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pedrosgrogu · 1 month ago

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loveeeee love loveeee

ᴄʟᴀᴜsᴇ 𝟸: ᴛᴇʀᴍs ᴏғ ᴅɪsᴀɢʀᴇᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ

Word Count: 8.4 k

Pervious/Next

September 1st, 1988

“Do you want us dead?! This is how we end up in jail. God, Joel and Dad are goin’ to kill me…!”

Tommy’s voice cracked as he whipped around in the passenger seat, beer can clutched awkwardly in both hands like it might detonate.

You didn’t even blink. With one hand still on the wheel, you used the other to shimmy your bra higher, tugging it into place under your tank top with practiced ease. Your eyes didn’t leave the rearview mirror.

“Relax,” you said, voice syrup-sweet. “Just keep that beer out of sight and let me handle it.”

“We have open alcohol in the car!” Tommy hissed. “You’re adjustin’ your damn bra like we’re parked at Sonic!”

“Because we’re not getting caught,” you said simply, smoothing your shirt down and checking your reflection in the rearview. You fluffed your hair a little, biting the inside of your cheek just enough to bring some color to it. “His dad and mine played poker every Thursday until last fall. He’s not going to risk awkward dinner talk over two underage kids and a six-pack.”

“You should hear yourself, underage specifically,” Tommy groaned, sliding down in his seat. “You terrify me.”

“You should be terrified. But not of me.”

Headlights swept across the windshield as the deputy’s patrol truck rolled up beside you. Without missing a beat, you leaned casually on the rolled-down window, one arm resting along the sill, the other tracing a lazy little pattern along your collarbone.

The deputy stepped out. Big, bored, middle-aged. You watched him clock the vehicle, then your face, then your neckline. Hook, line, sinker.

“Officer,” you purred, tilting your head just enough to make your curls fall the right way. “Sorry if we’re in the way—we thought this road looped around. My bad.”

His eyes lingered a second too long. “You alright out here?”

You smiled wider, teeth and all. “Just lost, but not anymore.” You dropped your gaze like it embarrassed you, then flicked it back up. “You’ve got a good patrol route. Nice and safe.”

Tommy made a strangled noise beside you.

The deputy cleared his throat. “Well. Watch your speed. Lotta deer out this way.”

“Will do. Thank you, officer.”

He nodded—twice, for no reason—and walked back to his truck.

Once the cruiser disappeared, you tossed your hair back over your shoulder like it was nothing. “See? Easy.”

Tommy turned to you, horrified. “I think I just witnessed a felony.”

“I think you just witnessed greatness.”

“You flirted your way out of a Class C misdemeanor!”

“I flirted my way out of you getting grounded ‘til you're thirty.”

Tommy stared at you. Then, with a groan, he leaned his head back against the seat. “You're a dangerous person to be around.”

You grinned so hard your cheeks hurt. “Well, too late to refund me, so might as well learn to cope.”

Driving through your hometown of Arlington was second nature. Even at night, even with a buzz dancing just behind your eyes, your muscle memory knew every dip and curve. You knew which turns would lead you to your childhood driveway and which ones would drop you right in the heart of Dallas. These streets hadn’t changed. Not really. The potholes were still in the same places.

Tommy, surprisingly, had relaxed. He bopped his head along to Michael Jackson’s Thriller , blasting low from the stereo despite it being a month away from Halloween. He held his beer like it was a soda now—shoulders down, fear gone.

You passed the glowing lights of a rundown gas station, and an idea sparked instantly in your brain.

“You know what goes amazing with beer?” you said, flicking on the blinker without warning.

Tommy sat up like you’d shouted cops . “What…”

You were already making the turn. “Just some chips! And gas,” you added innocently, your smirk betraying you.

“Absolutely not,” he muttered, gripping his can tightly. “You’re gonna flirt with the clerk for chips and get us banned from another place.”

“That was one time.”

“That was twice , actually.”

You just laughed, already pulling into the parking lot, high beams catching on cracked pavement and faded pump signage.

Inside, the gas station looked exactly how you remembered every gas station looking at that hour—bright, overexposed lights buzzing faintly overhead, and a lone guy behind the counter who couldn’t care less about two teenagers with beer breath and bad judgment.

You gave Tommy a light shove toward the door. “Go fill my tank, freeloader.”

“I’m not your—” he started, but you cut him off by dangling your keys in front of his face.

“You drank half the beer. Payment is fuel labor.”

He snatched the keys, muttering, “One of these days, you’re gonna get me killed.”

“Not tonight.” You winked. “Now scoot.”

You watched him drag his feet out the doors, keys swinging from his fingers. Once he disappeared out of view, you turned your attention to the snack aisle. Chips. Something crunchy, salty, and maybe a little spicy. You crouched low, eyes scanning the shelf like you were studying for a final.

No, not that. Too plain. Not that either. Barbecue? Hmm…

You reached for a bag of jalapeño kettle chips just as the sound of a familiar engine rumbled into the lot.

You froze.

That sound. That car.

Joel’s truck pulled into view through the wide storefront windows, its headlights slicing across the parking lot. You straightened so fast you nearly dropped the chips.

Outside, through the glass, you caught sight of movement—Tommy, halfway through pumping gas, absolutely diving into the front seat of your car like a cartoon villain evading a spotlight. You saw him duck down low, hands over his head, trying to make himself disappear.

You have got to be kidding me.

A breath hitched in your throat as Joel stepped out of his truck.

He didn’t look your way right away, just moved like he always had—slow, heavy-footed, like the world owed him something and he was coming to collect. Still lanky, still a little rough around the edges.

