soft shadows in front of him, he found himself watching. Not intentionally. Just… observing. The swing of your arms. The way your hair moved when a breeze caught it. The way your head tilted slightly, as if you were listening to something he couldn’t hear.

He felt curious.

The word landed inside him like something unfamiliar, or maybe something long-forgotten. And he wondered... strangely, stupidly, if curiosity made him more like you. If that was something you felt all the time. If that’s why you spoke the way you did, asked the questions you asked, looked at the world like it still held mystery.

Then you stopped. Just like that. No warning.

He stopped too, instinctively.

You turned around, arms crossing over your chest as your eyes met his. Your expression was neutral.

“Are you following me?”

Joel blinked.

“No,” he said quickly, too quickly. “My house is this way. I figured you knew that, since you’ve already been there—against my will, I might add.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Oh. Right.”

There was a beat of quiet. Then, with one eyebrow raised, you asked, “But did you have to walk behind me like that?”

The corner of Joel’s mouth twitched. “What was I supposed to do? Jog ahead and pass you like we’re racing?”

You didn’t laugh, but your eyes flickered.

“Why? Would you like that?”

Joel let out a sharp breath that sounded vaguely like a laugh, more out of disbelief than amusement. He shook his head once, almost imperceptibly, then turned and kept walking, brushing past you without looking back.

“I think we’re done with all this nonsense of yours,” he said, his tone flat. “Will you leave me alone now?”

He could hear your boots scraping against the ground, you followed him. Of course. Not ready to drop it. You picked up your pace until you were walking beside him again.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I beat you,” he muttered, eyes forward.

“You beat me? At what?”

Joel exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for too long. “You said you’d leave me alone if I beat you. And I did.”

You laughed. “You didn’t beat me at anything, Tommy came in just as I was about to—”

“What?” He glanced sideways at you, eyes narrowing, though he didn’t stop walking. “Beat me? You weren’t going to succeed.”

You smirked. “I was being kind to you, Joel. I could’ve gone hard if I wanted.”

Joel let out a sound, something between a scoff and a low chuckle, shaking his head.

Sure. You, kind. That was the story you were sticking to.

He didn’t say anything. Just months ago you’d been barely able to walk. A knife wound under your ribs, barely stitched together, and a body that refused to bend or stretch without complaint. And him... he was easily twice your weight and all of it muscle and scar tissue. If this was a joke, it was a good one.

“Well,” he said eventually, “I was being pretty gentle too. Wasn’t exactly trying.”

“Why?” you asked, cutting in quickly.

His eyes flicked toward your house, which was coming into view just a block ahead.

“Don’t tell me it’s because of my accident,” you said.

He didn’t respond, but the silence between you sharpened.

“I don’t need your pity,” you said quietly as you approached your street. Then, abruptly, you stopped walking.

Joel took a few more steps before realizing, then turned to face you. 

“Seriously,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward your porch. “Don’t you have anything else to do besides follow me around and pick fights? Go home. Rest. You’ve done enough for one day.”

You tilted your head, the smallest curve of a smile forming on your lips.

“Don’t play dumb,” you said, stepping toward him, the distance between you shrinking.

He furrowed his brow. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I know you enjoyed this,” you said, voice softer but no less certain. “You had fun today.”

Joel stared at you like you’d said something entirely out of touch with reality. 'Cause you did.

“You laughed,” you said, your voice almost playful. “More than once, actually. It’s obvious you find something funny about all this—fighting and pinning me down. Am I wrong?”

The way you said it—light, teasing, like it didn’t matter at all—made something in Joel itch to start another argument.

“There’s nothing funny about it,” he said, his jaw tight. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “It’s what people do to survive. What’s so damn amusing about that?”

You didn’t answer right away. He saw the pause in your face, the moment you looked off to the side, maybe trying to find the right language for something that didn’t quite fit into words.

“Nothing about surviving is fun to me,” you said, your voice quieter now, but still clear. “But there’s something… I don’t know. There’s a kind of satisfaction in realizing you’re strong. That you can hold it, use it, control it. Especially when everything else feels impossible to control.”

Joel exhaled through his nose and looked away, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he was still standing here listening to this.

“You get all poetic and shit,” he muttered. “But you’re not convincing me.”

He turned and began walking again, putting space between you without ceremony. Today, for some reason, you seemed harder to tolerate than usual. Maybe it was the look in your eye when you said things like that—like you wanted him to unravel everything he spent years refusing to look at. And sure, he understood the point: control, strength, power. All those big abstract things. But he had lived long enough to know they were just words, sometimes. 

He’d used force his entire life. And though he never liked admitting it, there had been a time when it came easy—when his body knew exactly what to do and didn’t hesitate. When each punch took something out of him, sure, but also put something back in. A brief quiet. An emptiness, even, that felt better than rage. But that was before. 

You caught up to him, your steps quicker now, passing him with ease as your house came into view.

“Okay, but just so we’re clear—you didn’t win,” you said, glancing back at him with a smirk. “No matter how badly you want to believe that, cowboy.”

Joel stopped walking. Something about the way you said it, the way you tossed it over your shoulder like a challenge, made him freeze.

You were already climbing the steps to your porch. He watched the sway of your hips, the certainty in your walk. And then—

“Hey,” he called out. His voice came out louder than expected, sharp in the quiet street.

You stopped instantly and looked back at him, one hand on the railing. The look on your face was unreadable.

Joel pivoted sharply and moved toward you, his steps clipped and purposeful, each one heavier than the last. He climbed the porch stairs, and you took a small step back.

He didn’t stop until you were nearly pressed against the wall, your shoulders brushing the wood. His chest rose and fell with restraint.

“Open the damn door,” he said, his voice tight, almost too loud.

You blinked at him, confused. “What?”

He gestured toward the door behind you. He was practically radiating frustration now.

“Open it. You want to do this? Fine. Let’s do it. Right now.”

You stared at him for a second too long. Joel could feel his irritation gathering at the back of his neck, crawling into his jaw. But then you tilted your head slightly, and your mouth curled into something that looked dangerously close to a smirk.

He hated that look.

Just as he opened his mouth to snap again, you cut in with faux sincerity: “Wow, Joel. I’m… flattered. But I don’t think this is the time—”

“Oh, shut up,” he muttered, practically groaning the words. His face twisted into something caught between disbelief and pure exhaustion.

You laughed quietly, then gave a small nod. You stepped aside, brushing against his arm, and turned the doorknob.

But Joel didn’t wait. He crossed the threshold before you could, brushing past like he couldn’t stand being outside one second longer.

He was done—done with the quips and the constant back-and-forth. The way you seemed to enjoy needling him, like every interaction was just another chance to poke at his patience and see what came loose. And yet, there were moments where you were soft-spoken and startlingly sincere. Where your eyes stopped dancing and looked at him with that... damn look. That contrast, that unpredictability, it drove him mad.

He didn’t understand you. And that might’ve been the most irritating thing of all.

When Joel stepped inside, he walked into the living room and stopped abruptly, his boots pausing on the rug like they’d landed somewhere unfamiliar, even though it wasn’t. Not entirely.

He scanned the space—his eyes moving across the room, over the furniture, toward the corners. The last time he’d been here, the place had been empty. Just walls, half-painted. A mattress leaning against a wall. Tools scattered near the back door. That had been weeks ago, before you'd moved in. Before the place had turned into yours.

He remembered working on the cabinets in your kitchen, running his fingers over the fresh grain of the wood, smoothing it down until it felt good enough. He’d spent a full day polishing the doors in your bedroom and bathroom, fixing hinges that didn’t align properly. He wasn't going to tell you about it.

Now, the room looked like someone lived in it—really lived in it. There were clothes draped over the arm of the couch, a sweatshirt with one sleeve nearly touching the floor. A mug sat on the coffee table, the ring of dried tea barely visible from where he stood. On the side table: an unlit candle, a closed paperback with a bookmark jutting out crookedly, like you'd walked away mid-paragraph. And the air carried something —something that was distinctly you. Not perfume, not any of the herbal scents you brought home from the greenhouse. Just your home.

“Would you like something to drink?” you asked as you walked around the couch, your voice soft, a kind of hospitality that made him uncomfortable.

He frowned, his body stiff. “No. Can we just get this over with?”

You laughed under your breath. “Sure.”

You didn’t move right away. You just looked at him. There was no aggression in your expression, but the intensity was worse. You watched him like you were trying to figure something out. And he hated that. Hated the way your gaze landed on him and stayed.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, almost to himself.

You sighed, not dramatically, just tired. Then you started walking toward him, your steps easy, measured. Joel’s shoulders tensed as you closed the space between you. Instinct made him shift back a little.

“Okay,” you said, shrugging. “You go first. Like before.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward.

His movements were sharp at the start, measured, like he was solving a problem in real time. His hands came up—careful, open. He watched how you adjusted: the slight movement of your feet, the line of your shoulders, the angle of your hips as you leaned to the side and dodged.

He was analyzing you, trying to anticipate the next second before it happened.

So, the first move came from Joel—a firm hand, angled toward your shoulder, an attempt to push you back and gauge your footing. It was measured, controlled, a test more than a threat. But you caught his wrist midair, your fingers curling around bone and tendon, and with a swift pivot of your hips you tried to twist his arm behind him.

He didn’t let you.

With barely a shift in expression, he anchored himself lower, grounding his weight like a reflex. Then, in one smooth, practiced motion, he turned, used his hip as leverage, and sent you flying backward onto the couch.

You landed with a soft thud, your spine bouncing slightly against the cushions. A quiet laugh slipped out of you—quick, breathy, involuntary. Not mockery. Not quite amusement either. 

You aimed a kick toward him from where you lay, a low sweep meant to startle or provoke. Joel stepped easily out of its path. Your smile, small and visible just for a moment, told him everything he needed to know: this wasn’t sparring anymore.

You launched yourself forward, your whole body pushing into him with sudden momentum. Your hands met his chest with a shove, driving him backward—once, then again—toward the coffee table. Joel’s boots scraped against the rug. He adjusted, recalibrated, eyes locked on yours. You hooked your leg behind his knee, tried to tip him, take him down.

He caught you mid-motion.

His arms closed around you, arms that felt like steel wrapped in something deceptively human. You could barely breathe. For a beat, you were suspended there—weightless in his grasp—and then he let you fall.

The floor met you hard. Your back hit the rug, air punched from your lungs in a quick gasp. He hadn’t thrown you with cruelty, but there was nothing soft in it either. 

Joel knelt above you, one arm braced on either side of your ribcage, his body practically vibrating with effort. His face hovered close, unreadable but not distant.

“Did that hurt?” he asked. His voice was flat.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, jaw clenched. The burn across your back was fading already, replaced by something sharper, something electric. In one swift motion, you twisted your hips and drove your weight upward, catching him off balance. He tipped sideways with a grunt, landing against the floor.

And then you were up again—standing, poised, heart drumming in your ears.

Across from you, Joel rose too, with a grunt. His movements quicker now. Tension in his shoulders. His eyes alert.

The second round was messier.

You met in the middle of the room with force, your bodies colliding as if trying to prove something to yourselves rather than each other. Every movement felt sharper now, every breath louder. Joel caught you first, backed you up against the wall by the fireplace, one hand planted firmly on your shoulder, the other gripping your wrist tight. His forearm pressed against your chest, pinning you just enough to provoke a reaction.

You gave him one.

A hard jab of your knee to his side—angled just enough to throw him off. His grip slipped. You shoved him, palms flat against his chest, and he staggered back, nearly lost his balance. His heel clipped the side table and sent it lurching, books and a candle crashing to the ground.

But he didn’t fall.

He righted himself, eyes locked on yours, face flushed, jaw tight. There was something fierce and unsaid behind the way he moved now, something past irritation, past play.

He lunged again, his hands finding your waist this time, lifting you clean off the floor like it cost him nothing. You weren’t prepared for it. You beat your fists against his back as he carried you across the room, ignoring the hits, setting you down roughly on the floor near the armchair.

Your bodies tangled again, your elbow against his chest, your foot hooked behind his knee, trying to trap, to flip. You fought dirty but Joel was solid, grounded. More than you could match. He slipped free of the hold and rolled to the side, then caught you again before you could get to your knees.

His left arm curled around the back of your neck, firm enough to hold you in place. Your torso twisted against his, your breath catching as your spine arched, trying to create space between your body and his.

“You’re holding back,” you whispered, your voice rough from the effort.

Joel didn’t reply. His jaw tensed. His arm didn’t loosen.

You went still for a beat—your head pressed to the carpet, one knee bent beneath you, the other leg outstretched. Beneath him, your muscles ached with resistance, but you didn’t move. It wasn’t surrender. It was calculation.

Because seconds later, you twisted again, harder this time, using the floor, your hips, your momentum. And Joel had to shift with you, adjusting his grip, holding you down with more certainty.

Joel felt the shift in your body before he fully registered it; how the tension in your muscles softened just enough beneath him. Not surrender. Nothing that definitive. Maybe a pause. 

His forearm remained braced under your neck, steady and measured. It wasn’t meant to hurt, just to hold. Your faces were so close that your breath mixed with his, hot and uneven in the narrow space between. He could feel the rise and fall of your chest. Hear it. And for a second, he frowned, unsure what to do with the closeness, unsure why it felt like something he hadn’t prepared for.

But before he could react, you moved.

Your legs snapped around his waist, and with a sharp twist of your hips, you flipped him. It happened so fast it startled him; not the force of it, but the precision. His back hit the carpet with a muffled thud, and a grunt escaped him, less from pain than sheer disbelief. His arms went instinctively to brace himself, but it was already too late.

You had him.

Your hands closed around his wrists and pushed them to the floor above his shoulders, pinning him with confidence, not strength. You straddled his torso, knees planted on either side, anchoring yourself with perfect balance. It wasn’t aggression. It was control. And worse: it was calm.

He tested your grip, pulling at his arms just to see how far you’d let him go. You didn’t budge. Your grip held firm, fingers tightening in response. You didn’t gloat. You didn’t grin. Your face had gone quiet, intent, almost studious. Your eyes scanned his like you were watching something inside him move.

Joel stared back, expression hard, unmoved. That was his default: blankness under pressure. But inside, something caved. He was impressed. Admittedly. Unwilling to say it out loud. But it was there.

You shifted your weight a little, subtly lowering your upper body toward his, enough to narrow the space again. Your hands were still locked around his wrists. Your forearms strained. But your face—your eyes—seemed to be reading him like a puzzle you were getting closer to solving.

And then he felt it.

The change was small. Barely there. A faint pressure from your knees against his ribs. The slight turn of your hips, not enough to throw him, just enough to unnerve. Just enough to let him know that whatever this was it wasn’t finished.

Joel twisted his leg, aiming to catch yours and throw you off balance. But you read it before it happened. Without hesitation, you released one of his wrists and reached for his face, pressing your palm to his cheek and shoving his head sideways, pinning him harder against the floor. Your other forearm slid across his neck.

He grunted, his breath catching in the space between effort and disbelief.

“Is that all you’ve got, Miller?” you asked, panting slightly, voice frayed from exertion but still unmistakably amused.

Joel felt his teeth press together, not from anger. It was something closer to provocation. Your words didn’t come laced with arrogance, but with heat. A challenge. And it worked. Not just physically. Mentally. You were inside the fight, and inside his head, and that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

He shifted under you again, muscles contracting as he tried to use the momentum of his torso to knock you off. You responded immediately, adjusting your weight, closing your legs around his middle, anchoring yourself deeper. You moved with precision, resisting every attempt he made to gain leverage.

Joel let his head drop against the floor, exhaling hard through his nose. Not giving up. Just calculating. Resetting.

“You’re not staying up there all night,” he growled, voice low and tight.

You leaned down slowly. Your hair spilled across his face, brushing his temple.

“I can try,” you whispered.

He felt your breath skim his skin. Warm. Barely there. And something sharp lit up in his spine. Not pain. Not entirely desire either. Something deeper, lodged between the physical and something else.

Joel closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. Not in surrender. In preparation.

You were winning. You knew it. And still—he let you believe it.

He softened just a little. Let the fight drain from his arms. Let his body settle into the floor. It wasn’t defeat. It was strategy. He shifted his weight, exhaled loudly through his nose, let out a frustrated snort that sounded convincing enough. He angled his gaze to the side like maybe he was checking out of this.

You adjusted. Not fully, not foolishly, but enough. You lifted your body slightly, changed the grip on his wrists. A tiny recalibration. Subtle. A misstep.

Joel waited. One heartbeat. Two.

And then he moved.

Clean, practiced, inevitable. His arm snapped free, hips twisting as he planted one boot against the ground. He grabbed your waist with both hands before you could retreat. Your eyes widened, he felt it in the shift of your weight, but it was too late.

He had you.

With a sharp twist of his torso, Joel flipped you beneath him. Your back hit the carpet hard, the impact blooming across your shoulder blades. Before you could react, he was already on you—one knee wedged between your legs, anchoring you in place. His arm slid under your neck again while his other hand kept your wrist pinned above your head, fingers tight around your pulse.