Joel Miller was the kind of guy who looked like he’d just walked out of a hardware store ad and accidentally ended up in rural Texas. He wore button-downs like armor—rolled sleeves, collar never quite sitting right, like he couldn’t be bothered to care—and always in that same muted palette: navy, charcoal, flannel if it was Friday. His jaw was perpetually tense, like the act of speaking too much would physically hurt him. His hair? Thick, annoyingly good even when it was a mess.

You spun around, shoved the chips under your arm, and waltzed straight to the fridge for a Coke. You pasted on the calmest, most sober expression you could manage, even though your pulse was thundering in your ears and you were praying the guy behind the counter didn’t say something like “You’re not driving, are you?”

Chill. Casual. Cucumber.

You leaned one hip against the counter, pretending you had all the time in the world and zero illegal open containers in your car

“Joel.”

You said his name like you weren’t just slightly buzzed and smuggling an underage accomplice in your car. Like you hadn’t just watched that very accomplice dive across your front seat like the world’s worst spy. Like you weren’t actively trying to keep ten feet of distance between you and the eldest Miller boy at all costs.

He gave you a slow nod. “Didn’t think you’d be out this late.”

You shrugged, casual as ever. “Craving chips.”

“Uh-huh.”

And just like that, he headed toward the drink fridges.

Shit.

You darted down the opposite aisle, suddenly deeply interested in the difference between peanut M&Ms and regular. Your eyes flicked up toward the security mirror in the corner, tracking his slow pace as he grabbed a six-pack of something cheap and grimaced at the selection of beef jerky.

If he even got a whiff of you, he would know in a second that you were drinking. And he would likely deduce that Tommy was with you, and snitch so quickly. What a bitch.

Okay. Gas is almost done. Tommy’s hiding. Joel’s distracted. Move.

You pivoted fast, bolting down the aisle with your chips and Coke like a girl on a mission. No stopping. No looking back. No eye contact.

The guy behind the counter looked up as you slapped your snacks on the counter.

“$2.15,” he said without even blinking.

You shoved three crumpled ones into his hand, mumbling “Keep the change,” as you snagged your bag. You glanced sideways—Joel was still at the cooler.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“Thanks,” you chirped, backing toward the door.

The bell jingled. Shit shit shit go go go—

You shoved the door open, practically sprinting outside. Tommy’s dumb face popped up in the passenger window as you flung the door open.

“I saw him,” he whispered, still crouched like a goblin. “Did he see me ?”

“No, but he might’ve smelled your fear.”

“GO, GO, GO—”

You hurled your snacks into Tommy’s lap and peeled out of the lot like a bat out of hell, gravel crunching under your tires, eyes locked on the rearview mirror.

Joel stepped out of the store just as you rounded the corner.

You didn’t breathe again until the gas station lights were little more than a glow behind you, Thriller picking up right where you left off.

Tommy let out a wheeze-laugh from the passenger seat. “That was a stealth mission, dude. Just like in Castle Wolfenstein. ”

You grinned, adrenaline buzzing through your fingertips. “You know for a fact I don’t understand your references, right?”

“At least I can still make some reference without you laughing your butt off. I love you drunk.”

You both howled into the night, now Earth, Wing & Fire accompanying you with a long drag of “Let’s Groove,” the lights of Arlington starting to blur behind you as you climbed the winding road toward your usual spot. The cliff.

It wasn’t marked, and you weren’t even sure if it was technically public land, but it had the best view in town. A hidden ledge nestled just above a steep drop, overlooking the neighborhood where you both grew up. Far enough from the city to see the stars. Close enough that you still had radio.

You parked right at the edge, tires crunching on gravel. The night was heavy with cicadas and the scent of dry cedar. Tommy was already climbing onto the hood with the beer tucked under one arm and the snacks crinkling in the other.

You joined him, legs swinging off the edge, head tipped back.

God, it felt good to breathe.

No homework. No parents. No Joel.

Tommy passed you a bag of chips, laughing about something that happened during one of his classes—you were only half-listening. You were floating. The stars above were dazzling. Your buzz was perfect. And you were so proud of your gas station stealth maneuver.

“Ugh,” he groaned, laying flat on the warm metal, “My bones. My old-ass bones.”

“You’re nineteen.”

“I’ve seen things.”

You snorted and passed him the chips. “You’ve seen your brother put your comic books in the dryer, that’s it.”

“And I haven’t been the same since.”

You both started laughing again—loud, messy, breathless. God, this was the life. The kind of memory you’d bury deep to warm you up on cold nights.

And then Tommy yelped.

You shot up, instantly alert. “What?!”

Your body jolted to fight mode as you turned—and froze.

Joel.

He stood there like a bad dream in blue jeans, arms crossed over his chest, boots planted in the dirt like he had grown there. The headlights from his truck were still on behind him, backlighting him like some pissed-off cowboy angel. He didn’t say anything. Just stared. Right at you.

His arms were crossed. His eyes? Murderous.

You blinked. “Oh. Uh. Hi?”

“What the hell are you two doin’ up here?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it hit like a freight train. Controlled fury. Older-brother venom.

Tommy sat up beside you, slow and sheepish. “Hey, man. We were just—”

“You’re drunk,” Joel cut in, eyes on you now. “You drove her up here?”

Tommy started to answer, but you jumped in. “ I drove.”

Joel’s glare snapped to you. “And you’re drunk too.”

“I’m… buzzed. Not drunk. I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Wait, did you follow us?”

“I saw you run out of that gas station like you were dodgin' a damn bullet,” he said, stepping closer. “And this idiot was crouched in your car like a goddam’ raccoon.”

“I told you that was a bad hidin’ spot,” Tommy mumbled.

“Get off the damn car. Now.”

“What?” you laughed, still unsure if he was serious. “Joel, chill—”

“ Now. ” His voice cracked like a whip, low and sharp and final.

You exchanged a glance with Tommy. He looked about ten years old.

“Seriously,” you tried again. “We’re fine. We’re just hanging out.”

“You smell like a distillery,” Joel snapped, already turning back toward his truck. “Both of you. And you’re gettin’ in with me. Now.”

You blinked. “We have a car.”

“Don’t care.”

“It’s mine. ”

“You can get it tomorrow.”

“You are not my dad,” you growled, standing your ground.

“No. I’m his brother,” Joel barked, pointing to Tommy, “and I’m the only one here with a goddam’ sober brain.”

Tommy sighed, sliding off the hood. “Just go. Trust me—he won’t stop.”

“Damn right I won’t.” Joel was already opening the passenger door of his truck. “You either get in, or I call your mama and let her know what you’ve been doing with your night.”

You gritted your teeth, heat flooding your cheeks as you stared Joel down. “My mama, Joel? Seriously, how much of a loser do you have to be to follow two nineteen-year-olds around like you birthed us yourself from your tight ass?”

Tommy muttered your name under his breath, his voice low and a little strained, like he could feel the storm brewing. “Come on, don’t—”

You waved him off, brushing him aside like the annoying gnat he was being. “No, Tommy, I’m not gonna let him do this. Let him talk. Let’s see what comes out of that mouth.”

Joel didn’t back down. He squared up, fists clenched at his sides, a vein in his neck bulging from the tension. He’d always been good at looking calm and collected on the surface, like an immovable rock, but you could see the warning in his eyes. The guy was a bomb waiting to go off, but you weren’t backing down either. Not tonight.

Joel’s voice was low, deceptively controlled. “You think it’s a joke?”

“Oh, it’s funny all right,” you spat. “What do you even know about me, huh? You’ve been trying to act like my damn father for years , like you have any claim to care about what I do. Newsflash, Joel—I don’t need you watching over me. And I sure as hell don’t need some self-righteous, wannabe-hero adult who thinks the world revolves around his sense of morality.”

Tommy was pacing in the background, clearly torn between trying to stop this and not wanting to piss off Joel more. “Guys, please…” He tried again, but you were in full throttle.

Joel’s lip curled, but he didn’t interrupt. He just let you dig your heels in deeper.

“You think this is a game?” he asked, low and dangerous. “You think it’s funny to drive drunk and screw around in the middle of nowhere where no one can help you if you crash into a ravine?”

“We didn’t drive drunk,” you said hotly, lying through your teeth. “We got here and then drank.”

“Real comforting,” Joel growled. “You’re nineteen. You shouldn’t be drinkin’ at all.”

You folded your arms. “You’re what, twenty-one? Suddenly a goddamn priest now?”

He stepped closer. “You’re not my responsibility—”

“Damn right, I’m not!”

“—but you’re my brother’s best friend. You run ‘round with him like a second shadow, and if he gets hurt out here, that’s on you too.”

You grit your teeth. As much as you hated how he was acting, he was painstakingly right. If something happened to Tommy because of you… you would never forgive yourself. But your drunk anger pushed any reason aside.

“Is that what this is about?” you shot back, keeping your voice sharp, cutting the silence between you both. “You’re mad that I’m dragging Tommy down? That’s what this is, isn’t it? You don’t give a shit about me—just about him. You can’t stand how I’m a bad influence on your baby brother.”

Joel finally snapped, his anger rising to the surface. “You’re damn right, I don’t like it. You drag him into every mess you get yourself into. I see the way you got him to skip class when you were in high school, get him to drink and act like an idiot, like it’s all a damn joke. I don’t care what you do with your life, but I’m damn sure not gonna stand by and let you fuck up his future, too.”

You smirked, bitter and cutting. “Oh, so now you’re his moral compass? You’re the savior of Tommy Miller, huh? You aren’t. You’ve been trying to control everything around him for as long as I’ve known you. But guess what, Joel? He’s his own person . And if you can’t handle that, maybe you should stay the hell out of it.”

Tommy winced. He didn’t say anything, but his face was like a warning sign flashing in the back of your mind. His hands were shoved in his pockets, eyes flicking nervously between you and Joel. The last thing he wanted was for things to escalate further.

But Joel didn’t flinch. He kept his jaw set and his arms crossed, his posture stone cold. He wasn’t backing down, and neither were you.

“You think you know him?” Joel’s voice was steady, though a touch of frustration crept in. “You don’t know a damn thing about Tommy. I’ve been watchin’ him, protectin’ him since he was a damn baby. And no matter how much you try to twist his head around, he’s still my responsibility. So, you’ll be damned if I just stand by and let you ruin him too.”

You laughed bitterly. “You’re not his father, Joel.” You poked him in the chest, not giving a damn that he was twice your size. “Get off your high horse for once and realize people have their own choices. Tommy’s his own person . But the way you act? Like you’ve got some stake in him, some claim to him? That’s what’s messing with his head.”

Joel flinched, but quickly masked it, glaring down at you with that same hard, unforgiving look that always made you want to punch him in the face. He took a step forward, his boots crunching against the dirt, as he closed the distance between you both.