You exhaled sharply, chest rising in uneven gasps. You tried to shift, to push upward with your core, but he pressed you back down. He was in control again. The tide had turned, and he wanted you to feel it.

Your eyes locked with his, the heat between you immediate and impossible to ignore. There was frustration there—yes—but also something wilder.

“You were letting me win,” you said, voice tight with effort, your breath threading through clenched teeth.

“Maybe,” he replied, unfazed.

“And now?”

Joel leaned down, close enough for you to feel the heat of his breath against your cheek. His voice was quiet, nearly lost in the hum of your shared breathing.

“Now I have you.”

You twisted beneath him again, instinctively, as if your body refused to accept the words. But his weight shifted subtly, his thigh pressing in. He knew how to keep someone still. Knew the angles, the pressure points, the silent language of resistance. You felt it in every inch of him: the calculation, the restraint, the knowledge of exactly how to hold you without crossing a line.

Your breath stuttered in your chest. His, too. The rhythm of your exhales mingled in the quiet room, ragged and metered. The lamplight softened everything it touched, gold at the edges, and the night outside pressed gently against the windows, waiting for none of it.

“You’re heavy,” you muttered, panting.

Joel didn’t respond. He just looked at you, eyes locked on yours.

And still, he didn’t move.

You could feel every part of him. The press of his thigh. The tension in his grip. The way his body curved just slightly above yours, not crushing, not hovering—just there. Held at that thin, dangerous line where dominance turned into something unspoken. 

He released your wrist slowly, letting your arm fall beside your head. But he didn’t shift away.

Not yet.

He remained above you, breathing hard, chest rising and falling against yours. Your gazes never broke. Not when his fingers loosened. Not when the fight paused.

You kept looking at him like you were daring him to try again.

Eventually, Joel sat up. He planted his palms flat on the carpet, pushed himself to his knees, and rose, his body creaking in quiet protest. He was older, yes, but intact. He glanced down at you. You were still on the floor, your chest rising in fast, measured bursts under your fitted T-shirt, jaw clenched like you refused to give him even the satisfaction of breath. 

He didn’t say anything. Just reached forward and grabbed the collar of your shirt, his hand rough as he tugged you upright with a single, ungraceful pull.

But you didn’t let him finish the motion. You growled—a low, primal sound—and shoved him hard in the chest with both hands. Joel stumbled back, barely catching his footing before you launched forward.

You collided in the middle of the room, bodies slamming together like something inside had finally snapped. It wasn’t a fight anymore. Not exactly. It was pressure meeting pressure. Frustration meeting friction.

Joel tried to get a grip on your arms, but you twisted, lowered your stance, slid beneath his hold. You were quick. Too quick. You collided again, arms locking, torsos pressing, breath catching. The air between you was gone, replaced by heat, skin, movement. There was no room for hesitation now.

Joel caught you from behind—finally, solidly. His arm locked across your chest, pulling you back against him. His other hand wrapped around your wrist, anchoring it tight. You twisted instinctively, searching for leverage, but he adjusted, pressed his chest against your back, held you flush to him.

Your body bristled. You gritted your teeth, let out a noise between frustration and fire. You lifted both legs, planted your feet against the wall in front of you, using it like a springboard. Joel felt the tension ripple through your body a second before you kicked back.

The impact sent both of you stumbling backward. His boots scraped the floor, his center shifting—but he didn’t let go. Not even close. His grip stayed firm, like you weighed nothing, like you belonged there.

“You’re not getting off that easy,” he murmured, his voice brushing your ear. His tone was low, taut, almost tired. “You’ve been riding my nerves all day. I’m not about to let you go now.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

You writhed instead—elbowing, pushing, testing his hold in every direction. Every breath was a clash of bodies, your heart pounding in rhythm with his. Then, in one sharp motion, you drove your right elbow into his ribs. He grunted, the breath catching in his throat. It hit hard. Not hard enough.

In response, Joel shoved you against the nearest wall, his arm still wrapped across your chest, the full weight of him pinning you from behind. His breath was hot on your neck now; heavy, ragged. You could feel the way his chest moved with each inhale, pressed tight against your back.

Joel let go of your wrist, only to slide his hand into your hair, finding the base of your skull with practiced certainty. His fingers curled tight, and he pulled—firm, controlled, a line of tension drawn through your spine. You arched in response, instinctively, your throat exposed, lips parting with a soft exhale. The movement wasn’t violent. But it was unmistakable.

It was a message.

You tried to twist free, but he had you locked between his chest and the wall—one arm looped tight across your middle, anchoring you in place. It was a precarious hold; if either of you shifted too far, the moment would fracture. But right now, Joel had you. 

He could feel your pulse under your skin, thudding like a warning. The space where your bodies touched radiated warmth, unbearable and magnetic. He tightened his grip, not to hurt, just to remind you—he’d taken back control. You had lost ground. And you knew it.

And then... you laughed.

Barely more than a breath. A soft sound, but sharp enough to break through the haze. Joel’s brow furrowed instinctively. He tilted his head down, tugged at your hair to shift your face toward his line of sight, to see what this was. What the hell you were thinking.

You were smiling.

Not a smirk. Not sarcastic. It was quiet, honest—like you were exactly where you wanted to be, like this tension, this stalemate, was some kind of private victory. Not over him. Just… for you.

Joel felt something tighten in his chest, deep and unplaceable. Something not entirely rational.

What the fuck is she doing? The thought came quickly, then repeated, distorted, like a static hum in the back of his mind.

The uncertainty unsettled him more than anything you'd done physically.

And then you moved.

Sharp. Certain. Not hesitation—decision.

You turned your head just enough. Lifted your face.

Found his mouth with yours.

The kiss landed hard. Not hesitant, not curious. It was purposeful, physical, urgent, full. Your lips crashed into his with the same force you used to fight him, teeth grazing, breath tangling, intention spilling out unchecked.

And Joel—froze.

For two full seconds, maybe three, he didn’t move. He didn’t respond. His body felt suspended, like his nerves had short-circuited and left him standing there, chest to back, absorbing the weight of your mouth, the taste of your breath. He couldn’t tell if he was resisting or simply stunned.

And then—something gave.

He let go.

All at once.

His hands left your body, dropping from your back, your neck, as if contact burned. He stepped backward, a full pace, the space between you reappearing in a sudden gust. His brow was drawn, eyes unreadable, hands hovering uselessly at his sides.

He looked at you, lips parted like there was something forming behind them—but no words came.

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It was filled.

You didn’t speak either.

You just stood there, breathing each other’s air from a distance.

You turned fast, your back hitting the wall with a soft thud as you faced him again. It was instinct, mostly. Like you needed a barrier behind you, something solid to keep from unraveling. Your gaze met his as if daring him to move, to try again.

But Joel didn’t move.

He stood completely still, not even breathing, it seemed. His eyes were on you, unreadable, like he wasn’t in his own body anymore but watching from somewhere just outside of it. You saw the tension in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw. And then—he saw it too.

You braced.

And then you lunged.

But Joel moved faster this time. Faster than before. With nothing left of hesitation. His hands caught your shoulders and slammed you back against the wall with enough force to steal the air from your lungs. A rough sound escaped you—part shock, part surrender—but it was swallowed by the way his body moved in close, claiming space you had no time to defend.

You struggled again—your legs shifting, your arms jerking. But he adjusted. His hands dropped, locking your wrists against the wall beside your head. His leg slid forward, pressing firmly between your thighs, anchoring you with terrifying precision.

And then he looked at you.

Really looked.

Your cheeks flushed, chest rising unevenly, eyes locked on his.

You should’ve let go. That would’ve been the logical thing. The safe thing. But you didn’t.

Your body stilled, except for your breath. Your eyes held his, and Joel felt it cresting between you like a wave he could no longer stand against. He should’ve stopped. But he didn’t want to.

He leaned in.

And then his mouth was on yours.

No preamble. No question. Just contact. Firm, fast, overwhelming. The kind of kiss meant to silence. And it did. Your moans flattened against his lips, swallowed whole. He braced for resistance—prepared for you to shove him back, to spit something bitter into the space between you.

But instead—you opened. Your mouth tilted, your head angled, and you kissed him back. Fiercely.

His leg pressed harder between yours and the sound that escaped you—low, helpless, involuntary—nearly undid him.

Everything else fell away.

Joel released your wrists, and your hands flew to his hair, fingers digging in like you needed something to hold onto. He matched your urgency, one hand grabbing at your waist, dragging your hips tighter against him, the other finding your hair and pulling hard enough to make you gasp. You didn’t pull away.

You moaned again.

And then he felt your tongue, bold and certain, slipping into his mouth like a dare. He welcomed it without hesitation, kissing you harder, deeper, everything in him crashing forward like a dam finally split open.

You moved your hips against him, a slow grind that answered every inch of pressure he was giving, and then—this time—it was Joel who moaned. The sound came from deep in his chest, unfiltered, raw. His body pressed you harder against the wall, like he needed you closer than physics would allow.

And still—it wasn’t enough.

Something in him broke.

Joel reached for the waistband of your jeans, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric, anchoring there as he dragged you closer. You pulled away from his mouth with a sound that was slick and breathless. Your chest rose sharply against his, and then his lips were at your neck—open, hungry. The sound that escaped you was half gasp, half surrender.

He didn’t know what he was doing. Not really. Not in a way he could name. His body moved faster than his mind, his instincts taking over in jagged flashes. He pressed himself against you like it would somehow steady the storm inside him. His fingers found the button of your jeans and flicked it open. Thoughtlessly. Desperately.

Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was the ache still humming in his ribs, the echo of your elbow, the bruises from the floor. Maybe you’d knocked something loose in him—something he hadn’t used in years.

He didn’t pause.

His hand slid under your jeans, past the waistband of your underwear, until he reached skin—soft, hot, impossibly tender. He swore under his breath, just barely. Something about the heat of you, the way your body yielded to his touch, sent a shock straight through him.

And then he found it. That first wet trace of you.

Joel froze, lips still against your throat.

He lifted his gaze.

Your eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils wide and shining. Your mouth hung open, breath catching with every beat of his hand. Your skin glowed with heat and tension, cheeks flushed deep pink. And your hands—your hands had found their way to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, grounding him like a lifeline.

He pushed a finger inside you.

The warmth was immediate, overwhelming. You arched slightly, pressing your head against the wall, exposing your neck. He watched the line of your throat as you tilted your chin up, heard the way your breath stuttered in your chest.

Joel should have stopped.

He told himself to. More than once. He thought it with urgency—Stop. Stop. Stop.

But he didn’t.

He added another finger, easing deeper, and you responded instantly. Your hips shifted, rolling toward his palm. His thumb brushed over your clit, and you gasped—one hand tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck, the other fisted in his shirt like you needed something to hold onto or else you'd fall.

Your moans were quiet but insistent. They made his head swim.

Joel couldn’t think. Not clearly. Not the way he was supposed to. It had been too long, too fucking long.

Everything in him was unraveling—recklessly, selfishly. And he knew, deep down, this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Which, somehow, only made him want it more.

Because it wasn’t allowed. Not you, not you.

And that’s exactly what made it feel like it was right.

You kissed him again, your mouth open, your breath tangled with his as you moved your hips against the rhythm of his hand. The moans you let slip found their way into his mouth, wet and uncontrolled, as his fingers worked inside you, steady, urgent, paced like something unsustainable.

Joel could feel it—how you clenched around him, how everything inside you seemed to pulse and tighten. His knuckles were slick with you, and yet all he could think about was how close you were, how impossibly warm your body felt under his hand.

You broke the kiss, gasping against his cheek, your breath hot and uneven.

“You’re a damn—” you started, but your voice caught in your throat. Your back arched. “Joel—”

Your head tilted back against the wall, mouth parted, eyes closed. Your chest rose sharply, then dropped again, a stuttering pattern. You barely touched the floor anymore.

Another thrust of his fingers and you fell apart—small, stuttering cries leaving your lips as your body shuddered against his. He felt the aftershocks inside you, spasms clutching around his hand, drawing him deeper into the heat he wasn’t sure he could survive.

And still he watched you.

Not just the way your face looked in pleasure, though that alone could undo him—but the way you held onto him after. Your hands slid shakily down his arms, fingers curling around his elbows like you needed something steady.

You stood there in silence.

The kind that arrives after something has changed.

Both of you breathing hard. Still pressed together. Still too close.

Joel slowly pulled his hand from your jeans, the wet sound between you both sudden and deafening. He looked at you, waiting for words that didn’t come.

“Joel,” you murmured, voice low. Maybe you were going to ask something. Or insult him. Maybe you were about to thank him? Maybe nothing at all.

But he didn’t wait.

He stepped back like he’d been shocked, like the heat of your skin had finally seared too deep. Then he turned and left—without warning, without explanation.

His boots were too loud on your floor. His hand on the doorknob was too fast. And when the door flung open, the night greeted him with too much softness—like it hadn’t just witnessed everything he’d done.

Warm air brushed across his face, lifting the damp curls at his temples.

He walked. Fast. Away. Away from you.

His mind was spiraling. A tight, circular storm of questions he couldn’t answer: What the fuck did I just do? Why? What is wrong with me?

His jeans were still uncomfortably tight, painfully so. He cursed under his breath, glancing once behind him to make sure no one was out on their porch, no one watching him try to disappear into the dark.

The walk home was short. But it felt endless. And when he finally got there, in the suffocating quiet of his bathroom, with water streaming down his chest and his forehead pressed to the tile, he gave in.

He wrapped his hand around himself like it was the only way to get your name out of his system.

But it wasn’t.

Because as he came—jaw clenched, eyes shut tight—it was you he saw.

You, and only you. 

And later, on his bed...

Your face.

Your face.

2013. Hollow Pines. Sometime after midnight.

“You fucking lied!” Joel said, voice rough and low, almost more breath than sound. His hands were pressed against the man’s chest, shoving him hard into the crumbling plaster wall. “You’re a goddamn piece of shit.”

Tess’s voice cut through the air like a match sparking against stone. “Joel, enough—stop. You’ll get us both killed.”

Suddenly, her arms were pinned by the other man, his grip tight, fingers curling like roots around her biceps. She twisted, not to get free exactly.

Joel didn’t hear her. Or maybe he did and chose not to care. His fist cracked across Declan’s face with a kind of ugly precision. The sound echoed around the decaying little house—short, brutal, like someone slamming a metal door shut.

The place they’d found was barely a structure at all anymore. Half the roof gone, windows eaten by moss and rot. But it had walls, and that was enough for shelter. Still, Joel had known that the most dangerous thing inside Hollow Pines wasn’t what waited beyond the tree line.

About thirty miles west of Boston, Hollow Pines was the kind of place people stopped talking about long before the outbreak. It hadn’t been a real town for years, just a scatter of empty homes tangled in brush and silence. Trees taller than buildings pressed close together like they were guarding secrets. You could barely see the next house until you were standing in front of it. It made the perfect place to disappear. Or to do something you couldn’t afford to be seen doing.

The job was supposed to be easy. Routine. They’d done it before. Joel could still list the steps in his head the way you memorize prayers even after you stop believing in them.

There were five of them in the group—two men, three women. One was visibly pregnant, the kind of detail you weren’t supposed to notice, let alone feel anything about. Declan and Jeremy had picked the target. Joel and Tess were just the hands that carried it out.

Declan had said it like it was nothing.

"They’re soft. They’ll cave the second they think they’re in real danger. We go in. We take what we need. We’re gone before they even think about getting brave.”

It was supposed to be clean. Functional. A transaction, not a scene.

And Joel, who had long since stopped mistaking instinct for conscience, had done exactly what was asked of him. Just like always.

With their faces covered by bandanas, they began the mission around midnight.

The cabin was two stories, built from sun-bleached wood and time. Its frame leaned ever so slightly to the left, as if the forest had been trying to reclaim it for years and the structure was finally thinking of giving in. Dry vines clung to the facade like brittle fingers, twisted and brown, while moss had crept across the base. The roof sagged under the weight of its own years, the shingles fractured in places.

A wide porch wrapped around the front, its wood creaking even in silence. On it, an old rocking chair sat tilted slightly off balance, one leg shorter than the others. It looked like someone had once used it every night and then, suddenly, not at all. A rusted shotgun hung from a nail on one of the porch columns. It was a warning, or maybe just the remnant of a person who once needed to be prepared.

The windows were boarded up from the inside, but between the slats, the edges of curtains could be seen. Yellowed, frayed, swaying just barely.

A little farther back, hidden behind tall weeds that looked like they hadn’t been cut in a decade, sat a collapsed shed. Inside, the air was thick with the metallic scent of rust and forgotten things. There were dull tools scattered along the floor, broken car parts half-covered by dirt, a bucket full of something long hardened and gray. The kind of place that told you exactly what it was: unimportant, forgotten.

They didn’t enter the house quietly. There was no care to it, no sense of restraint. Declan fired at the door hinge, the shot tearing through wood and silence alike. The sound echoed off the trees like a warning bell, and then he kicked the door in with the kind of force that said he didn’t expect anyone to fight back.

Inside, Tess and Joel moved upstairs without speaking or paying atention to the loud voices inside. They didn’t have to. Declan and Jeremy stayed below, their voices sharp and rising—commands, maybe, or threats to the group living there. The rhythm of scuffling feet and broken furniture followed them up.

Joel reached the first bedroom. The door opened with a reluctant groan. It had the feel of a child’s room, or what remained of one. Faded wallpaper, small ghost footprints in the invisible air. On the desk was a bottle half-filled with clear liquid and a rag beside it. There was a nearly empty box of .22 caliber bullets tucked beneath an overturned chair. Next to it, a notebook with a handful of childish drawings on the first pages—trees with too many leaves, a sun far too close to the earth. Toward the back, the handwriting changed: more compact, urgent.

If we come back, take the river route. Not the highway.

He folded the page down and kept moving.

The second bedroom was larger. The master, he figured. The bed wasn’t made, but the sheets were still warm with the shape of someone who’d left in a hurry. On one side, clothes had been folded neatly, like someone had been trying to keep some sense of order, even here. The nightstand held three shotgun shells, a multitool, and a bottle of antibiotics that had been opened but not yet used. He checked under the mattress and found a map—creased and worn thin at the folds. Several routes had been marked and then crossed out with heavy pencil strokes. One was circled twice.

He didn’t pause to consider where it led. He didn’t have time. Voices were still rising downstairs. For now, everything sounded under control. But Joel knew better than most how quickly that could change.

He found Tess in the last room at the end of the hall.

The door was open, the hinges barely holding. Inside, the air felt warm and faintly sweet, the remnants of a candle still burning out on the nightstand. It had melted into itself, a soft pool of wax cooling into stillness. The blankets on the bed were tangled.

“Look at this,” Tess said, not turning to face him. She was crouched on the floor in front of a wooden box with its lid swung open.

Joel stepped closer. He looked down and saw them: four grenades, clearly handmade. A revolver with a full cylinder gleaming like it had been polished recently. Two pistols, their triggers untouched. Clean bandages rolled tightly, sterile gauze still sealed. A bottle of disinfectant, a box of oxytocin, latex gloves, a nearly full bottle of isopropyl alcohol, the label starting to peel.

He reached into the box, touching everything. His fingers hovered, pressed, moved on. He recognized the preparation. The intention behind each item. It wasn’t chaos. It was care.

“She’s going to give birth soon,” Tess said. She was holding a notebook, the spine bent and several pages torn out. It had been left open on the nightstand.

Joel stepped beside her and read over her shoulder.

Week thirty-seven. Contractions tonight. Gabriel wants to go out to find food, but I told him to wait.

Week thirty-eight. Bubs boiled water and we cleared the stove. If the baby comes today, we’re ready. There’s no turning back.

Week thirty-nine. It’s starting. There’s quiet now. We heard voices near the forest. If they come in, we’ll hide everything. Robert said don’t shoot unless we have to.

Joel let the words settle in his chest like stones. He looked at Tess. She had that expression she sometimes wore when she was trying to make sense of something human.

“It seems like—” she began, but her voice was cut short by the sharp, unmistakable sound of gunfire.

One shot. Then another.

They moved fast. Instinct more than choice.

Down the stairs, boots heavy on the wood, no time to ask what they were running into.

In the living room, Declan and Jeremy had their weapons raised. Their faces blank, unthinking, the kind of blank that meant they’d already made their decisions.

Two bodies were on the floor. A man and a woman. The blood was fresh, soaking into the wood like ink spreading through paper.

Near the wall, the pregnant woman crouched, arms wrapped tightly around her stomach like she could hold the baby inside by force if she had to. Beside her stood another woman, rigid with panic, her hands out like she could shield them both.

In front of them, a man was standing with his gun still drawn, as if daring someone to make a move he could answer.

Joel’s chest was heaving. His voice came out loud, rough.

“What the hell d—” 

The man raised his gun and fired.

The sound cracked through the room like lightning splitting a tree. The first bullet caught Declan in the leg, sending him staggering back—his face twisted in shock, not yet pain. Then another, but it didn't hit him.

Jeremy didn’t hesitate. It was one clean shot, and then the man dropped, suddenly weightless, as if the air had been pulled out of him and he was only skin and gravity. A shot in the head.

Everything blurred after that. Time bent in on itself. 

Screams erupted—raw, panicked, human. Both women, their voices cracking under fear. Jeremy was already moving, his boots thudding against the floor, and he reached the pregnant woman first. The other woman threw herself between them, arms out, shielding her like instinct more than decision. It didn’t matter.

Jeremy grabbed her by the waist and yanked her up like she weighed nothing. She twisted in his grip, kicking, her fists connecting with his ribs. He grunted in pain, cursed, but didn’t let go. His arm tightened around her and the knife found her throat—sharp, immediate, threatening.

Tess moved toward him, yelling something Joel didn’t catch. She tried to pull Jeremy off balance, clawing at his arm. For a second, it worked—he lost focus. But then his fist landed hard against the side of her face, and she crumpled against the wall, her knees buckling. She didn’t stay down long. She pushed herself up again, blood on her lip.

Joel moved forward and hit Jeremy with everything he had. The force knocked Jeremy backwards. His body collided with the edge of the coffee table and crashed to the ground. The woman he’d been holding slipped from his grip, falling forward with a gasp. One hand flew to her throat.

Her fingers came away red. The knife had caught her, just barely, but enough. Enough to remind them that all that some things, once done, couldn’t be undone. 

Violence had claimed Joel’s life long before he ever had the chance to understand what else it might have looked like. Not in a single moment, not in one decision or act, but gradually, like dust gathering in corners, like a stain that spreads until you stop noticing it’s there.

Survival had become his answer to everything. The only one that ever really worked. He hadn’t chosen it in the way people choose jobs or partners or cities to live in. It had chosen him. And after a while, he stopped resisting.

In the beginning, Tommy had followed him everywhere—through ruins and quiet towns, across fields that once held crops, through buildings that smelled like rust and rain. But lately, he had pulled back. He didn’t say much anymore, but Joel didn’t need him to. He saw it in the distance between them. The quiet judgment. The disappointment Tommy wasn’t quite ready to name out loud.

Joel didn’t blame him. There was nothing admirable in what he’d become.

Because Joel had learned to fight like a cornered animal. He tore through threats with teeth bared, fury his only compass. He didn’t flinch at the sound of a neck breaking or a bullet piercing soft flesh. He knew how to steal what he needed, how to end lives without ceremony. Mercy wasn’t something he afforded anyone, not even himself.

He’d forgotten, somewhere along the way, what it meant to be gentle. Kindness felt like a language he used to speak fluently, but now couldn’t remember more than a few scattered words of.

There wasn’t a moral framework anymore. There wasn’t room for one. You ate or you didn’t. You lived or you didn’t. And Joel, despite everything, still wanted, or needed, to live.

But he would remember her face for the rest of his life.

The way her eyes locked with his with sheer, paralyzing fear. Her mouth open in a scream that seemed to echo even after it stopped. Blood already coating the curve of her jaw, her neck almost sliced open, a hand lifted in one last, useless attempt to plead for mercy.

They left them both there. All of them. Dead and alive.

They shouldered the stolen ammunition, bags heavy against their backs, and walked out into the dark without speaking. Behind them, the house exhaled pain—shouts, cries, the quiet horror of what they'd done. Joel kept his eyes on the ground, tuned everything out. Tess’s voice rose and fell in argument with Jeremy, with Declan. Declan groaned in pain every few minutes, cursing each step like it was betrayal. The brothers barked insults at him, but Joel didn’t hear them. Not really. His head was somewhere else. Somewhere behind them.

And when they finally reached the half-collapsed house they were using as shelter, everything broke apart.

He ended it all.

And then, he didn’t say anything. He just picked up his rifle, told Tess to wait for him there and left.

There was no discussion, no plan. Just the unshakable certainty that he had to go back.

They had taken everything—guns, ammo, even the medical supplies. The women were defenseless, left behind with nothing but grief and trauma and the sound of death.

It took him over an hour to return. His legs moved like they belonged to someone else. As he crested the small hill near the house, he stopped short.

A sound carried through the trees: the thin, piercing cry of a newborn.

He froze.

His heart seemed to tighten in his chest as he approached the porch. The boards creaked beneath his boots. He stepped up, each movement cautious. The night was almos pitch black.

He stepped inside. His fingers curled tight around the gun, though a part of him already knew he wouldn’t need it. Not now.

The air inside the house was thick with the metallic scent of blood.

Four bodies. They were scattered in the living room just like before—two men, two women. Scarlett liquid under them.

The pregnant woman lay sprawled near the fireplace, her body twisted, her pants soaked through and torn in places that felt too cruel to be real. Blood pooled around her, catching the silver glow of moonlight filtering in through the broken window. Her eyes were still open. Still glassy.

Joel stood there, motionless, heart pounding beneath his ribs. The baby was still crying. 

And she was lying next to the body.

The woman held the baby against her chest, her arms curled protectively around the tiny, wrinkled form. Her face was caught in a state of suspended shock, as if the sheer weight of the last hour hadn’t fully landed yet. Her lips moved rhythmically, whispering something to the newborn in a voice so faint it sounded more like breath than words.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, again and again and again, like a prayer she didn’t believe in but had nothing else to offer. “It’s okay, it’s okay…”

Joel didn’t mean to move, not really. But his boot shifted a fraction forward, pressing into the wood. A creak cracked through the silence like a warning.

Her head snapped up.

Their eyes met.

“No, no—please, no,” she said, voice catching like it had been scraped raw. Her hands clutched the baby closer, cradling it with instinct, desperation, love. She started to push herself backward, heels scrambling for traction against the blood-slick floor. Her body shuddered as she dragged herself toward the wall, leaving red smears in her wake.

Joel didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

He just stood there and watched her try to put distance between them, her expression fractured by panic. Her skin was mottled dried blood, hair stuck to her face in wet strands. The baby cried—high-pitched, piercing—and she flinched with each sound, trying to shush it.

He would remember her face for the rest of his life.

The way her eyes locked on him  with a terror so raw it seemed to consume her whole. Her mouth trembling, her arms shaking. Every part of her recoiled from him like he was the monster at the end of a story.

And maybe he was.

He was.

“Please don’t do it,” she said, her voice so quiet it barely reached him. “Please don't.”

Joel stopped moving. The sound of her voice—shaky, hoarse, already worn thin by everything she'd endured—wrapped around him like a wire pulled tight.

He lifted his hands, palms facing her, fingers slightly apart. A gesture he’d learned long ago to mean I’m not a threat. But he wasn’t sure it meant anything here. Not now.

She was shaking all over. He could see it in the way her mouth trembled, her chin twitching with the effort to stay strong. Her arms curled more tightly around the baby, almost as if she was bracing herself for a final blow. Her eyes never left him, not even to blink.

Joel took off the backpack. The motion was steady, calculated, every part of him aware of her watching. He dropped it gently to the floor and nudged it toward her with the toe of his boot. Then he stepped back, retreating a few feet. A silent offering.

He thought that would be the end of it. He could turn around, walk away, and leave her with whatever small comfort that might bring.

But something rooted him to the spot for a moment longer.

He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his pocket knife. It was a practical blade—small, sharp, well-used. Without a word, he crouched, placed it on top of the backpack, and straightened again.

She didn’t say anything. She just stared at him, her whole body tense like a wire on the verge of snapping. And Joel looked at her through his covered face, like a coward.

He left.

Outside, the cold air hit his face like punishment. But it wasn’t enough.

Because the sound of the baby’s cry stayed with him, even as the house disappeared behind him. That thin, helpless wail—new to the world and already surrounded by grief.

And her face.

Her face.

He would carry the image of her forever. Eyes wide with horror. Skin raw and streaked with blood. 

He would remember her face for the rest of his life. 

Your face.

Your face.

divider by: omi-resources

(if you want to be added or removed from the taglist, let me know!)

tag list: @glitterspark @stylesispunk @greenwitchfromthewoods @thepilatesprincess @sunnytuliptime @whiskeyneat-coffeeblack @titabel @jasminedragoon @brittmb115 @christinamadsen @cuteanimalmama @madpanda75 @ccmoonshine @sinpathyforthedevilish @satanxklaus @picketniffler @yellowbrickyeti @onlythehobi @somedayheaven @spacegirl-3 @bbhejpcy-blog @sesdeuxyeux @daybleedsintonightfa11 @brittmb115 @ashleyfilm @maladptivedaydreaming @begginforthread @galotti7 @libraryofneith @koshkaj-blog @vickie5446 @15christyxoxo @pastelpinkflowerlife @gintheginger @melmel-fandom @pedroslutpascall @mokapotuser @vanishintoyoubby @l0lmk @criesinlies @lena33sworld @secretlettersfromyourlove @orcasoul

[mustachepascal]

I almost COLLAPSED!!!!!!!!!!!

GIRL ME TOOOOO when I was editing it I was like OMGGGGG

[mustachepascal]

Pov: You are Pedro's girlfriend and this is your camera roll.

[mustachepascal]

I need joel miller or francisco morales fanfic (long ones, like series) recommendations 👉🏼👈🏼

[mustachepascal]

literally me finding out that fic-girlie works was all AI 🤧

[mustachepascal]

Breathe

Pairing: no-outbreak!Joel Miller x mom!reader Summary: Your baby starts choking during breakfast. You panic and call for Joel—he rushes in, saves him, and the three of you cling to each other in shaken relief. Warnings: established relationship, hurt/comfort, choking, close to death situation (child), happy ending A/N: Thank you for the request @mustachepascal!

The morning starts soft. You’re standing barefoot in the kitchen, swaying gently from side to side with the weight of your baby perched on your hip, his tiny warm hand curled in the collar of your shirt. The early light filters in through the frosted windows, casting a honey-colored haze across the counters. It’s cold outside—frost clings to the edges of the panes—but in here, it’s warm. A kettle steams over the back burner. The radio hums softly on the windowsill, some ancient country tune fading in and out of the din of breakfast: the soft clinking of a spoon against a ceramic bowl, the squelching squeak of your baby's boots making contact with your leg.

Joel’s still upstairs, asleep. He’d been up twice during the night—once at two, once at five—rocking your son back to sleep with his familiar gravel-low hum and heavy-footed pacing. You’d found them in the rocking chair, Joel’s chin slumped over his chest, arms curled around the baby like a barrier against the world. You’d tucked a blanket over them both before slipping back to bed.

And now, a little after seven, the baby's ready for good, all gummy smile and lidded blinks as he wobbles on your hip. You settle him into his high chair, snapping the straps, draping a soft burp cloth across his lap like a napkin. He babbles to you, kicking his legs with delight, his hair puffed up in a small cowlick at the crown of his head. You smile, half asleep even now, stirring mashed banana and oatmeal into a cozy, spoonable mush.

You feed him slowly, little by little, one spoonful at a time, wiping his chin when he dribbles, humming to yourself absent-mindedly. He coos, guffaws around the spoon, slaps your hand with syrupy fingers. You're so absorbed in the moment, so full of the sweet stillness of it all, that you barely notice at first.

But then something shifts.

He stops laughing.

It’s subtle. He stops mid-sound, his little brows knitting, mouth open. His chest rises once—twice—but no air comes out. There’s no cough. No crying. Nothing.

You freeze for half a second. That’s all.

And then you’re moving.

"Hey—hey," you whisper, voice too level, too hopeful. You pick him up from the high chair, oatmeal left behind, spoon clattering to the floor. You rest him on your forearm, sitting forward, and pat his back once. Nothing.

"Come on, sweetheart," you do not want to say anxiously, heart already getting ahead of you.

You know what this is.

Something is blocking his windpipe. Maybe he inhaled some of the oatmeal. You don't have a clue.

You roll him over instinctively, cradling his head, his body slanting downward, and you strike between his shoulder blades softly. One, two, three—then roll him over again, no cry. His lips are parted, face reddening and scrunching up smaller. Eyes wide open. Silent.

He's not crying.

Your heart jolts up into your throat in raw terror.

"No, no—come on, baby, come on—Joel—!"

You yell his name before you even realize you're doing it, loud and frantic, voice cracking as it echoes upstairs. The baby spasms feebly in your arms, mouth still open, still silent. You kneel on the kitchen floor and try again—five blows to the back, this time harder, and then a chest thrust, with two fingers compressed between the ribs, counting in your head.

"Come on, please—please, please—"

You're sobbing now. You don't know when you began. Your wet fingers move. Your breathing is loud and ragged and desperate. The gentle radio continues to play behind you, completely out of context for the terror tearing through your body.

You're just seconds from screaming again before you hear the crash of heavy boots overhead—Joel's voice, tight and strained, "What is it?!"—and then his boots thudding down the stairs.

He bursts in, bare feet and jeans and a t-shirt, eyes wild and wide. One glance at you and the baby and the look on your face, and all the rest just falls away.

"What happened?"

"He—he's choking," you're sobbing, your voice shattered and shaking. "He won't—he's not—"

"Give him to me."