“I’ll deal with you later,” he muttered under his breath, glaring over at Tommy, who now looked like a guilty child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “You’re lucky it’s your ass I’m worried about, or I’d knock some sense into you myself.”

Tommy finally spoke up, trying to break the tension. “Joel, please , don’t—”

But you weren’t having it. You stepped back and threw your hands up. “Oh, save it, Tommy. He’s always like this. I’m the bad guy, the problem, and you’re the angel just trying to keep everyone in line?”

Joel didn’t respond, not right away. He just stood there, glaring at you, before his gaze slid to Tommy.

“You two better get in the truck,” he said, the words flat and commanding. “Now.”

Your pulse thudded in your ears. You looked at Tommy, who was avoiding eye contact, clearly unwilling to make the situation worse.

“No,” you said, shaking your head. “No way in hell I’m getting in that truck. You’re not my damn keeper. I have my own car.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Get in the damn truck. Now.”

“Make me,” you shot back, fists clenched.

Joel didn’t hesitate. He grabbed your wrist and yanked you toward his truck. The force caught you off guard, and you stumbled, slamming into his chest. For a split second, you saw the anger flashing in his eyes—an anger you knew well. But you weren’t done.

“Let go of me!” you snarled, twisting in his grip.

But he didn’t. He just dragged you, one step after another, toward the truck like a stubborn bull. You struggled to pull away, but Joel was determined. Tommy was standing there, helpless, looking at you both like he was watching a war unfold between two forces of nature.

Finally, with one last yank, Joel shoved you into the passenger seat. His hand slammed the door shut.

You push at the passenger window, snarling at his face. He doesn’t even react as he moves away, locking the door. He quickly makes his way around to the driver's door, locking that too before you can jump over the console.

And just like that, you were trapped.

Joel strided his way over to his brother. You couldn’t hear every word, but Joel’s body language spoke more than words ever could. Anger, frustration. Even Tommy was sniping back, pointing toward you with a trembling finger. He wasn’t as tall as Joel, but when he got up in his face, you could barely see the difference—both stubborn as hell, both flaring with attitude.

With some final, venom-laced words, Joel jerked his thumb toward the truck like he was sentencing Tommy to solitary confinement. Tommy groaned loud enough to carry across the lot, snatching Joel’s keys from his hand like a grumpy teenager. He stomped his way to the driver's side, yanked the door open, and climbed in with all the grace of someone imagining a murder fantasy in his head.

“Any luck?” you asked sweetly, watching him scowl as he passed.

“Shut the fuck up, I’m mad at you,” he snapped, stepping over your arm as you leaned forward to close the door. His tone was sharp, but the drama of it made you bite back a grin.

You stayed quiet, stretching across the seat to yank the door shut. Joel was making his rounds around your car, unlocking the door with your keys and inspecting the locks like you had a stash of grenades in the glovebox. His flashlight clicked on, sweeping through the interior like he was doing a damn crime scene sweep.

You both watched from the cab, dead silent for a beat.

Then you leaned over and whispered, “We could steal his truck. Hit the road. Start a new life in Mexico. I’ve got forty bucks and a bag of gum in my purse. Think we’d make it?”

Tommy blinked at you slowly. Then snorted.

“Oh yeah,” he said dryly. “Soon as he gets home, he’s going to find our dad’s gun and hunt us down and shoot me dead. You? He’ll probably strangle and toss in the river.”

“Fair,” you replied, shrugging. “He does like you more.”

Tommy rolled his eyes, slumping down in the back seat with a groan, arms folded like a sulking kid. “You just had to fight back.”

You winced. “He started it.”

“He didn’t even say anything crazy, you dived into that pool headfirst. You cannonballed , woman.”

You twisted around in your seat. “Don’t act like you weren’t getting your licks in, too.”

“I was trying to survive, ” he hissed. “You were starting a damn war!”

You opened your mouth, about to respond with something brilliant and scathing—but the driver’s side door swung open, slamming shut a second later. Joel climbed in, face like stone, tossing your car keys into the middle console like they personally offended him.

“Car’s locked,” he muttered. “It’ll be fine.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Thanks.”

Joel didn’t even look at you. Just cranked the ignition with a sharp twist, knuckles white on the steering wheel. The truck rumbled to life beneath you, the engine growling like it was just as pissed off as he was.

You leaned your head back against the window and muttered under your breath, “Should’ve taken the gum and ran.”

Tommy coughed into his hand to hide a laugh.

Joel didn’t say a word. But his grip on the wheel got tighter.

And you? You grinned. Just a little.

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

“So, for starters, all good companies have a slogan. Something catchy, something that gets people to stop and think about you.”

You stood at the end of the conference table, your work laid out in front of Tommy, Maria, and Joel. Maria flipped through your folders, marveling at the organization. Neatly tabbed, color-coded, annotated—every sheet practically a marketing masterclass, if you did say so yourself.

“This is…” Maria blinked, then looked up at you with a small smile. “Honestly? Impressive.”

Tommy leaned over her shoulder, whistling low as he tapped one of the pages. “I didn’t even know we had this much stuff worth marketing.”

You smiled, proud. “That’s because you didn’t. But now you do.”

Joel, meanwhile, sat stiffly at the far end of the table like he was being held hostage. He flipped through one of the folders with two fingers, like it might explode.

“What the hell is this one?” he asked, holding up a flyer mock-up with a skeptical squint. “Looks like a beer ad.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Barely. “It’s a sample layout. Visual engagement, casual font, natural color palette. Gets people interested in the brand before they know what we do.”

“We build houses,” Joel deadpanned. “Ain’t nobody buying a damn house off a font.”