You don't hesitate. Joel's already down on his knees beside you, arms open, and you hand over your son as though he's your lifeline. Joel grips him firmly, controlled but fast, his own face set with sickening intensity. He turns him across his forearm, more controlled than you'd managed, more experienced—how can he possibly know how to do that? —and he administers another series of firm back blows.

You half-collapse next to him, one hand over your mouth, the other grasping Joel's leg like it's the only thing that keeps you anchored to reality and keeps you away from fainting.

And then—after what feels like an eternity—there's a rush of wet gasps.

A gurgling, gagging cry.

Your baby takes a hard, panicked breath and lets out a high, wailing scream.

You let out a laughing sob, doubling over as Joel rolls him over, hugging him tightly, thumping on his back as he is crying

"He's okay," Joel grunts. "He's okay now."

You reach out to your son immediately, Joel urging him back into your arms and you holding him against your chest so hard your arms tremble. He cries into the side of your neck, tiny body shuddering, but he's breathing. You can sense it. In and out. Sharp, gaspy, but there. You hold him in the way that you'll never, ever let go. Joel stays on his knees next to you, an arm across your shoulders, the other drawing slow patterns between the small shoulder blades of your son.

"It's okay," he repeats, lips on your temple. "You did everything right. You got him breathing. You did good, baby."

But your chest hurts and aches. "I thought—I thought he was gonna die," you tell him, voice broken beyond recognition. "He wouldn't breathe—he wouldn't move—"

"I know. I know, sweetheart." Joel hugs you both closer, his breathing unstable too. You see that his shirt is soaked with sweat. He buries his face in your hair, hugs both of you tight. "He's okay now. You're okay."

The three of you all there on the kitchen floor, wrapped around one another, your son whimpering still but fading, hushed hiccups fluttering in the breaks. You kiss him on the head, on the cheeks, repeating over and over that you've got him, you love him, you're here.

Joel finally stands up to switch off the radio.

The kitchen goes quiet, except for the faintest breaths and the smallest sounds of reassurance from your baby as he holds tight to your shirt.

You don't budge. Not for a very, very long time.

[mustachepascal]

Hi :)

First of all just wanted to say that I’m obsessed with your Joel fics, can’t stop reading them… the way you write him is so loving🤧, he’s so sweet and cocky at the same time haha😮‍💨 I’m in love with ur writing💓💓

So now I wonder if you could write one where him and the reader don’t like each other but that’s just because they didn’t figured out that they’re actually attracted to each other (haters to lovers). One day they are scaled to be partners in a patrol, nothing important happens until they in the middled of a blizzard and has to find a shelter to protect themselves, when they do it’s not quite a good place and they’re still freezing… So for them to get through the night safe Joel has a idea to for them to cuddle to exchange heat from their bodies, the reader is reluctant at first but accepts anyway! The new contact makes them uncomfortable at first but by the morning they don’t feel like letting go from each other, they kiss for the first time and actually end up having sex…

I hate you, no?

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: Trapped in a blizzard, you and Joel are forced to share body heat. What starts as reluctant cuddling quickly turns into intense, unexpected passion neither of you can deny. Warnings: smut, fingering, unprotected sex, p in v sex, cuddling, teasing

You've been saying all along that you hated him. Joel Miller. Grumpy, bossy, annoying son of a bitch. Always assuming the world would follow after his every idea, that everyone should just fall in line behind whatever he envisioned. You've argued with him more times than you can count — at town hall meetings, at the bleeping dinner tables when Maria mistakenly seats the two of you together, and during patrols when you just so happen to be assigned to the same unit. But of course, when Jackson's rotation schedule spits out both your names to be scheduled together on an overnight scouting mission just as the blizzard is threatening to break, nobody considers that inconvenient.

You brought up that you wanted to trade shifts. He didn't. Stubborn as hell, just the usual.

The day you depart, the wind is already stirring. You don't say much. He rides a few feet ahead of you, teeth clenched, eyes narrowed, as if he's mad at the sky itself. You might near laugh — Joel Miller and the sky. But the cold comes on by the hour, and before you reach the edge of the patrol route, the snow's so heavy you can barely see the trees in front of you. Joel curses under his breath and reins his horse close to yours.

"We're not gonna make it back in this weather."

You stifle a snarky comment — no shit, genius — and growl instead, "Yeah. I know."

You two find what counts as shelter — a broken-down hunting lodge with barely a roof left, half of it fell in, door knocked off its hinges, all of the inside encased in frost. At least that's better than freezing outside. Barely. You get the horses into the lee of the building, try to cover them as best you can with spare blankets, then duck inside with Joel, the two of you shivering so much that your bones ache.

There is no wood, no fire. Only four rotten walls and a corner with no snow on the floor. You drop your pack, pace a few steps, try to rub warmth into your arms, but the cold is within you now — gnawing, ceaseless, teeth biting into the marrow of your spine.

He is looking at you where he crouches beside his bag. "We're gonna freeze," he states.

You glance back at him. "Well, what do you suggest?"

His silence lingers. He takes off his gloves. Rubs his face. And then — as though it pains him to utter — "Only one way we make it through the night."

You don't answer. Not yet. You know what he's going to offer before he mumbles it under his breath.

"Body heat," he tells you, not meeting your eye. "Only thing that's gonna save us from goin' hypothermic."

You laugh — not that it is humorous. Because it is ridiculous. You and Joel, clinging to each other like lovers all night long, just to survive a blizzard. You cross your arms. "You want to cuddle, Miller? That it?"

He gives you a look. Dry. Frustrated. But there is something behind it too — heat, far-off and odd. "I don’t want to die here, sweetheart."

And that's what makes you break. Not the glare. Not the why. The biting cold cutting into your spine like a blade.

"Fine," you growl. "But don't get too handsy."

He scoffs, tossing out his bedroll. "You wish."

You both strip off the snow-covered outer layers, and you’re already anxious about what is next. He lies down first, wrapping himself in a blanket and scooting back to make space for you. You hesitate. But you find yourself crawling in with him.

The moment your body meets his, it's a shock of electricity. Too hot and too cold simultaneously. His arm wraps around you to settle over your waist and you twitch away from the contact — not because it isn't wanted, not exactly, but because he is Joel. Broad and solid and inhaling slowly, his leg pressing against yours through the blanket.

"Jesus," you curse. "You're a furnace."

His breath brushes over the side of your neck. "Told you."

There is silence for what feels like an eternity. Too quiet. The sort where you can hear the thud of your own heart and his, the patter of the snow against the walls outside, the horses shifting uneasily. You attempt to keep your limbs rigid, not wanting to ease your body too fully into his, but heat is a weak enemy of resistance. And then at last your head flops onto his chest, your arms around the front of his shirt, and you breathe him in — leather, pine, sweat.

"Still hate you," you say to him.

His hand trails down your back slowly. "Good. Keep me warm, then."

You don’t know when it happens. Sometime after midnight, maybe. Maybe hours later. But your hips are tilted closer than they should be, and you’re suddenly aware of the way his hand is splayed low across your spine, dangerously close to the curve of your ass. There’s something thick and heavy pressing against your thigh. And your own body… traitorous, hot all over.

“You awake?” he rasps.

You nod before you can catch yourself. "Yeah."

He moves — enough so your legs get caught up, enough so his nose rides across your jaw, enough so you can feel how much he needs you. There's a hesitation.

 "We shouldn't."

"I know," you breathe, even as your hips roll up toward him, seeking the warmth of him.

"I don't even like you."

You laugh, but it's out of breath. "Then shut up and show me."

The kiss is desperate. Teeth and heat and tongue. You catch your breath in it, bracing, fists the back of his shirt like that's the only thing holding you together. His hand on the curve of your jaw, his mouth hard, rough, hungry like he's been starving and only now figures out what he wants.

Both of you are gasping as if you've run miles before he settles on top of you.

"Tell me to stop," he snarls, voice tight and hard.

You have your legs wrapped around him. "Don't you fucking dare."

He kisses you again, but this time slowly. Your shirt is pushed up, his hand covering your bare waist, fingers tracing every inch as if memorizing it. When his hand trails lower, his fingers finding the waistband of your pants, you arch into him, already wet, already aching.

"You feel that?" he gasps against your neck, working over your panties with maddening rub. "How long you been hating me like that, huh?"

You'll attempt to strike something back — something harsh, something biting — but all that manages to come out is a broken whimper as his fingers slip in.

He's tough but tender, pushing your jeans down as far as he can to lay you bare, then sliding in between your thighs, thick fingers curling into your heat. It's killing you, the way he watches your face while he plays with you, every small shudder and whimper filed away in his mind.

You reach out and touch him. Fumble with his belt. "Joel—"

"I've got you," he says, his voice thick with need. "I know what you need."

And he does. He's long and excruciating as he burrows into you, his chest shuddering with low growl as your back arches. It's enough and not enough, your bodies moving in rhythm, sweat slicking your skin in the freezing air around you.

"Goddamn," he grunts, thrusts penetrating deeper. "You feel so—fuck—tight."

You moan into his mouth, arms wrapped around his shoulders, your name passing his lips in a whispered prayer. And when it crashes down on you — hot and raw and all-consuming — you come with his hand pressed over your mouth, his eyes never leaving yours. He is a moment behind, hips jerking wildly as he empties himself into you, chest heaving.

You stay like that for a long time. Attached. Partially naked. Silent with the wind outside and his gentle touch following the line of your ribs.

The next morning, the storm already passed, the sun filtering pale between the gaps in the wood, and you still haven't moved. His arms are wrapped around you. Your face is buried in his chest.

"Are you warm enough?" he asks, voice raspy from sleep.

You nod. Press a slow kiss to the little patch in his beard.

He brings your head up and kisses you again — no flame, just gentleness, as if he doesn't dare dispel the fantasy.

"Still hate me?" he whispers.

You smirk. "Yeah. Especially if you don't do that again."

His mouth turns up into a grin. "Oh, I'm gonna do that again."

And he does.

Again. And again. Till the cold is nothing more than a memory, and you feel only the power of him, the warmth of his hands, and the ultimate shattering of your walls against him.

[mustachepascal]

literally me after reading this chapter lol 🤧😂

The boyfriend act, part 16: "The one with the unnamed surprise" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: Domesticity wraps itself around your days with Frankie. He asks you to cover your eyes. In front of you, an unnamed surprise. In front of him, a named one. WC: 9K

A/N: So, here’s the thing... yesterday I said I was going to post a snippet, but when I sat down to choose one, I got distracted writing, and one thing led to another and I ended up writing and editing the whole chapter so here it is part 16 YAY!!! Also, sorry for being MIA. I had a minor surgery this week (I’m okay, don’t worry) and I have two exams next monday (not yay). Thank you so much for your comments and messages—I promise I’ll reply to all of them 🤍🫶🏻 In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this chapter! If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! (also, If you've asked me before to tag you and your tag isn't on the list, please send me a message and let me know! Sometimes I miss comments!)

Sunday, October 27th

You stepped out of Helena’s front door and into the soft warmth of late-morning sun, your cheeks catching the light like it had been waiting for you. The front yard smelled faintly of leaves and old roses. Behind you, Frankie’s shoes thudded against the wooden steps.

“It was really lovely to see you, sweetheart,” Helena said, her hand settling gently on your shoulder. “Don’t wait so long next time, okay?”

Before you could answer, Frankie cut in automatically. “I won’t, Mom. I promise.”

Helena turned to him with a half-laugh, rolling her eyes. “I wasn’t talking to you. Although, frankly, you could stand to come around more too, don’t you think?”

You smiled, unsure where to look. Frankie exhaled a soft laugh behind you, his hand brushing your back.

Mai came out then, barefoot, a Tupperware container clutched to her chest.

“Here,” she said, holding it out. Her hair was messy, in a effortless way that made her look even younger. “Apple pie. Still warm, so don’t tilt it or whatever.”

You nodded, the pie heavier in your hands than you expected. “Thank you.”

Mai lingered for a second, then added, “I’ll text you about the party, okay?”

“I’ll be waiting.” You smiled, already imagining her message appearing on your phone screen later that evening. Then you felt it—Frankie’s hand sliding onto your waist, just resting there.

“And what about me?” he said, a crooked smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “You’re not gonna text me?”

Mai didn’t even look at him. “You’re part of the package deal.”

You lingered after that—talking a little more with Helena about your next visit. She insisted on dinner. Mai, predictably, lobbied for a restaurant this time. There was laughter. And comfort. And something that felt like belonging.

It had changed, coming here now. It wasn’t performance anymore. You didn’t have to manufacture the way your shoulder leaned into his, or time your glances like stage directions. You didn’t have to imagine the tension. It existed, dense and unmistakable and terribly real.

And maybe that made everything more complicated. Because now, it mattered.

You wanted them to like you. Not because you were pretending to belong—but because, somehow, you already did. 

A few days ago, Frankie had mentioned that his sister, Sofía, was organizing an event at her flower shop. She did it every year with her best friend Caroline, who owned a small bakery a few blocks away. People would gather at the shop to read poems, short stories, essays they’d scribbled into journals or typed up on quiet Sunday afternoons. Frankie admitted it wasn’t really his thing—he said it made him tired, that he never stayed long when he did go. But he looked at you as he said it, a crooked half-smile at the edge of his mouth, and told you he thought you'd enjoy it. So he wanted to take you.

And he was right. You spent most of the afternoon in the flower shop, the scent of eucalyptus and dried lavender hanging in the air around you. There were too many folding chairs and not enough standing room. The walls were lined with pale wooden shelves holding glass vases and hand-lettered signs. Helena had come, too, along with Grace, and the four of you drifted in and out of conversations while people took turns reading at the front. Grace stayed close to you, asking you questions with a curiosity that didn’t feel invasive. She spoke with this open, thoughtful cadence that made her seem older than she was.

At one point, she leaned toward you and whispered, “I’m glad you’re dating my uncle. You’re a good person. It’s kind of a relief.” You turned toward her with a small, surprised smile.

You thanked her softly, genuinely, but there was a slight weight tugging at the corners of your expression. That word relief had a way of sticking. You didn’t ask what she meant by it, but you thought about Rachel. You didn’t even want to think about Rachel, but your mind circled back anyway. That vague, unfinished narrative that hovered somewhere behind Frankie’s eyes whenever her name was mentioned. You didn’t have the full picture.

Later, when the readings ended and the chairs were folded and stacked near the counter, Helena invited you both to her house for lunch. You said yes without thinking. It felt easy, natural.

And now, days later, you were in the car, the sky clear and quiet above the windshield, your hand resting on the gentle curve of your stomach. Full. Content in that lazy, familiar way that comes after a big homemade meal.

“Your mom is such a good cook,” you murmured, stretching your feet out and leaning your head against the window. The glass was cool and the sunlight flickered through the leaves. “I could go over there more often.”

Frankie chuckled under his breath, eyes still on the road, one hand loosely on the wheel.

“I mean, no pressure,” you added, glancing at him. “You don’t have to be there. I can go on my own. Girls’ day, you know?”

He turned slightly, just enough to catch your face. “Oh yeah? And what would that look like?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. Talking about books, stuff… things you probably wouldn’t care about.”

“I like girls’ days.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you?”

“Sure. I can blend right in. You won’t even notice me. It'll be like I'm part of the decor.”

You laughed. “I really don’t think that’s how it works.”

He grinned, unfazed. “You could have your girls’ day. I’ll just be in the background. Silently appreciating your dynamic. Maybe even bring snacks.”

“Or,” you said, playful now, “you could have your own boys’ day. With Santiago and the rest of the guys. Talk about cars, or fishing, or whatever ancient rituals you people do to reaffirm your masculinity.”

Frankie looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “I think I’d prefer both.”

You groaned. “God, don’t be corny.”

“A little corn never hurt anyone.”

“Yes, it did,” you said. “It hurt this conversation.”

Frankie rolled his eyes, though the gesture lacked real irritation.

“Okay,” he said slowly, dragging out the syllable like he was preparing to make a point. “But you've been to a lot of those hangouts with the guys too, don’t you think?”

“Sure, because Santi invited me. Or Benny. Or someone else who actually wanted me there.”

He glanced at you with a crooked grin. “And what, I’m not included in this girls' night elite invitation circle?”

You crossed your arms across your chest, leaning back against the car seat.

“Nope. You're not.”

He made a sound with his tongue and tilted his head toward you.

“Wow. Okay. I guess I won’t show you the really interesting and extremely cool thing I had planned.”

You laughed under your breath. “You don’t have anything to show me.”

“I do, actually.” He looked over at you again, sideways this time, as if the full force of eye contact might give too much away. “Something you would’ve loved. Not just liked—loved. Like, told-Emma-about-it kind of loved.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

He let out a long, exaggerated sigh, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

“Guess I’ll just take you home then. Let you sit with your own bad decisions.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, don’t even try it, Francisco. You’re not going to manipulate me. That routine doesn’t work on me.”

He let out a genuine laugh this time, brief and low in his throat, shaking his head as he returned his attention to the road.

Ten minutes later, you were standing at the threshold of his house. Frankie reached into his pocket, pulled out a key, and slid it into the lock. The mechanism clicked. He paused before pushing the door open and turned toward you with something mischievous flickering behind his eyes.

“Okay,” he said, stepping in closer. “I need you to close your eyes.”

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

“I’m deadly serious.” He moved his hand up and gently placed it over your face, fingers spanning nearly the whole length from your forehead to your chin. “Eyes shut until I say. Do you understand?”

You smiled despite yourself, the warmth of his palm against your skin oddly reassuring. “I promise.”

“Good.”

You heard him exhale, the door creaking open. The sound of hinges, followed by his fingers slipping away from your eyes. A moment later, he took your hand. His grip was easy, steady. He guided you through the doorway and into the house, and you could hear the sound of the door closing softly behind you. You let him lead you, each step unfamiliar in the darkness behind your eyelids. The scent of something floral lingered faintly in the hallway—laundry detergent, maybe, or whatever candle Helena had dropped off last time she visited.

You felt the soft shift of air as you entered the living room. Frankie’s hand never left yours.

There was a strange sound from another room, and Frankie let go of your hand.

“Okay,” he said, already stepping back. “I’ll be right back. Just don’t open your eyes. Got it?”

“I won’t,” you said with unnecessary urgency. You clamped your palms over your face like a child playing hide-and-seek, and you grinned into the darkness of your own hands. You didn’t understand what was happening. None of it made sense, and yet you felt giddy—completely, irrationally light.

One, two, three… The seconds moved unevenly. You listened for Frankie’s footsteps, the shift of weight in the boards. A faint scuff. Silence. Then movement again, closer this time. You could feel him standing in front of you before he spoke.

“Okay, when I say—” he started, but his sentence was cut short by the softest interruption.

A high-pitched, unmistakable sound.

“Shit,” Frankie muttered.

Then—clearer this time—a meow. Thin and sharp and impossibly small.

Your hands flew from your face, your eyes wide, your mouth already forming words before they reached your tongue.

“No way.”

Frankie stood just inches away, his hands lifted carefully near your face. Between them, resting in the cage of his fingers, was a tiny gray kitten. The animal looked impossibly fragile, like something made of silk. It couldn’t have been more than three months old.

You stared at it, stunned.

“Frankie,” you whispered, as you extended your arms without thinking.

He gave the kitten to you and his face broke into a smile.

You cradled the small body close to your face, kissing its downy head with a tenderness that made something in your chest ache. The kitten let out another soft meow, its voice small but certain. Your heart did something strange, an internal somersault.

“I adopted him yesterday,” Frankie said, running a hand down the kitten’s back. “Doesn’t have a name yet.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, eyes still fixed on the animal now curled into the crook of your arm.

He shrugged. “I wanted to surprise you. Thought you’d like it.”

You glanced up at him then, holding his gaze for a few seconds, long enough to see the affection that sat just beneath the mischief in his expression. Then you looked back at the tiny creature curled against your chest.

“How did he sleep?”

“He followed me around all night,” Frankie said, his voice softer now. “He's really affectionate. At first I thought he was hungry or needed water, but he didn’t. He just wanted to be close. Eventually I put him on the bed, but I was terrified I’d roll over and crush him. So I set his little bed right next to me. Figured it was safer. He still cried for a while, though.”

You smiled. You couldn’t stop smiling. The kitten was pawing at your fingers now, then gently nibbled one, its teeth more curious than sharp.

“You’re just the most beautiful little thing,” you murmured, stroking its impossibly soft fur.

Frankie watched you quietly. 

Frankie nudged the bedroom door closed with the side of his foot, careful not to spill the two mugs in his hands. The scent of the tea rose with the steam.

You were already stretched out on his bed, legs tangled loosely in the sheets, wearing one of his T-shirts that hung off you like it had been made for someone else, which it had. Underneath, nothing but a soft pair of underwear. Your hair, still damp from your recent shower, clung to the sides of your neck and the cotton collar.

Sunday was drifting by in its usual, hazy rhythm. After arriving at Frankie’s place and being introduced to the skittish little kitten he had just brought home, the two of you had spent some time lying around, throwing out names—nothing had stuck. Every suggestion felt either too much or not enough. At some point between giggling over how serious he looked when he vetoed “Frankie Jr.” and the slow weight of contentment settling in your limbs, you’d dozed off.

He hadn't minded. A nap after a good meal felt like the natural conclusion to a Sunday afternoon. He normally reserved these hours for fixing things around the house or grabbing a beer with one of the guys. But with you here, in his space, smelling like his soap and stealing his shirts, the idea of doing absolutely nothing became not only acceptable, but preferable.

It was nearly four now. The TV hummed in front of the bed, soft and unobtrusive. The white curtains were drawn shut, letting in a gauzy sort of light that made everything feel suspended in time.

He placed both mugs on the nightstand, then eased into bed beside you, careful not to jostle the tiny, curled-up kitten resting on your chest. You were propped against the headboard, your fingers stroking absent-mindedly over the kitten’s fur, eyes on the screen.

Friends was on—your choice. The London wedding episodes. He remembered you saying they were your favorite, though you claimed not to like Ross all that much.

“The tea’s hot,” he said, his voice low as he leaned in a little closer. He took one mug. “Give it a minute before you try it.”

You turned your head toward him, a small smile ghosting your lips.

“Okay. Thanks,” you said softly, taking it from his hand only to place it gently on the nightstand next to you.

Frankie exhaled, a quiet breath through his nose, and turned his attention back to the television. It happened every time—you'd put something on, usually a show or movie he wouldn’t have chosen himself, something with fast-talking characters and emotional subtext, and without realizing it, he’d be completely pulled in. He told himself it wasn’t his taste, too light or too messy or too sentimental. But here he was.

“Jesus, I don't get it,” he murmured. “I never understood people who obsess over weddings.”

“Yeah, you seem like someone who’d get married in your backyard, on a random Tuesday, without warning.”

“Yeah? I wouldn’t mind that.”

You turned your head slightly, studying him now. “Without warning, though? Like, totally unplanned?”

“Wouldn’t that make it more romantic?”

You lifted a shoulder, then let it fall again. “Eh. Maybe. Depends on the context, I guess.”

“What kind of context?”

“I dunno,” you said. “Just… depends how it all feels in the moment?”

Frankie nodded like he understood, though maybe he didn’t, not completely.

“Well. If I did get married like that, it’d probably be because something forced my hand. Like—some kind of bind.”

“Forced your hand? A bind?” you repeated, laughing now. “Good thing I didn’t ask you to be my fake fiancé, then.”

You were teasing, but your voice was warm. The kitten had migrated from your chest to the space between you, burrowing under the quilt.

You shifted onto your side, pulling the pillow beneath your cheek. Your face was close now. Relaxed. Peaceful. He could see the faint dampness at your hairline, smell the familiar scent of his shampoo, his laundry detergent—all of it mixing with something that was purely you.

Then you asked, your voice quiet: “Do you think you’ll ever get married?”

The question caught him off guard. It wasn’t heavy, but it wasn’t nothing either.

He hesitated, eyes flicking to the TV and back to you.

“I used to,” he admitted. “A while ago.”

“You did?” 

“Yeah. I thought about it.”

You turned your face toward him.

“With Rachel?” you asked, voice soft.

He gave a small nod, his brows lifting a fraction, like the whole thing felt absurd in retrospect. As if that version of his life had belonged to someone else entirely. Someone naive.

For a second, he considered brushing it off. Letting the moment pass. But there was something about the way you were looking at him that made it impossible.

“I was ready to commit to her,” he said. The words felt strange, but not painful. He hadn’t spoken them out loud in a long time. And for once, they didn’t come with the usual sting.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he said simply, turning his eyes to the television, as if that might steady him. “I thought I had everything mapped out. Marriage, maybe a family. It felt like, like it made sense.”

You made a soft sound, not quite agreement, not quite disbelief. Just something that acknowledged the weight of what he’d said. Then you went quiet again, eyes shifting back to the TV.

Frankie waited, listening to the faint background noise of the sitcom. But he looked at you again, and something in your face had changed, barely—your mouth a little tighter, your eyes distant.

“I was wrong,” he said then. “So wrong. And honestly? Her leaving… that might’ve been the best thing she ever did for me. Who knows where I'd be if she'd never ended it.”

Your mouth curled into the hint of a smile. “Yeah. I mean, you definitely wouldn’t be in bed with me and a kitten right now.”

That made him laugh, softly. It was absurd, when he thought about it—how different his life might’ve looked if things had gone the way he wanted them to, back then.

If Rachel had stayed, maybe he would never have unraveled. Maybe he wouldn’t have gotten to the point where getting out of bed felt impossible, where everything tasted like dust and felt like noise. Maybe he wouldn’t have had to start from scratch.

He might still be with her. Maybe engaged. He remembered thinking about it right before she left—rings, apartments, timelines. He’d known he wasn’t in the right place for any of it, but he’d considered it anyway, hoping commitment might anchor him somehow.

And you? You would’ve stayed exactly where you were then—Santi’s younger sister. Someone he vaguely tolerated, someone who rolled her eyes at his jokes and didn’t bother to hide it. You probably would’ve kept ignoring each other, kept your distance.

The thought landed heavily in his chest. Not dramatic or painful, just strange. Like something important could’ve slipped past him without him ever knowing what he missed.

Because now he understood what it felt like; being near you like this, existing inside the gentle bubble you created just by being close. It startled him sometimes, how long you had been in his life without him realizing the possible weight of it. Five years orbiting each other, brushing past in doorways, exchanging sharp looks or dry remarks and fights. All that time, and he’d never imagined what it could mean if he let the distance between you collapse.

You spoke then, cutting through the quiet and his thoughts. “No matter what happens, I think I’ll end up being the cat lady anyway.”

He looked at you, startled by the sudden shift in tone, the slight smile playing on your lips as you cradled the kitten in your hands. You were touching its tiny ears like they were the most delicate things in the world. Frankie had the absurd urge to be jealous of the kitten.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

You shrugged. “I dunno.”

He watched you for a moment longer. “Don’t you want a family?”

You let out a small laugh. And Frankie realized a second too late how personal the question had been. Too direct. Too much, maybe. But you didn’t seem bothered.

“Of course I do,” you said, gently. “I mean, yeah. I’d love that. It’s just… if it doesn’t happen, I don’t think it would destroy me. I know I’d be okay. I’ve made peace with the idea that some lives don’t go the way we plan. And anyway, Santi’s definitely going to have, like, four kids at least. I can always be the fun aunt who spoils them and teaches them weird facts about everything.”

Frankie smiled. “Yeah. I get that. I feel the same way, I think. And I’m already the cool uncle, so I’ve got that covered. Lucky me.”

You laughed, then reached out to tap his arm lightly with your fist. He reached for you instinctively, wrapping his arms around you and drawing you into his chest. You came easily, your body folding into his.

“I always thought I’d have a daughter,” you said after a minute, your voice muffled against the fabric of his T-shirt. “I mean… I’d like to. If I ever become a mom.”

“Just one?” 

“For now, yeah. I think I’d have to see how it goes first. Test the waters. Parenting seems like the kind of thing you can’t really prepare for, doesn’t it?”

“You’d be good at it.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it,” he said, meeting your gaze. “Darcy can confirm.”

You smiled again. “I'm not sure it's comparable. But yeah. I’m already a great cat mom.”

The sound lingered between you for a moment before dissolving into the quiet of the room. On the screen, Monica was spiraling; her mother had said something sharp at the rehearsal dinner, something small but wounding in the way only a parent’s words could be. Neither of you commented on it. The glow of the TV washed your faces in warm color, but the air between you shifted.

Frankie felt it. Not something visible, exactly—just a subtle tightening in your body, a pause that wasn’t there before. He had learned to notice these things with you. How your energy moved. How your breath changed. His body, attuned to yours now, picked up on every slight retreat.

You leaned further into his chest, your head tucked under his chin, and let out a soft breath.

“I had a scare once,” you said quietly, eyes fixed on the television. “With Harry.”

He didn’t move. Just listened.

“My period was late and we’d only been dating two months. I remember this one day, how everything just kind of… froze. Like time stopped working the way it was supposed to. I couldn’t focus on anything. It was like my body had slipped into this other version of my life and I couldn’t get out of it until I knew for sure.”

You paused. The kitten shifted between you, curling into a tighter ball.

“I didn’t tell him. I went out and bought a test, did it alone. It was negative. Then, after I was sure, I told him.”

“What did he say?”

“He asked if I needed anything. That was it, really. No follow-up questions. No conversation.” You gave a small, humorless huff of breath. “I started taking the pill that same week.”

Frankie looked at you then, but you kept your eyes on the screen.

“Sounds smart.” 

You clicked your tongue, not quite annoyed, but something close.

“Of course. But I still needed more than that. I needed to feel safe. And I didn’t. Not with him. That was the thing—I realized how completely terrified I was at the idea of having a baby with him. And I couldn’t even say it out loud. Couldn’t tell him how scared I was, because I didn’t trust what he’d do with that information. I was afraid of his reaction, of whether he’d be happy, make it about him or minimize it or just… shut down.” Sheepish now, your voice softened. “It made me wonder why I was with someone I couldn’t even share a fear like that with. But I was so sure of how much I loved him, I just... I didn't care.”

“Harry’s an idiot, baby.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah. I think he is.”

“He is—”

“So you wanted a family with Rachel?”

He blinked at the TV for a moment, trying to decide how to answer. 

“You’re very direct,” he said finally, a little surprised. A small laugh escaped him. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. I like it.” He shook his head, the smile still pulling at his mouth. Then he exhaled. “Yeah. I did. Of course I did. I thought I wanted that. Which feels kind of absurd to say out loud now, because looking back, I don’t think I was ready. Not even close.”

He paused, considering.

“I still don’t know if I’ll ever be ready, to be honest. It’s not just a wish, it’s... a whole reality. One that I’d like to live in, maybe. But I’m afraid I’m not built for it. Or that if I am, I’ll do it wrong. Like, ruin something I can’t take back.”

You were quiet for a beat, then asked gently, “Why do you think that?”

He hesitated, then let the words come.

“I mean… a child. That’s not just a responsibility. It’s a person. Someone with their own thoughts and their own pain, eventually. And I’d be part of shaping all that. That’s terrifying. I want to be good at it, I really do, but what if I mess it up? What if I do something without realizing and it sticks with them forever?”

Your fingers brushed over his arm in a slow, thoughtful rhythm. Then you looked at him, your expression soft, eyes warmer than he felt like he deserved. A faint smile curled at the edge of your mouth, and for a second Frankie thought about tracing it with his thumb. Just one second of indulgence.

But he didn’t.

“No one knows everything about parenting before they’re in it,” you said. “Even the best people make mistakes. There’s no such thing as perfect parents, or perfect kids.”

“Oh I know that.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “You’d be a good father, Frankie. You’re patient. Kind. You actually listen. You’ve been great with Jamie.”

Frankie sighed. “That’s different. He’s my nephew. I can always hand him back. I don’t have to make the hard choices. If I was in Henry or Luna’s place, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging a little. “I don’t think anyone really knows until they get there. You can plan, sure. But life doesn’t wait for you to be ready. All you can do is love the kid, pay attention, and try not to let anything get in the way of being there for them.”

“Yeah, well...” Frankie said, reaching out to stroke the tiny kitten curled up in front of you. His hand moved gently, fingers threading through its fur like he was trying not to scare it. “Anyway, I doubt it’ll happen. In the meantime, I guess I’ll have to figure out how to take care of a cat.”

“I doubt it too,” you replied. “I swear, there’s nothing that messes with my head more than the thought of being a mother. Or not being one.”

“How come?” 

You exhaled, your eyes fixed on some invisible point in the room. “I’m terrified of not becoming a mother. And also, equally terrified of becoming one. It’s like... both possibilities feel too big.” You laughed, but it was a thin sound. “Infertility scares me. Fertility scares me.”

Frankie didn’t speak right away. He was breathing in the faint scent of your hair, and it made everything feel a little more real than he wanted it to. Conversations like this were difficult for him—not because he didn’t care, but because the thought of a future that stable, that rooted, felt like trying to imagine himself on another planet. There was a version of him that could handle it. He just wasn’t sure that version existed yet.

“You’ve got time,” he said at last, his cheek pressed against the pillow.

“I’m almost thirty, Francisco,” you said, smiling as if to soften it. “And as much as I hate the phrase, the idea of a biological clock is very real.”

“Thirty’s nothing,” he said, matching your tone, rolling his eyes.

“No, I know,” you agreed. “It’s not. But still.”

He shifted beside you. “Maybe by forty you’ll have it all figured out.”

You let out a laugh. “Wow. That’s a lot of confidence in my decision-making abilities.”

“I’ve seen you order at restaurants. That took several minutes.”

“Hey. That’s important. You don’t want to mess up your one meal.”

Frankie grinned, then looked over at the kitten, now kneading the blanket with its tiny paws.

“Also,” you added, “did you know that after thirty-five it’s technically called a geriatric pregnancy?”

“That’s absurd.”

“It’s true.”