Tommy snorted. Maria didn’t even try to hide her amused look as she continued reading.

You kept your tone level. “And yet they’re more likely to trust you if your company presents itself professionally. A slogan, a logo, some branding—it builds consistency. Familiarity.”

Joel tilted his head like he didn’t quite believe a word you were saying. “You want consistency? I got a truck that’s older than you and runs the same way every day.”

You blinked. “Did you just compare my marketing strategy to your pickup truck ?”

Tommy coughed to hide a laugh.

Maria sighed. “Joel…”

You crossed your arms, eyebrow raised. “What’s the truck’s slogan, then? ‘Cranky, rusty, and wildly outdated’?”

Joel looked up at you, mouth twitching like he was fighting a smirk. “Still gets the job done.”

You held his gaze. “Barely.”

The room went still.

Tommy looked between you two like he was watching a slow-motion car crash, sipping from his water bottle to keep from chiming in.

Maria cleared her throat, cutting the tension like a knife. “Alright, back on track. Joel, no offense, but she’s right. People judge a company’s credibility off first impressions. We’ve been getting by on word of mouth, but if we’re gonna take on bigger contracts—especially out in Dallas—we need more.”

Joel leaned back in his seat with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck like he was already tired of the conversation.

You shuffled to the next sheet, gesturing to a mock website layout. “I can have the website and social media pages up by the end of the week. That, plus the new business cards and a few clean, branded signs at each site, and boom—instantly more professional. You’ll still be building things. I’ll be building a reputation.”

Joel said nothing. Just stared at the page like it was written in another language.

Tommy leaned forward, glancing between you both. “So, uh. Is this y’all meshing? Because if so, we’re gonna need a lot more coffee in this office.”

You smiled. Joel did not.

With that, the meeting was adjourned. Luckily, it was only 4:00. You could get quite a lot done in an hour.

You gathered your folders in a neat stack, slipping them into your laptop bag with practiced precision. Tommy gave you a thumbs up as he followed Maria out of the conference room, already talking about permits or piping—something construction-y and loud. Joel lingered just long enough to look annoyed before he disappeared with a grunt and a coffee cup that definitely hadn’t been full before the meeting.

You let out a breath and rolled your shoulders, making your way back to your desk in the makeshift office space

You slid into your seat, fired up your laptop, and immediately opened a new doc labeled Marketing Rollout: Phase One.

Slogan ideas. Logo drafts. Website layout templates. Calendar for local promo events. You typed like a machine, jaw set, head clear. This was your zone. Your wheelhouse.

The door creaked open down the hallway. Heavy boots.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to.

“Don’t worry,” you said, eyes still on your screen, “The slogan isn’t gonna be ‘Miller Bros: We Nail It.’ ”

Silence. Then, a grunt.

“Good,” Joel muttered. “That one’s terrible.”

You smiled to yourself but didn’t let him see it. Instead, you flipped to a rough draft of the website layout.

“You don’t have to hover,” you added. “I know how to do my job.”

“I ain’t hoverin’,” Joel replied curtly. “I’m just lookin’ for Tommy.”

“He’s in the back. Probably hiding.”

Joel huffed—maybe a laugh, maybe a scoff. You can feel him peering at what you are typing.

“What’s a Phase One?”

You jumped slightly, spinning in your chair to find Joel closer with a look that said, I’m not impressed, but I am nosy.

You gave him a polite—barely—smile. “Phase One is the part where I make your company look like it wasn’t scraped together by two guys with a nail gun and a dream.”

His eyes flicked to the screen. “And what’s Phase Two? Hiring someone who doesn’t act like she owns the place?”

You stared. “No. Phase Two is community engagement. Open house events. Booths at local expos. A possible campaign centered around sustainability and veteran support—stuff people eat up like candy.”

He hummed, like he was trying very hard to pretend any of that made sense to him. “Huh. Fancy.”

You arched a brow. “That a compliment or a dig?”

He shrugged, sipping his coffee. “Dunno yet.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, holding back the half-dozen retorts already chambered. Instead, you turned back to your screen.

“Anyway,” you muttered. “Unless you’re here to offer a creative brainstorm, I’ve got real work to do.”

Silence.

Then, casually, Joel said, “You’ve always talked like that?”

You blinked at the screen, then slowly turned again.

“Like what?”

He tilted his head. “Like you’re still workin’ in some glass tower downtown. You got all your shit in line, but I swear, you ain’t said one thing today like a normal human being. So proper.”

You stared at him.

“I’m sorry—did you want me to bark my presentation like you do measurements out in the field? Would that have helped?”

Joel smirked, annoyingly pleased. “There she is.”

You narrowed your eyes.

He stepped back, heading back to your doorway. “Don’t burn out, fancy. Still got a long road ahead.”

And just like that, he walked off. Probably to go shout at drywall or lift something unnecessarily heavy. You exhaled through your nose and turned back to your laptop.

Phase One, indeed.

The sun started dipping low, its yellow turning a nice orange that danced on your hands. You flipped over your phone, checking the time, until a once-in-a-lifetime text popped up from your dad. You cringed at the name—you hadn’t changed it since you got your phone when you were a teen. [MR. PAPA]: You heading home soon, Sugar Cubes? If so, could you grab some dinner?

[YOU]: Sure. Nothing oily though. You know what the doctor said.

[MR. PAPA]: Boring.

You shook your head, placing your phone screen down on the desk. Running your fingers through your hair, you looked at your screen, the words suddenly mixing together.

You missed when you had a team for this. When you could push out an idea, and six desperate newbies would clamor to try and create the best physical representation of it. Now, you were the brain and the machine.

Your laptop shut with a nice click, and you put it back into your bag.

For a moment, you just sat there. Elbows on your desk, head tilted back to stare up at the industrial ceiling like it might blink back at you. It didn’t. Just the low hum of a distant power tool. The faint tick of a wall clock.

You leaned forward and rested your chin on your fist. A faint ache bloomed in your chest—quiet, like a whisper from a past life. You thought about your old office. Your team. The intern who made iced lattes like a barista and always overshared about her love life. The sticky notes with jokes scrawled across them. The ping of shared calendars and Slack notifications and a break room fridge that constantly smelled like betrayal.

It was fast. Messy. Loud. But it was yours.

Until it wasn’t.

You blinked out of the daze when your phone buzzed again—this time just a weather alert, but the interruption was enough to ground you. You sighed, standing and slinging your bag over your shoulder. Your hand brushed the folder peeking from its corner, filled with campaign ideas you used to pitch to skyscrapers and boardrooms.

Now?

Now you were working with guys who wore tool belts like accessories and thought "branding" meant using a red Sharpie to label their hardhats.

Still, something about it felt... raw. Honest.

Not easy. Not yet. But maybe real.

Your heels clacked against the tile as you walked toward the exit, locking eyes briefly with a photo tacked to the wall—Joel and Tommy, grinning, covered in drywall dust and sunburnt to hell. You rolled your eyes.

“God, you two are so Texas,” you muttered to no one.

The office light flicked off behind you as you stepped out into the evening air, the sun finally giving way to dusk.

Dinner, a good playlist, and maybe, maybe a long bath if your dad hadn’t used all the hot water again.

You had just stepped off the curb when the office door clattered open behind you.

“Hey!” Tommy’s voice rang out like a fire drill. “Hold up!”

You turned with a sigh. He jogged after you like he’d just remembered something very important—or very stupid. Probably both.

“Unless Joel’s suddenly dying to apologize for breathing near me for an hour, I’m gonna keep walking.”

Tommy grinned, a little too proud of himself. “Even better. How ‘bout you and your dad come to dinner tonight?”

You blinked. “Dinner?”

“Yeah! Honoring your first day joining our company. Figured Maria’d love to see him again. Joel too. Haven’t had a full family dinner in ages.”

You narrowed your eyes. “We’re not family.”

Tommy just smiled broader. “Could’ve fooled me, with the way your dad taught me to tie a square knot before I even hit puberty.”

You muttered something about misplaced nostalgia and pulled your phone out.

[YOU]: Tommy’s inviting us to dinner. Please say no. Fake a stroke if you need to.

Your dad replied with the speed and enthusiasm of a golden retriever spotting a tennis ball:

[MR. PAPA]: Dinner at the Millers’?! Tell Tommy I’m bringing the good chili oil.

You groaned, thumb hovering over the screen. Guess he decided today was the day to figure out how to text others.

Tommy peeked over your shoulder. “That's a yes?”

“Against my will.”

“Hot damn. Come by at six. Tell your dad to brin’ that jalapeño garlic stuff he brought to the Fourth of July that one year. Joel cried.”

You snorted, despite yourself. “No promises. You know he’s a wildcard.”

Tommy was already backing up toward the office doors. “That’s why I love him.”

You could already feel the tension headache.

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

At 6:01 PM, you and your dad were standing on Tommy and Maria’s porch. He wore his usual “casual but dangerous” dad fit: old baseball tee, jeans, and a belt with a knife he wasn’t gonna use. In his hands? Three jars of chili oil.

“Three?” you asked flatly.

“Well, one for Joel to sweat through, one for Maria—she always says she likes it spicy—and one for Tommy ‘cause he’ll cry if I don’t.”

You didn’t bother arguing. It was too late anyway—Tommy threw open the door before you even knocked.

“Sir!” he practically shouted, wrapping your dad in a half-hug that involved at least two hard slaps on the back.

“Tommy-boy,” your dad grinned. “How’s Maria?”

“She’s great, busy day, though. She’s been worked to the bone.”

You gave Maria a grateful nod as she appeared behind Tommy, smiling warmly. “Hey. Hope you don’t mind the short notice.”

“Are you kidding?” Maria said, already pulling you inside. “We were overdue for this.”

You forgot that you'd never actually talked to her properly—always a wave, a nod, a ‘Tommy’s waiting for you in the garage’ kind of interaction. This was your first time inside their house. Cozy, lived-in. It smelled like lemon cleaner, soft candle smoke, and someone’s half-forgotten perfume. It was nice. A classical blue-collar home with his loving wife.

Just out of the corner of your eye, you spotted a picture on the hallway table. Nosy, as ever, you peeked down.

Tommy, with his arm wrapped around Maria, looked down at her, his gold wedding band on full display. Maria beamed back up at him in the photo, glowing. In her arms…

“You have a kid?” you asked, half-stunned.

Maria’s smile grew. “Yeah. Kevin. He’s only three, but Tommy’s stepped up in every way possible. He didn’t even have to.”

You felt your lips curve up before you could help it. “Sounds just like him. That’s great. I’ll have to meet Kevin soon.”

��Oh, you will. Kid’s napping now, but I’ll bring him down in an hour, how about that?”

It was clear she was giving you a reason to stay. A tactical, maternal power play. You didn’t even mind.

“Sure,” you said. “I can eat some burgers to see cuteness incarnate.”

Maria laughed, giving your shoulder a squeeze. “That’s the spirit.”