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up. You rolled away from him to check it, and the space where you’d been moments ago felt immediately cooler. Frankie didn’t say anything, just watched you. The kitten padded across the bed toward him and climbed onto his chest. He picked it up in both hands. 

What a tiny creature, Frankie thought, watching the kitten as it curled into itself, like a little comma. Its paws were absurdly small, its ears too big for its head. It looked like something you’d win at a fair, a prize made of felt and buttons, only this one breathed and blinked and yawned so wide you could see the pink of its gums. It didn’t seem entirely real. He found himself hoping it would grow big, sleepy and adorable. Like Mr. Darcy.

You were scrolling through your phone beside him, your head propped on one hand.

“Mai sent me the invite,” you said without looking up. “It’s a QR code. They’ll give us wristbands when we get there.”

He nodded, eyes still on the kitten. “Sounds fancy.”

The Halloween party was an annual thing hosted by Kairos, some artsy production company Mai had been involved with for years. She designed the wristbands and the promo graphics, and always managed to secure passes for her friends. Frankie had heard about the Christmas parties too, and the over-the-top New Year’s events where people drank champagne from plastic flutes and danced in dimly lit warehouses. He didn’t go to things like that—loud rooms, too many people, the pressure to make conversation. But earlier that day, over lunch, you’d said something about loving Halloween. Mai had overheard and invited you on the spot. Which meant now he was going too. Because Mai was his sister, and you were—well, you were you.

And honestly, he didn’t mind the idea.

You tapped your phone screen off and turned to him. “Do you know what you’re dressing up as?”

He looked over, smiled faintly. “I don’t know. What about you?”

You shrugged, almost bashful. “I have a few ideas. Nothing definite.”

“Well,” he said, settling back into the cushions, “I’m really, really sure I’ll like and enjoy whatever you pick.”

You didn’t respond right away, but your expression changed—something flickered behind your eyes. He didn’t know what it was exactly, but it made him feel warm.

The kitten yawned again and then fell asleep.

Tuesday, October 29th

Frankie leaned back in the lawn chair and took a long sip from his beer. The fire in Santi’s backyard cracked and hissed, sparks rising briefly into the night. The guys were in their usual rhythm (half teasing, half storytelling) revisiting the time Will’s pants split wide open during a yoga class he’d tagged along to, trying to impress a girl.

Frankie wasn’t really listening. His phone rested in his hand, screen dimmed to almost nothing, thumb brushing across it idly. You were texting him.

Earlier that afternoon, you’d gone to try on Halloween costumes, and by some stroke of good fortune—at least in his opinion—you’d decided to keep him in the loop. One by one, the photos came in. A zombie nurse. A ghost bride. A pirate. A vampire in fishnets. Then a Victorian lady. And at some point, absurdly, a towering Marie Antoinette wig that made you look like you'd walked out of a Sofia Coppola film.

Frankie had been more than happy to offer feedback. Encouraged, even. He’d wanted to go with you, truthfully, but work ran late, and he already had plans with the guys. This, this stream of selfies and little captions, felt like the next best thing.

Then finally:

[🍓]: Christine Daaé

And a second later, a photo of a white corset. Silk. Lace trim. The implication was clear.

Frankie had grinned at the screen, then exhaled through his nose like he couldn’t help himself. Of course, that meant he was going as the Phantom. Erik. You’d declared it so.

A bottle cap hit his thigh.

He blinked, looked up from his phone.

Santi was smirking at him from across the fire pit.

“So, can you?” he asked, lifting his chin.

Frankie furrowed his brows. “What?”

“Victor’s boat.”

Frankie shifted in the chair, stretching out his legs. “Ah, right. This Friday?”

“Yeah,” Benny said, yawning as he leaned back, arms behind his head. “You free or what?”

Frankie scratched the edge of his beard. “Actually... I... I’ve got something.”

Santi grinned, like he already knew. “Right. The Halloween party.”

Frankie nodded once, keeping it casual.

“What party?” Will asked, suddenly interested.

“Kairos,” Santi said, turning toward him. “My sister told me. Mai works for them, remember? Costumes, DJs, probably too many people. And look at this guy—ditching me for my little sister.”

Frankie narrowed his eyes, shook his head, and let out a short laugh. He raised the bottle to his lips again, the glass cool against his mouth.

“I’m not ditching you,” he said, though he didn’t offer anything more than that.

And across the firelight, Santi just kept smiling.

“Well, by the way,” Benny said, adjusting forward on the edge of his seat, arms braced on his knees, “why couldn’t you come by last weekend?”

Frankie didn’t flinch. “I was with Mai and my mom,” he said, voice even. And it was true. Mostly.

Sunday had been at his mother’s house. You were there, too. Of course. 

Benny wasn’t done. “And Saturday?”

Saturday had been yours. The morning, the afternoon, the parts of the night that bled into morning again.

“Same,” Frankie said, not missing a beat. He didn’t look away.

Across the fire pit, Santi shifted. He leaned into his right arm, elbow pressed into the chair, and tilted his head like he was squinting at a puzzle that had just gotten more interesting. There was something annoyingly pleased in his expression.

“Yeah, I don’t buy it, Fish,” he said, eyes wide, eyebrows lifted. A grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Frankie laughed—short, breathy, too defensive. “Yeah. Right. You guys are unbearable. If you’ve got something to say, just say it.”

And the second the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

Santi’s face changed, like a switch being flipped. The amusement faded. He leaned forward slightly, not dramatically, but enough to close the distance. His eyes reflected the movement of the flames, sharp and unreadable. His jaw didn’t move, but his voice came out even, almost quiet.

“Okay. When the hell were you planning on telling me you’re sleeping with my sister?”

The crackle of the fire filled the silence that followed. Frankie’s heart dropped so fast it left something hollow behind. His body went rigid. He didn’t blink. He felt the blood drain from his face, felt it pool somewhere in his shoes. The entire backyard blurred at the edges, just orange firelight and too many, many eyes.

He didn’t say a word.

Benny shifted uncomfortably. Will looked down at his beer.

Santi didn’t move. He kept his gaze locked on Frankie, his expression perfectly unreadable.

And then, just as Frankie opened his mouth—he had no idea what he was going to say—Santi broke. A sharp laugh burst from his chest, and he leaned back in the chair, shaking his head.

“I’m messing with you, man.”

Frankie exhaled. It didn’t feel like relief. His skin was too hot, but his fingertips were cold. He ran a hand through his hair, tried to laugh along with them, but it sounded weak, like an echo of something genuine.

His pulse was still racing. His body wasn’t convinced the danger had passed.

And the worst part was: he hadn’t actually denied it.

A breath left Frankie’s chest, short and shaky. “Jesus, man.”

Will and Benny exchanged a glance, laughing in that unsure, uneven way people do when they’re not totally sure it is a joke.

Santi grinned, still riding the high of his own performance.

“You should’ve seen your face,” he said, pointing lazily in Frankie’s direction. “Fucking priceless. Relax, will you? I’m messing with you.”

“Right,” Frankie muttered. “I know. I know that.” But his voice betrayed him. “You just—you look so damn convincing when you do that.”

Santi shrugged, all casual confidence. “It’s my talent.”

Frankie shook his head and stood, brushing nonexistent crumbs from his jeans.

“I gotta take a piss.”

“Did you shit yourself, Fish?” Benny called after him, laughing.

Their voices followed him as he crossed the patio and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The silence inside the house felt abrupt. It made the rush of blood in his ears feel deafening. His heart was still hammering against his ribs—each beat too fast, too hard. Like his body hadn’t caught up with the fact that it was just a joke.

Just a joke.

In the bathroom, he leaned over the sink after washing his hands, gripping the porcelain with wet fingers. His reflection looked too pale under the overhead light, his mouth tense like he’d been grinding his teeth. He pressed his palms to his face, exhaled into the space between them. Tried to shake it off.

The truth was: he felt like he’d been caught. Like it was written on him somewhere—I’m sleeping with Santi’s sister. Bold print. Centered. 

He stayed there for a minute longer, trying to even out his breathing. Trying to look normal. He wasn’t sure it was working.

When he finally stepped out, the hallway felt colder somehow. As he passed the kitchen door, a voice called out.

“Frankie.”

He stopped. Turned his head.

Will was standing by the open fridge, hand already wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle. He looked casual. Not suspicious. Not accusing. 

“You want one?” Will asked, nodding toward the bottles.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Frankie stepped into the kitchen fully, nodding once as he accepted the bottle from Will. The glass felt cool in his palm. He leaned back against the counter, the edge of it pressing into his spine just enough to remind him he was still in his body.

Will moved with efficiency, pulling three more bottles from the fridge, setting two on the counter with a dull clink, and uncapping the third for himself. He sat across from Frankie, perched casually on one of the stools, the bottle already pressed to his lips.

They stayed like that for a few seconds. Frankie watched the floor. Will watched Frankie.

Then, finally, Will spoke.

“So,” he said, drawing the word out. “How long has this been going on?”

Frankie lifted his head. “What’s been going on?”

Will tilted his head, eyebrows raised in mock innocence. “You know Santi’s basically your brother-in-law now, right?”

Frankie smiled—tight, crooked, tired. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, a quiet laugh escaped him, as if the idea were absurd. But it didn’t feel absurd.

“No... I mean—”

“I saw you at the bar,” Will cut in, one eyebrow arched. “On Benny’s birthday. You two were talking. I was heading over to order another round, and I saw you leave. Together.”

Frankie clicked his tongue, a quiet, defensive sound. “That’s not—”

“And,” Will said, leaning in slightly now, clearly enjoying this, “the next day, Santi told us you said you'd spent the night with someone. Said you wouldn’t say who. And then, that day at the river, you said you were seeing that woman. What a coincidence, huh, Fish?”

This time, Frankie didn’t try to argue. He looked at Will, really looked at him, and saw the certainty there. Not speculation. Not a guess. Certainty.

There was no point in denying anything anymore.

Frankie sighed and shifted his weight.

“You can’t say anything. You hear me?”

Will threw his head back, a triumphant laugh spilling from his chest like he’d just solved a mystery no one else had noticed.

“I fucking knew it.”

“Shh,” Frankie hissed, glancing toward the hallway. “Man, shut the hell up.”

Will shook his head, grinning like he’d just heard the punchline of a joke that had taken too long to land.

“You two really aren’t being discreet, you know that?”

Frankie narrowed his eyes, exasperated. “You can’t say anything.”

“I won’t,” Will said, holding up a hand in mock solemnity. “Promise. No need, anyway. The others will probably figure it out without my help. You’re not exactly subtle.” He gave a small shrug, then leaned back in his seat. “To be honest, I still wasn’t totally sure. I had my suspicions, yeah. But the look on your face out there?” He let out a low whistle. “Jesus, man. I thought you were about to pass out.”

Frankie let out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. I kind of thought that too.”

There was a pause. Will’s expression shifted, softened. He took another sip of beer and then sighed, setting the bottle down with a quiet clink against the counter.

“So?” he asked, his tone more curious than nosy now. “What’s going on? How did that even happen? I mean, how did things change between you two?”

Frankie didn’t answer immediately. His eyes drifted. First to the far wall, then to the patch of floor just beside Will’s foot. He searched his memory, trying to locate the exact pivot, the precise beat where everything had begun to shift. But it was like trying to pinpoint the first moment he started falling asleep. You just wake up in the middle of it, already half-under.

How had things changed?

When?

He could think of a dozen interactions that might’ve mattered. But the one that surfaced—the one that rooted itself in his mind now—was less cinematic than he wanted it to be. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even particularly romantic. But it had cracked something open in him. And after that, he started noticing you differently. Or maybe not differently... just more.

It embarrassed him, how fast it had happened for him. 

"Your mother, your sisters, your aunts and uncles, your mom’s friends—they’re all going to be watching." You had said that night, the day before his mom's birthday.

Frankie exhaled, the sound half-sigh, half-growl, and pressed his hip against the edge of the kitchen island. 

"It’s different." He muttered, voice weighed down by something that felt like exhaustion

"Different how?"

"Because Santi’s my best friend. And you’re his sister. It was weird."

"And this is all fake, Francisco," you gestured vaguely in the air between you, where the tension had been gathering like dust. "How old are you again? Forty?"

"Thirty-five," he corrected automatically.

"Right. Almost forty. And you can’t do something as simple as kiss a woman. Yes, I’m your best friend’s sister. Yes, you clearly dislike me. And yes, I clearly dislike you too. But it’s just a kiss," you were speaking with that infuriating kind of calm that always had annoyed him. "A fucking—"

Frankie’s hands were on your face before he processed the shift. Fingers at your jaw, thumbs resting just beneath your cheekbones. His grip wasn’t rough, just firm. And then his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t timid. It wasn’t theatrical either.

He kept kissing you longer than he should have. He knew it, could feel the line being crossed even as he leaned into it, even as his heart stammered in his chest.

And then—just as suddenly—he stepped back.

His hands dropped, and his expression shifted into something smug and irritatingly collected. He clicked his tongue, the sound almost playful.

You weren’t moving. Your posture was stiff, your breath uneven. He noticed the subtle rise and fall of your collarbone, the slight part of your lips, the fact that your eyes were still on his mouth.

He turned from you and folded his arms across his chest, like that might hide something.

“I can do that, no problem,” he said, trying to sound flippant. “Stop being so fucking insufferable all the time, and maybe this whole thing would be easier.”

Your mouth opened—probably ready to snap back, but the words caught somewhere between fury and shock.

He didn’t say anything else. Just leaned against the island, pretending to study the floor, as if that helped him ignore the sound of your breathing.

“Thank God you’re not my real boyfriend,” you snapped. “I’d rather kiss a toad.”

Frankie’s mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile. "You’ve got a lot of experience with those, don’t you?" 

He pushed away from the counter then, dragging a hand over his stomach before reaching into his pocket to check for his keys. An instinctive gesture, like trying to remind himself he still had an exit.

He walked over to the couch and gave Mr. Darcy a half-hearted pat, then turned back toward you. You hadn’t moved. You looked pissed.

He didn’t blame you. Not entirely, anyway.

“I’ll pick you up at six tomorrow. Don’t keep me waiting.”

“Or what? You're going to leave without me?”

Frankie paused, hand already on the door. He looked at you. Then he stepped aside and held the door open.

"I’ll come up and get you," he said, like a warning.

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just walked out, jaw tight, the echo of his shoes fading with every step. The door clicked shut behind him, a final-sounding noise that filled the quiet he hadn’t noticed until then.

Frankie took the stairs two at a time. Something urgent buzzed beneath his skin—irritation, maybe. Or something that required irritation as a cover. When he hit the street, he didn’t hesitate. Got into his car, turned the key, pulled out of the space like it owed him something.

But a few blocks later, a red light caught him. The first real pause.

And in that stillness, something shifted.

His fingers lifted, almost without thought, brushing against his lips. They felt warm, too warm—like they’d been branded. His mouth still remembered yours. Not just the pressure or the shape, but the feeling. The pull. The part of it he hadn’t expected.

He sat there, one hand on the wheel, the other grazing his mouth, eyes unfocused and fixed on nothing.

That was the moment. The first one that counted.

That was when it started for him.

“I don’t know how it happened,” Frankie said quietly, his thumb pressing against the condensation on his beer bottle. “It just did. One day I hated her, and the next day I didn’t. And that confused me as much as it probably confused her.”

Will raised his eyebrows, leaning back slightly.

“Well, doesn’t confuse me. I knew it from the start—remember? Everything makes sense now. I was right, wasn’t I?”

Frankie let out a sigh and nodded faintly. “I couldn’t tell her, though.”

Will blinked. “You mean all those years you two were at each other’s throats was because you couldn’t be honest with her?”

“No,” Frankie said, laughing in spite of himself. “No. I genuinely didn’t like her after that. I wasn’t pretending.”

Will looked at him, unconvinced. “Okay, sure. But what about now? Did you tell her how it?”

Frankie shook his head. He didn’t explain why. He didn’t know how to.

Will nodded again, slower this time. “And is this—whatever it is—serious?”

At first, Frankie laughed. A short, instinctive sound. Because the question felt too big, too final. But then the laugh faded. His smile disappeared, and his gaze dropped to the floor.

And just like that, the answer was there.

You placed your toothbrush back in the cup and flicked off the bathroom light with the back of your hand. The apartment dimmed into quiet shadows as you padded barefoot toward your bedroom. Mr. Darcy followed you, tail held high, as if he too were ready to call it a night.

But before you got into bed, you paused beside the vanity and looked once more at the costume hanging on the door. Just one last look.

You hadn’t found it in one of those over-lit costume shops filled with synthetic capes and plastic tiaras. You’d gone to a small gothic boutique tucked between a tattoo parlor and a record store. The corset had been waiting there for you—white, embroidered, delicate.

The idea had arrived in your head fully formed: Christine Daaé.

Once you had the corset, everything else followed easily. You found the dress online and paid for priority shipping without hesitation. It was arriving tomorrow morning, and you had already cleared a hanger for it. The pictures online had shown a soft, off-white fabric with dramatic bell sleeves and a neckline that dipped just low enough to make you blush. It ended just below the knees, but a single slit ran up the side of the left leg, high enough to make it interesting.