Outside, Joel was still at the grill, glaring at patties like they owed him money. He looked up as you passed the kitchen window and muttered something that was probably a curse.

You and your dad stepped out to the patio, where the charcoal smoke twisted in the air.

“Oh look, Joey. C’mon!” your dad grinned, setting down his jars like prized trophies before pulling Joel into a hug.

Joel barely hugged back, more of a shoulder bump than anything, but he stayed there a beat longer than necessary.

“I figured I’d bring something to burn your taste buds off so you don’t speak too much tonight.”

Tommy howled with laughter from somewhere near the cooler. Joel grunted, flipping a burger like it had personally offended him.

You sank into a patio chair, watching your dad slide effortlessly back into the rhythm of it all—like a record dropping back into its favorite groove. Tommy teasing. Maria pouring drinks. Joel grumbling like some old dog that didn’t like fireworks but still showed up to the party.

You didn’t belong here. But somehow, your chair was the most comfortable one.

Then the door flew open.

A little girl with a waterfall of curls came barreling out of the house, barefoot and lightning-fast. She sprinted across the patio and slammed into Joel’s side, arms wrapping around his middle like she’d rehearsed it in a dream.

“Dad!”

Joel’s whole body shifted. His spine, locked with tension since you arrived, eased. His arm dropped around her shoulders like instinct, no delay.

You blinked.

You knew Joel had a daughter. Seen the name—Sarah—in the mail Tommy once handed you by mistake. Maybe twelve or thirteen?

She looked up at him now, light in her eyes, and you felt something hard twist in your stomach.

Not from jealousy. You weren’t that sentimental.

It was recognition.

You’d seen those same curls, same eyes, just so much more kinder.

The same summer, everything exploded. The same summer, you’d packed up and slammed a door so hard it echoed into fall, and you walked away from Texas. From them.

You remembered the scene in flashes: her storming out of Joel’s truck in tears, her voice echoing something sharp, cruel. Joel was shouting after her. Tommy is trying to mediate.

And then… you.

Caught in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong words on your tongue. You had never seen Joel so mad, his words echoing in your ears.

‘You fucking jinx, stay the fuck away from me and my family.’

You never asked Joel about his ex after that. Hell, you never talked to him after that at all. You knew about the divorce, but you didn’t care. But you had cared that summer

Never again. Meddling in Joel Miller’s busience only left you scared and hurt.

“Sarah,” Maria called gently from the kitchen, sliding open the glass door. “Sweetheart, come say hi properly.”

Sarah hesitated, peeking around Joel’s side.

You gave her a neutral smile, one that said I don’t bite unless you do.

“Hi,” she said softly.

You nodded. “Hey. I’m just here for the burgers and the gossip.”

Joel shot you a look—one you met with a too-sweet grin.

“Oh, she’s always like this?” Sarah asked in a low tone, glancing up at her dad.

Joel didn’t answer. Just kept flipping meat and sighing like he regretted even coming in the first place.

The table was too small for this many people, but nobody complained.

Tommy brought out extra chairs. Maria laid out homemade potato salad and grilled corn. Your dad was already cracking jokes with Kevin balanced in his lap, the toddler shoving fistfuls of watermelon into his mouth like it was currency. The sky outside dipped into gold, the last of the sun melting over the fences, but inside, the kitchen was warm with laughter and clinking silverware.

You sat across from Joel. Of course.

It felt like fate’s sick sense of humor. Every time you shifted your eyes, you met his. When you reached for the salt, he was already picking it up for himself. When he asked for the mustard, you’d already been unscrewing the cap.

It was like that. Still. God help you.

“Maria,” your dad said, nodding as he chewed, “you got yourself a hell of a cook there.”

Maria beamed and bumped her shoulder against Joel’s. “He’s surprisingly domestic when he’s not scowling.”

“I’m always scowling,” Joel muttered.

“Especially when he’s scowling,” you added under your breath, sipping your drink.

Joel gave you a look so flat it could press flowers.

“So,” Maria said smoothly, clearly trying to change the subject. “Sarah, how’s school going?”

Sarah brightened. “Good! Seventh grade’s way harder than sixth, though. And they make us change for P.E. now, which is just… awful.”

“Middle school is the worst,” you said. “It’s like a swamp, you just have to crawl through.”

Sarah laughed. “That’s what I told my friends! It’s literally a swamp. Everyone’s weird and hormonal and fighting over erasers.”

You smiled despite yourself. She was charming. You hated that.

“Well, hey,” your dad jumped in. “If you ever need a tutor for anything science-y, my daughter’s the girl to call. Used to be scary good with frogs and microscopes.”

“Oh god,” you groaned. “Please don’t advertise me.”

“She was dissecting frogs and labeling every organ in third grade,” he went on proudly. “Named one of ‘em Joel. I still don’t know if that was flattery or a threat.”

“Definitely a threat,” Tommy said, without looking up from his plate.

Joel blinked at you, deadpan. “You named a frog after me?”

“It had this look like it hated being perceived. So yeah,” you said with a shrug, “Felt appropriate.”

Sarah burst into laughter. “That’s amazing.”

Joel just shook his head, lips twitching with what might have been the beginning of a smile.

It was a good moment. A too good moment.

Which, naturally, meant it was doomed to end.

“So, how do you all know each other?” Sarah asked, biting into a pickle. “Like... really?”

Tommy laughed. “That’s a big question, kiddo.”

“Well, you and her—” Sarah pointed to you. “Y’all are, what, besties?”

“Pretty much,” you said, grinning. “I’ve been stuck with Tommy since we were in matching diapers.”

“She used to get me in trouble all the time,” Tommy said with a fond grimace. “Yet he was always the first person to defend me.”

“Character building,” you said sweetly.

Sarah giggled. “Okay, but that doesn’t explain how you know my dad.”

Maria shifted.

Joel didn’t look up. Still focused on the food. Still cutting his steak into even pieces.

Your dad chuckled, mouth full. “Oh, that goes way back. Before they were even born, me and their dad served overseas together. Best guy I ever met.”

“My Dad was like a second father to Joel and Tommy,” you added softly. “We were all just... around each other. All the time.”

“Family that’s not by blood,” Tommy said, lifting his glass.

You clinked yours against his. “Exactly.”

Sarah nodded, thoughtfully. “But I don’t remember seeing you when I was little.”

You paused—just for a second.

Tommy’s smile faltered.

Your dad suddenly reached for the pepper, fiddling with the grinder like it had secrets.

Maria wiped Kevin’s hands a little too briskly.

“No,” you said lightly. “You probably wouldn’t have. I moved away around then. For work.”

Joel glanced up at that.

He didn’t speak, but you could feel his stare like smoke curling around your throat.

Sarah tilted her head. “How long were you gone?”

“A while.”

“Oh.”

She didn’t mean anything by it. Just a curious kid, filling in the blanks of her father’s life.

But you could feel the way everyone else stiffened. The way Maria cleared her throat. The way your dad suddenly asked Sarah about her soccer team. The way Joel finally looked away.

You took a sip of your drink and focused on the laughter, the food, and the clinking of dishes. Anything but the weight in your chest.

Because no matter how far you’d come, no matter how long it had been—

That summer had teeth.

And it was still biting.

The stars had started to burn through the indigo sky by the time the plates were cleared and the wine was gone. Kevin had long since been put to bed, Sarah was on the couch with Maria watching some cartoon, and Tommy and your dad were deep in an animated argument about brisket rubs.

You needed air. It felt odd to be here. You couldn’t stand to look at Sarah again without some rage coming back to you.

You stepped outside onto the porch, arms crossed over your chest, your gaze trailing to the houseline, the parked cars. The sound of cicadas was thick, the heat of the day still trapped in the wood beneath your feet.

You barely make it two steps off the porch before the smell hits you.

Cigarette smoke.

You freeze, already grinding your teeth.

“Really?” you bite out, turning.

Joel stands just off the porch, back toward you, smoke curling lazily from his hand like it’s entitled to the oxygen.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even glance your way.

“You’ve got a kid,” you snap. “And lungs, last I checked.”

He exhales. “Didn’t realize I needed your permission.”

“You always needed someone’s permission,” you say, walking down the steps. “Just not to be a bitch.”

That gets him. His shoulders tense—barely, but you know the signs.

“Don’t start,” he mutters.

You scoff. “I’m not starting anything.”

He turns slowly to face you. There’s that look again—tight jaw, narrowed eyes, the kind of stillness that used to make other people nervous. It doesn’t work on you.

“You always had a talent for making everything about you,” he says flatly.

You laugh—loud, bitter, ugly. “That’s rich coming from the guy who blew up a whole friendship because someone told him the truth.”

Joel steps forward, tossing the cigarette to the dirt and grinding it out. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“No?” You stalk toward him, anger bubbling up like bile. “I told you she was toxic. I told you it would eat you alive. And you acted like I was outta line for saying what everyone was thinking.”

“You didn’t know shit about her,” he snaps.

“I knew enough,” you fire back. “I knew what she turned you into. What she cost you.”

He shakes his head, jaw clenched. “You always wanted to play savior. Pretend you were the only one with a goddamn’ conscience.”

“No, I just had the guts to say it out loud!” You’re full volume now, fists curled tight. “You were too much of a coward to admit what she was doing to you.”

Joel steps closer, voice dropping dangerously low. “You think I wanted help from someone who wasn’t in the right mind? You think showing up at Tommy’s house half-drunk, screaming about bills and rehab and whatever the hell else was going on with you—that that made you better than us?”

That hits like a slap. You go still.

Your voice is ice when you answer. “I wasn’t drunk.”

He scoffs. “You smelled like rage and whiskey.”

“I was falling apart, Joel. I had no one . But yeah, let’s talk about how my grief offended you.”

He doesn’t speak. You step back.

“You don’t get to rewrite that night,” you say, quieter but sharper. “You held me while I cried, and for a second, I thought, maybe, you respected me enough to care because you were losing something too.”

“She was carrying my kid,” he growls. “What the hell did you want me to do?”

“To think for a second!” you shout. “Before it ate you whole. But no. You stayed, and you got small. And when I said something, you turned on me.”

“You didn’t just say something,” he fires back. “You tore through everything like a match to gasoline. You were angry and scared and looking for someone to blame.”

“And you made it so damn easy.”

Silence.

The crickets hum. A dog barks in the distance. Neither of you move.

Finally, Joel says, low, “You left.”

Your throat tightens. “Yeah. Because I couldn’t stay and watch you self-destruct.”

He nods like that’s confirmation. “Exactly.”

You stare at him—this older, harder version of the boy you once yelled at under the stars.

“You’re still lighting matches,” you say. “Still pretending you're bigger than you actually are.”

Joel doesn’t answer.

You shake your head, disgust curling in your chest.

“You think smoking’s your worst habit?” you ask, voice barely a whisper. “At least that burns out.”

Then you turn and walk back toward the house, heart pounding, breath shallow, rage leaving behind that same old ache in your chest.