You had paired it with white thigh-high stockings that fastened with lace, the kind that sat snug against your skin. The whole outfit was beautiful. Romantic, theatrical, sensual. You couldn’t wait to wear it.

Frankie hadn’t protested when you told him your idea. In fact, he had agreed almost too easily. You bought him a white half-mask online and found a soft, 19th-century-style shirt with ruffles at the collar. The woman at the shop, who had probably seen a hundred Phantom couples come through in October, still smiled when you told her what you were planning. She even helped you pick out a black vest with subtle embroidery. Frankie said he’d handle the rest.

You had always loved Halloween in the way certain people love early autumn or thunderstorms—something about the atmosphere, the anticipation, the slight eeriness that made everything feel more heightened, more alive. It was one of your favorite days of the year. Or at least, it used to be.

Lately, the holiday had come and gone like most other days. Last year you’d planned a solo horror movie night. Candles lit, snacks laid out, a carefully curated film queued on the screen. But you’d fallen asleep before the opening credits had even finished rolling. You woke up sometime around midnight, your head slumped against the couch cushion, the room dim and quiet and too still. You didn’t try again after that.

This year, though, there was the party.

It was happening Friday night—even though Halloween fell on a Thursday—because that was how adults did things now. Convenience before tradition. It didn’t bother you. The point was that someone had invited you, and more than that, you wanted to go.

You hadn’t been to a Kairos party in years. The last time, you’d gone with Emma, and the two of you had danced for hours, stealing sips from each other’s drinks and rating costumes like it was a red carpet. But Emma hadn’t been able to make it the past few years and your other friends always had other plans. So, you stayed home.

But not this year.

You folded the corset carefully and placed it back inside its tissue-lined box. The shoes were already tucked away on the top shelf of your closet. You smoothed your hand over the duvet before pulling it back, ready to settle in for the night. Mr. Darcy was already curled up at the foot of the bed.

And then the doorbell rang.

You paused. Checked the time on your phone: 10:03 p.m.

A crease formed between your brows as you walked toward the kitchen, the soft shuffle of your slippers brushing against the floor. You turned the corner and peered out through the narrow window that faced the street. And then you smiled. Frankie.

You didn’t bother asking what he was doing there before heading downstairs. The air outside was crisp when you opened the door to the street, the pavement still holding the warmth from the day.

He was standing there with his hands in his denim jacket pockets, looking at you like he hadn’t really meant to show up but had ended up there anyway.

“Hey,” you said, stepping toward him, slipping your hands up to his shoulders and leaning in to kiss him—just a quiet press of lips, familiar now, but still electrifying. “What are you doing here? Weren’t you at Santi’s?”

He nodded, the corners of his mouth tilting upward in a tired kind of smile, the kind that suggested he’d had a long day but was happy to be standing there with you. His hands found your waist almost without thinking and he stepped past the threshold as you moved aside for him. Before you could say anything else, he leaned in and kissed you again.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, “but I needed to see you.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Did something happen?”

Frankie let out a low laugh. “Well, first of all, Will knows about us. Did you know that?”

You blinked. “What? Wait—what do you mean he knows?”

He lifted his shoulders in a helpless little shrug. “I’ll explain everything upstairs, okay?”

There was something in his tone that told you it wasn’t urgent, but it still made your stomach flutter.

You nodded anyway. “Yeah, okay.”

You let go of him to close the door behind you, then turned to find him already looking at you with something unreadable in his expression.

“And,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “I need to talk to you about something.”

“What? Don’t say it like that. You’re scaring me.”

Frankie shook his head immediately, pressing his lips together like he regretted phrasing it that way.

“It’s nothing bad. I promise. It’s just… something about when we first met.”

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @thedilfdiaries @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @deatt @yslgreen @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @brittmb115 @sukivenue @awkwardmebaby @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @suzysface @picketniffler @gaypoetsblog @merz-8 @doblasftcisco @ultra-nina-bella @satanxklaus @readingiskeepingmegoing @copperhalfcent @ashhlsstuff @sunfairyy @icanbringyouinhot @hi--have-a-nice-day @sesdeuxyeux @peachiestevie @biccaline @crayolacraycray @wencontre @peepawispunk @berryispunk @billionairecowgirl @blub-senpai @madpanda75 @joelmillerpascal @thatdbeagoodsticker @dtftheavengers @jessthebaker @yourallaround-simp @vingtetunmars @deatt @pedges-world @vickie5446

[mustachepascal]

I need this🤧🤧

𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 | 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

This piece contains 18+ content

pairing joel miller x female reader (established relationship)  summary after a warm summer night filled with dancing, laughter, and good company, Joel takes you home early, thinking you’ve had your fill of the festivities. Turns out, you just wanted him all to yourself. [fluff, soft smut, 3k] a/n he talks you through it and knows exactly what you need. but please don't look at me!!

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

There’s an exuberance to the air that should’ve faded hours ago. Nevertheless, it persists. Through the music, the laughter, the bodies on the dancefloor.

Every once in a while, Jackson Hole leaned so intently into the spirit of life that it seemed like an act of defiance against the enduring hunger of death and decay outside the community walls. You couldn’t imagine welcoming summer in any other way. 

The community center smells like beer and smoked venison, like levity and timelessness. At some point, you’d lost Ellie and Dina to the crowd while you settled at a table with Tommy and Joel. No matter how many times your eyes roam around the space, they always fall back on him as he sits by your side.

You’d grown quiet over the past few minutes, content to watch and soak everything in. Joel’s hand remains a steady weight on your thigh, squeezing every so often to let you know he hadn’t forgotten about you as he talked with his brother. 

Before you left the house, he’d sworn up and down that he wasn’t going to drink tonight. But one glass of whiskey turned into another, and the furrow between his brows disappeared. Then his shoulders relaxed like he no longer had to be alert or on guard. It’d been a hard week of patrol for him, and you thank all your lucky stars he agreed to come out with you tonight. You love seeing him loose like this. 

Tommy’s gaze drifts to the dance floor, where Mr. Spencer dances among a host of others. The live music vibrates through the floor. He hadn’t sat down since Dina had dragged you up earlier that night to a rendition of Dreaming. 

“Gramps better take it easy up there,” Tommy says. “Lookin’ like goddamn Trent Davis from back when we lived in Oakview.” He swats Joel’s arm when he says that.   

Joel coughs to cover a bark of laughter. 

“Tell me I’m lyin’,” he challenges. 

Joel surrenders to his laughter, and you lean into him like a moth drawn to a flame. There’s something magnetic about the sound, even as it competes with the music. His head rolls back to expose his throat, and you watch the attractive bob of his Adam’s apple. It’s one of those rare laughs that are belly deep. You smile even though you don’t get the inside joke. Tommy catches your gaze with a mirthful glimmer in his eyes. 

“He ever talk about the crazies we grew up with?” he asks. “Guess that means we were crazy too ‘cause we sure got into some shit, I’ll tell you that.” 

“Don't.” Joel points a finger, and Tommy raises his hands in surrender. “Jesus Christ.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, still chuckling. 

“I’m going for more beer,” Tommy says as he pushes himself up. 

Joel meets your gaze and apologetically shakes his head. He looks so radiant under the string lights that you can’t help but lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth. “Who’s Trent Davis?” 

He gives you a proper kiss, lips brief and chaste against your own. “Some kid who was older than us. Used to follow him around during the summers cause we thought he was cool,” he recounts. “Got caught stealin’ snacks at a gas station one day, and he faked a seizure to get us out of trouble.” 

You piece together the comparison Tommy made between Mr. Spencer’s dancing and Trent’s alleged seizure. 

“That’s so mean,” you say, even as a smile tugs at your lips. “And you laughed too.” 

Joel ducks his head, partly ashamed. “Caught me off guard,” he insists. “Didn't mean any harm by it. Don’t go tellin’ on us, alright?” He gently takes your chin between his forefinger and thumb, warm eyes searching yours. 

“Okay.” 

Joel relaxes back into his chair. “You holdin’ up alright? Been real quiet.” 

“I’m good,” you say. “Maybe a little tired. But good.” 

“We can head out if you’re ready,” he gives your thigh an assuring squeeze. “Just say the word.” 

A part of you is reluctant to express your desire to leave. The other is all too aware of how sweetly Joel’s speaking to you and how handsome he looks with that one curl falling onto his forehead. Surely, there couldn’t be anything wrong with wanting him all for yourself instead of remaining wrapped in the festivities of the night. 

So you tell him you’re ready to go. 

•••

The mattress dips with a faint squeak as Joel joins you beneath the fresh cotton sheets. Those content grunts you love puff out of his mouth as he gets comfortable. He drapes a careful arm over your waist when he realizes how close you’ve settled to his side of the bed. The pull of sleep fails to be as compelling as the warmth of him at your back. 

You remain spooned in his arms until he perceives the roll of your hips as a request for space. However, your disappointed whine when he scoots away makes him come right back. 

“I’m here,” he assures. “Was gettin’ mixed signals. Thought I was smothering you or somethin’.” He presses a kiss to the back of your head. 

You move to turn on your bedside lamp. 

“That's my fault,” you admit as you resettle, looking over your shoulder with a heavy gaze. “I just want you and didn’t know how to say it.”  

Joel opens his mouth to speak, but instead hums when you press back into him again. You can feel him stiffen through the loose fabric of his boxers. He shifts his hips forward so you know he’s right there with you. The two of you always wound up on the same page. Maybe it was happenstance, maybe it was the principle of never leaving the other behind. 

In a world that was all about sides and systems, being in tune with each other was the gateway to endurance, to survival. It made all the in-between moments like this even sweeter. 

A small laugh escapes you, and Joel kneads your waist in curiosity. “Are the signals still mixed?” you ask, a smile in your voice.  

A shiver tumbles down your spine when he nips the nape of your neck as if to chastise you for the question. Then he suckles over the same spot like you’re sugar sweet. 

Your walls clench around their own emptiness as a quiet sound catches in your throat. Joel notices because he notices everything. Not only when it comes to you, but especially when it does. In another life, maybe it’d be nice to get away with a hidden thought or feeling, but he always clocked the ones that mattered. 

Fifty-seven years had taught him how to show up, be present, and not rush through the moment. It allowed him to be in tune enough to pick up on the little things. 

You arch as he eases a large, gentle hand up your tank top to cup your breasts and thumb over your nipples. The tenderness makes the ache between your thighs deepen into something even more awful. Joel twitches in his boxers in time with the way you squirm back into him instead of away.  

“So soft,” he notes reverently. 

He relishes your breathy sighs as he traces your nipples and mouths behind your ear with parted lips. Then he gives you a break by ghosting his fingertips down your stomach before venturing back up to the sensitive, peaked flesh on your chest. The brush of his scruff is pleasant in its own right. Your entire body is alight amid the otherwise dim room. If you didn’t know any better, you’d assume he could feel the currents racing beneath your skin. 

You remember to breathe when his hand settles on your stomach to ground you. 

“You know I always take care of ya,” he hushes against your skin. 

You rest your hand over his. “I didn’t want it to seem like this is what I dragged you away for,” you murmur. “I know you were having fun back there.” 

“Like this isn’t preferred,” he says lightly. “You’re allowed to be selfish any time ya like.” There’s a measured, honied quality to his voice. 

“Hell, my jeans were tight all the way back when you hit the floor for that Blondie song earlier,” he says. 

When you laugh, he uses that brief moment of distraction to slip his hand beneath your pajama shorts and your lace-trimmed panties in one practiced go. The initial surprise makes you freeze, but stillness becomes impossible to cling to when his middle finger dips to trace along your slickened heat. Just as you flutter around the tip of his finger, he spreads the moisture to wet the bud of your clit in a series of easy circles. 

Your cheeks warm at how quickly you angle yourself to give him even better access to your core. Joel runs a slow, heavy finger along your entrance in acknowledgement.  

“Wish you’d dance just for me,” he thinks aloud as his finger works that pulsing, delicate part of you. “That whole being shy excuse has ‘bout run its course.” There’s a hopefulness to his tone. 

He truly did enjoy the way you moved. It wasn’t sharp or precise, but fluid as if you were being pulled along just a hair after the beat and knew exactly where it was taking you. Even as he touches you now, he can envision it. The sway of your hips, the stretch of your arms. 

“You gonna dance for me one of these days?” he asks. You’d do anything if it meant he’d hold you close and touch you like this for the rest of your lives. 

All you manage is an earnest nod. 

“Promise me?” 

A petulant sound escapes you as you push your backside into his crotch with more force than you had all night. Joel isn’t trying to tease or be mean, despite the fact that it feels that way. He’s as hard as a rock himself, but he wants to hear you say you’ll grant him the one wish that’s been drifting around in his head. 

“I promise—Joel, please,” you breathe. 

The emptiness that thrums between your legs calls out to the most primal part of him that pulses with desire. The tug low in his abdomen has grown too insistent to ignore. It feels like he's buzzing in his skin. 

The two of you make an eager work of removing the garments that stand in the way of feeling the balmy warmth of each other's skin. 

After you resettle in front of Joel, he reaches for your hand and guides it behind you. Your stomach flips when his arousal meets the softness of your palm. Your fingers instinctively curl around him. He’s warm to the touch, and you can feel the veins and ridges. He shudders as he rocks into your hand a couple times.  

“See what you do to me?” he asks, voice gruff. 

“Yeah,” you whisper breathily. “Lemme make it better. I can make it better.” Your claims are no more than masked desperation, a plea for him to fill you up and make you feel whole. 

You let go of him to reangle your hips and lift your leg just enough to give Joel access to your center from behind. 

You suck in a breath when he positions the tip of himself at your entrance, then spend the next few seconds exhaling as he pushes into your warmth. You’re so ready for him, the dull ache that arises is only on account of his size. It fades into the pleasure of fullness as he stills inside you, and the wiry hairs of his base of his cock tickle your skin. 

Joel groans a low, satisfied sound through his teeth. He throbs as he grants you time to adjust. Then he hugs an arm around you, hand splayed over your chest, as he begins a relaxed rhythm of thrusts. He’d always be your missing piece. If for no other reason than his ability to reach the most tender, sacred parts of you. Every time your bodies meet, there's the soft, sticky sound of skin against skin. 

Each stroke of him feels more intense than the last. With his breath at your neck and the heat of his chest against your back, you’re rendered speechless aside from the hums and mewls that slip free.  

 Joel paws at your hip and your breasts, then tucks his aquiline nose into your hair to breathe you in. Your walls are so snug around him that he silently laments the moment he’ll have to part from you. 

“Ain't fair for you to feel this good,” he rasps.

Your mouth falls open somewhere between a moan and a weak laugh. Joel’s breath catches when you clench around him and rut back into him to complement his thrusts. He almost wants to tell you to stop. To give him a second to gather himself or think about something mundane to slow the release rushing towards him. But he doesn’t. All he can think about is you. You’re all there is. 

His finger finds your clit, and he rubs it just the way you like, steady and firm while favoring one side. 

You bite your lip as your pleasure swells to the next level. “Oh, god…” You trail off, but there’s no crash like you’re expecting, just a new kind of ache. 

 “I know,” Joel soothes in his velvet timbre. 

He brings you to a place that feels like the edge, but it’s so good you’re unsure if staying or falling over is better. You’re so blissed that you can’t rationalize either. 

“Please,” you whimper, only half sure you’re asking for, but trusting he knows. “Please, please, please.” 

“I know, angel,” he says again. “Ain’t gotta beg. Give you what ya need every time, don’t I?” 

“Mhmm. I’m—Joel…”  

“Go ahead and let go for me,” he encourages. “Don’t gotta fight it anymore.” 

He gently bites the shell of your ear, and that’s what makes you shudder and topple over the edge. 

Your walls flutter around him so hard and fast that your eyes squeeze shut as you heave a high-pitched sigh. Joel follows seconds later, holding you in place as he thrusts into you one last time and spills everything he’s got in a series of strong pulses. Behind you, he’s all heavy breaths and strong muscles weakened by pleasure. He rides through it with a few lazy thrusts, fingers still working over your clit as you shiver through aftershocks. 

Before long, you reach between your legs to gently push his hand away. The two of you lie there and enjoy the haze as you catch your breath. Joel massages your thigh. 

“You okay?” he asks after a while. “All better?” 

You nod with quiet hum. 

He grips his base and slowly pulls out of you. You’re more swollen than when you first started, so everything feels even more snug and sensitive. Both of you sigh at the loss, slick with each other. No sooner do you roll over to face him at last. It’s nice being able to see him more entirely. His dark eyes are tired but satiated and undeniably content. You waste no time snuggling into him. 

Time fades in and out as you begin to drift off. One of the last things you remember is him cleaning you up and pulling you close. 

••• 

If it weren’t the weekend, you’d be alarmed by how bright the sun is when you open your eyes. And even more alarmed by the fact that Joel wasn’t stirring. He’s lying there with closed eyes, fluffy hair, and sunshine at his back. You don’t resist the urge to run a gentle finger down his stubbled cheek. The way his eyes flutter open suggests he hadn’t been fully asleep. Perhaps just waiting for you. 

He smiles when you smile, but you get shy and tuck your face into your pillow. He hadn’t stopped giving you butterflies since the day you met.  

“You hidin’ from me?” he asks, voice thick with sleep. 

When you finally peek up at him, Joel hasn’t averted his gaze, and your face warms at the attention. There’s something impossibly softer about his eyes. 

“Morning,” you murmur. 

“Mornin’,” he echoes. 

A brief stretch of silence passes before he speaks again. “I enjoyed myself last night.” The sincerity in his voice settles beneath your skin. “Enjoyed you.” He gives your side an affectionate poke. 

“Me too,” you say. The musicality of the chirping birds outside makes you remember the promise you made him last night. “Do I get to see you dance too?” 

 Joel chuckles, eyes sparkling. “What’re you talkin’ about?” He already knows. 

“If I’ve gotta dance for you at some point, you’ve gotta dance for me,” you say. “Or I’m walkin.’”

He gets an amused look about him. “Ain’t got any moves worth watching,” he says, tucking a yawn into his pillow. 

“Maybe Mr. Spencer can teach you a couple,” you tease. 

Joel huffs out a laugh as he recalls the previous night. “I’ll figure ‘em out myself just for you.” You can’t tell if he’s being serious, but you’re inclined to believe he is. 

“I’d probably do just about anything you asked,” he continues, more thoughtful. “But don’t go callin’ my bluff and takin’ advantage.” 

Your stomach flutters. “I’d never.” You find his hand beneath the sheets and bring it to your lips to kiss over his scarred knuckles. “I love you too much for that,” you say.  

“I can’t seem to love you enough.” 

But he’d keep striving for the rest of his life. 

-

Thanks so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! All likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I promise I see them all! 

JOEL MASTERLIST 

ALL MASTERLISTS

[mustachepascal]

if i heard pedro whimpering like a slut in my ears, yall have to as well

[mustachepascal]

POV: FaceTime with PEDRO PASCAL

[mustachepascal]

I miss this fucking old man!🤧

[mustachepascal]

this summary is already giving me chills! can’t wait to read part 2,,, I’m literally going NUTS for this fic! 😮‍💨🤧👏👏

GIRL I just read the ex husband! Joel and it's amazing... Can you do a continuation one where Y/N's IUD failed, please... ;)

A continuation to Beck and Call you say? I guess we’re getting more divorced!joel idk i still don’t make the rules

Everybody say thank you to this anon!!

Lmk if you want to be tagged, this baby’ll be out in a week and a bit maybe 😼😼😼

EDIT: GUYS just wanted to say, like B&C, this one won’t just be smut, there WILL be plot and sappy shit, i swear to ya!

[mustachepascal]

Oh god, this is good 😮‍💨

Did You Have Fun?

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: big fat pwp, established relationship, no physical description of reader, slight dom! Frankie, teasing, tension, Frankie has a bit of a mouth in this one, creampie, rough(er) sex, a bit of aftercare

summary: You thought it was just a fun little game, but Frankie didn't play by the rules.

notes: A totally random Tuesday and Berry writes some shamelessly feral Frankie smut? Yeah, sounds about right. I regret nothing 😅

word count: 2,3 k words

You didn’t really mean to tease him that much. It was supposed to be a game—light touches on his arm when you leaned in to say something over the music, fingers brushing his thigh as you stood to excuse yourself for the bathroom. Once or twice, your hand lingered just a second too long near his belt, feigning balance, apology, innocence.

The first time, he didn’t flinch—just a flicker in those warm eyes of his, barely a shift. The second time, a slow arch of his brow. But by the third, something changed.

You were all crowded into the back booth of the bar—Frankie and his boys half-laughing over drinks, the sticky table littered with beer bottles and empty shot glasses. A local band played too loud on the small stage, neon flickering over the crowd, but none of it really touched you. Not when you could feel the tension humming beneath Frankie’s carefully calm exterior every time you passed behind him.

The others were oblivious—Santi elbow-deep in some story, Benny already a little too drunk, Will in his usual quiet corner—but Frankie? He was tuned to you like a wire, taut and coiled, trying like hell to pretend otherwise.

The last time you came back from the bathroom, you barely made it past him before he caught your arm. Not rough, just... deliberate. His fingers circled your wrist with a quiet kind of authority, and he leaned in, lips close to your ear, the heat of him igniting something low in your stomach.

“What do you think you’re doing, baby?” he murmured, voice low, threaded with amusement and warning.

You just smiled, all wide-eyed sweetness, lashes batting like you had no idea what he meant.

The night carried on, but the game had shifted. You could feel it in the way he kept watching you now—every glance sharper, heavier. Like he was holding something back.

—

It wasn’t until later, outside in the cooling night air, that the tension snapped. His friends were piling into Santi’s car, still laughing, still clueless. Frankie stood beside the passenger side of his truck, holding the door open for you like a gentleman.

But when you stepped up to climb in, his hand came down hard on your ass—a squeeze with far more force than usual. Possessive. Unapologetic.

You froze for just a second. Your blood surged hot, a thrill shooting straight through you.

You glanced back over your shoulder at him and he was already smirking, finally, like the restraint had cracked clean in half.

The drive to your place was silent—but not in that awkward, uncertain way. It was charged, heavy with everything that hadn’t been said at the bar. The kind of silence that buzzed between you, thick with heat and something darker.

Frankie didn’t say a word.

Not when you reached over to change the radio station and a sugary pop song came on—the kind he always rolls his eyes at. Not when you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the rough edge of his stubbled cheek, something you usually did to pull a smile out of him. He didn’t squeeze your thigh in that quiet, familiar way. Didn’t glance over at you with the soft smile he saved just for you.

Nothing. Not a twitch, not a look.

Your heart sank a little.

“…Are you mad?” you asked, voice cautious, unsure.

He didn’t answer. But his hands tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles pale under the dim dashboard light. That was all the response you got.

—

When you reached your apartment, you barely had the door unlocked before Frankie was moving. One broad hand settled firmly on your lower back, guiding you in without a word. The door shut behind you with a decisive click—and then he had you.

He pressed you back against it, body crowding yours, one hand catching your jaw in a firm grip that sent your breath hitching. It wasn’t painful. But it wasn’t gentle either. His touch, usually so careful, was something else entirely now. Measured. Intense. You blinked up at him, stunned by the dark fire in his eyes—gone was the familiar warmth, the easy patience. What looked back at you now was smoldering, dangerous.

“Did you have fun?” he asked at last, voice low, rasping, rough around the edges like gravel and smoke.

His thumb brushed along your jaw, deceptively tender, belying the steel in the rest of his grip. He tilted your face up toward him, holding you there, gaze flicking over your features like he was trying to read a confession from your skin.

You swallowed hard, pulse pounding in your ears.

“I was just playing,” you whispered, not quite sure if it was an excuse or a dare.

His brow twitched—just once—and then he leaned in closer, breath warm against your mouth, his body never breaking contact with yours.

“Oh, baby…” he murmured, with something almost like a laugh, except it wasn’t amused. “You think that was just playing?”

The way he said it, so dominant but not cruel, had your stomach twisting in a mix of fear and something thrilling. You’d never seen this side of him before—not the controlled, commanding Frankie who owned the space around him, whose quiet strength was electric and utterly magnetic.

His hand slid from your jaw down your neck, tracing a line that burned beneath his touch. “You’ve got me all worked up,” he said, voice thick with something deeper—desire, possession, and something almost protective. You swallowed hard again, eyes locked on his as his other hand found your waist, pulling you closer. Every breath you took was shared between you now, tight and charged.

“You want to keep playing?” Frankie asked, voice softer but still edged with that quiet dominance.

You nodded breathlessly.

He smiled then—small, knowing, and impossibly gentle—and kissed you slow, his lips firm but respectful, like he was marking territory without breaking trust, his hand not moving from your neck though.

In that moment, you realized how much you’d underestimated him—how easily you’d been fooled into thinking that behind those warm, gentle eyes wasn’t someone who knew exactly how to take charge and make you feel every inch of what you did to him.

“Naughty girl, doing all this in public,” he growled, his breath hot against your ear. “Making me hard in front of my friends. What were you thinking?”

He dipped his head lower, biting down at your neck, the sharp sting immediately soothed by a tender kiss. He ground against you, the hardness pressing insistently against his cargo pants, and it made you gasp.

Without warning, he turned you, pressing your front firmly against the wooden door. His lips trailed over your neck, kissing and sucking, while his knee spread your legs apart. One hand slid down your body, finding the wet heat between your thighs.

You felt his smirk press against your skin. “Oh, you’re enjoying this…” he purred, and you swallowed hard. His voice shifted—faux sweetness masking every raw intention beneath.

His hand slid beneath your leggings and panties, fingers teasing at your entrance with the familiar, careful touch only he knew how to give. You melted under his touch, every inch of you responding. Then, just as suddenly as he’d started, he stopped, pressing a firm hand to your neck to guide you forward.

Without a word, he led you to the bedroom and pushed you gently but insistently onto the bed, so you were on all fours. You didn’t resist, not daring to say or do anything that might rile him up.

He shed your leggings quickly, his big hands lingering to caress your exposed backside, now fully on display. Then, with a sharp, deliberate clap that echoed through the quiet room, he smacked your skin and you gasped, the sound sharp and surprised.

You felt his heat settle behind you as you heard the telltale sounds of him unzipping his pants, the soft kick of his shoes tossed aside. Before you could even gather your thoughts, his hands were back on you, claiming your body again.

He leaned down, pressing his hard, burning heat against your back and ass, and you couldn’t help the needy mewl that escaped you.

His lips traced a path down your neck, across your shoulder, then along your spine—soft kisses that contrasted with the rough urgency of his hands, sending your head spinning with the delicious tension between tenderness and raw desire.

—

“I love you, you know that?” he murmured against your heated skin.

“Yes,” you breathed, senses already blurred with arousal.

“Good,” he said, voice low and steady. “Because in the next few minutes, it might not feel like I do. If anything’s too much, you stop me. Immediately. No questions asked. Got it?”

His tone was commanding but never cold, and you nodded in response.

“Say it,” he urged.

“I’ll tell you to stop if I feel uncomfortable,” you said softly.

His hand found your waist, fingers digging into your soft flesh while the other gently threaded through your hair. “Good girl.” The praise came rough and sincere, just before that same hand traced a path down your spine, finally wrapping around the hard length of his cock.

He did what he always did—teased you first, letting the slick head glide through your folds. The sound alone made your hips twitch, your body desperate for more.

But he wasn’t having it. With a steady hand on your back, he pushed you down firmly, keeping you still, then drove into you with one deep, heavy thrust that made him hiss—a sound you loved. You answered with a moan, already unraveling.

There was no easing in. He set a brutal pace from the start, pounding into you with one hand pressing your back, then sliding up to push your head down, the other gripping your hip like he owned it.

“That’s what you do to me,” he growled. “Make me lose control.”

Each word came punched between ragged thrusts, the force of them shaking through your entire body. This wasn’t the soft-eyed boy who read your thoughts, who always held you like you were something precious. This was his darker half—feral, unyielding. And God, if that duality didn’t make you love him even more, you didn’t know what could.

You were drooling into the bedding, hands fisting the sheets as he fucked you without mercy, hips snapping so fast and deep it felt like you were being split in two.

Then he leaned forward, his soft belly and the fabric of his shirt pressing against your back, caging you in. His hands braced on either side of your head, but his rhythm didn’t falter. He moaned low and guttural when you clenched around him, and then he groaned, “I’m gonna fill you up. I want you to feel me all night and tomorrow too.”

You whimpered, nodding eagerly. “Please…”

He chuckled—dark, rough and straightened back up, hands returning to your hips. His grip tightened, certain to leave bruises, but you didn’t care.

You could feel his urgency in every motion—the pure, unfiltered desire. It lit something inside you, that low, consuming heat winding tighter in your belly until it broke. Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, stealing your breath, your voice cracking on a cry of his name as tears slipped down your cheeks.

Frankie’s grip tightened as you clenched around him, and then his hips jerked, stilled. With a deep, wrecked “Fuuuck…” he spilled into you, thick and hot, filling you until you could barely think.

You were breathless, every inch of you humming with overstimulation and the dull ache of satisfaction. As he pulled out and collapsed beside you, you followed suit, falling onto your back and staring up at the ceiling. Your pulse was still racing when you turned onto your side to look at him.

His chest rose and fell with slow, heavy breaths, hair damp and clinging to his temples. He radiated heat like a furnace, the air between you thick with it. One arm was draped over his eyes, but the other found your thigh, his calloused fingers now drawing lazy, feather-light circles over your skin.

“You okay?” he asked, voice finally returned to its usual softness.

You shifted closer, slinging one leg over his hip, your hand resting flat against his chest where his heart still beat hard beneath your palm.

“I am,” you murmured. “Might be limping tomorrow, but it was worth it.”

He let out a deep, rumbling laugh that shook through his whole body, and finally moved his arm, turning his head to meet your eyes.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, brow furrowed, eyes searching.

You shook your head, honest and unbothered. “No. That was hot as fuck. Might need to tease you like that more often if this is the result…”

His lips curved into that soft, boyish grin you loved more than anything else, the kind that always made your heart flutter no matter how many times you'd seen it.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then finally your lips—slow, deep, and entirely different from earlier. No urgency, no tension. Just him, just you, and the quiet hum of connection still lingering in the dark.

—

Later, when your limbs no longer felt like jelly, he got up and gently cleaned you with the warmest, softest washcloth. You watched him as he worked, and he met your gaze with a loving smile, planting soft kisses on every inch of skin he could reach. It made you feel light and giddy inside. You slipped into one of his shirts and nestled under the blanket, your head resting on his chest, his arm wrapped protectively around your shoulders. As you drifted into a deep sleep, you felt completely satisfied—and hopelessly, sweetly in love with this walking contradiction of a man.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist

tags: @speaktothehandpeasants @jolapeno @sxnnimoon @kungfucapslock @felix-enthusiast @bergamote-catsandbooks @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @jolapeno @cuteanimalmama @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze @misstokyo7love @pascalispunkczechia @pasc4lfuzz @cheekychaos28

[mustachepascal]

you look so handsome when you're mad ── pedro pascal .✦

requested! thank you.content: domestic / slight angst with comfort / established relationship / reader is overwhelmed with work / Pedro feels unneeded / hurt feelings, soft resolution

The door clicks softly behind you. Another late night. Another quiet entry. You drop your bag by the console table and tiptoe through the hallway, hoping to avoid creaking floorboards. You’re exhausted, skin humming with studio lights, sore from hours in headphones and creative tension.

But Pedro is awake.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter in sweatpants and a hoodie, arms crossed, jaw tight. There's a mug in his hands, untouched.

Your heart sinks. “Hi, baby…”

He raises his eyebrows, but says nothing.

You sigh. “I didn’t want to wake you. You’ve been so tired too and—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, voice low. “That’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?”

You blink, confused. “What do you mean?”

Pedro lets out a slow breath, placing the mug down. “We talked about this. These two weeks—no travel, no shoots—I wanted to be there for you. I wanted to pick you up, make sure you got home safe. And for the first few days you let me. But then…”

“I just didn’t want to bother you,” you mumble, stepping closer. “You were sleeping. I thought—”

“You thought I didn’t mean it?” he asks, voice breaking a little. “You thought I said all that just to be nice?”

“No, I…” You rub your temples. The ache in your skull has been building for hours. “Pedro, can we maybe talk about this tomorrow? I’m really—”

His face falls. That small, silent heartbreak that makes your chest cave in. His hands drop from his arms like he’s let something go.

You pause.

The room stays quiet.

“I didn’t mean to sound cold,” you whisper. “I’m sorry. I just… my brain is mush right now.”

He nods slowly. “I get it. But I still feel like—like maybe you don’t need me. Not really.”

That’s what guts you. Not the argument, not the tension—but that quiet, honest confession.

You step up to him, your fingers brushing his forearm. “I do need you,” you say, soft. “God, of course I need you.”

Pedro doesn’t meet your eyes.

“Hey,” you whisper, reaching to tilt his chin gently. He lets you. His lashes are low, his mouth tense.

“You look so handsome when you’re mad at me.”

His eyes flick to yours. That familiar flicker of amusement, tempered by sadness.

“You’re such a brat,” he mutters.

You smile, stepping between his legs. “Your brat.”

He exhales, hands finally resting on your hips, pulling you close like his heart is saying, don’t shut me out again.

“I’m sorry for pushing you away,” you murmur against his cheek. “I didn’t think you’d take it this way. I’ve been so caught up with everything and I—I just didn’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re never a burden,” he whispers back, kissing your temple. “I want to take care of you. Let me.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and rest there, both of you still for a long moment.

“I’ll wake you tomorrow,” you promise. “You can grumble the whole way to the studio.”

He chuckles softly, breath warm at your ear. “Deal.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure@barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom

[mustachepascal]

[mustachepascal]

mental note: never - I mean NEVER - read smut while on work 😮‍💨😫