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rip-quizilla · 1 month ago

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ARE YOU BORED YET? - part three

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: you're steve's "bitchy" step-sister and are spending the summer in hawkins; eddie is steve's annoying best friend who you can't seem to shake, but things take a sharp turn when you find yourself sneaking around and ultimately falling for him

contains: slightly enemies to lovers trope, food/eating, drug use and mentions of alcohol, smoking, secret relationship vibes, lots of tension, tons of kissing, flirting, oral (f receiving), mentions of virginity, a hint of blasphemy, a sprinkle of angst, and eddie being an obsessed loverboy <3

word count: 16.3k (i sincerely apologize)

chapter song: hold me x fleetwood mac

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I series masterlist | their mixtape | -main masterlist- I

Cigarettes, artificial sugar, smoky cinnamon, light on your tongue and heavy on your knees— Eddie Munson tastes like a cool summer night on melted ice.

His lips are soft, pillowy, warm, and addictive. You get lost in them quickly, falling down an endless spiral of Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

Truthfully, you had been the one to jump.

And now you’re falling, quicker and longer than you had thought you would.

And nothing below you looks soft. Nothing is there to break your fall.

But Eddie feels good.

He feels good against your tongue, wet and hot and greedy— beneath your fingertips, warm, soft, and firm.

Kissing Eddie feels like walking through a vortex tunnel.

There are colors exploding around you, shaky grounds beneath your feet, the promising end glimmering ahead of you— and you know your dizziness will end once you step out of it, but you don’t want it to end. The uncertainty of steady knees forces you to hold onto what’s there, hope, and pray you don’t fall on your ass. Blink and watch the world spin around you— Eddie takes every breath you give, hungry and needy.

He presses you against his van, cool metal against the slivers of bare skin, watery whimpers splashing onto his tongue.

God, you can’t breathe.

Your heart is thrumming in your chest, hot and heavy, fingers swelling up with blood as they curl into Eddie’s shirt. His fingers press against your waist, firm, grounding and steady, but you’re anything but steady.

What are you doing?

Your breath catches. The warmth, the weight, the sheer intensity of what’s happening slams into you all at once.

Eddie licks into you, tilts his head and kisses you deeper. You let him. You feed him back, kiss him harder, pull him closer. The thrumming noise of a summer night is drowned by the rushing of blood in your ears. You can feel his breath on your lip and hear your bated breathing.

His fingers trail over your sides, shivers splintering up your back as he cups your face. You lean into it, just a little, and let yourself melt into him for a moment before reality grasps you tight and mercilessly.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

What are you doing?

It settles in your gut like hot stones, thick coats of wool wrapping around your tongue as you make a pathetic noise.

How did you end up here? Alone? With him?

Your grip on him loosens. The blood turns murky in your veins. The storm of uncertainty and confusion crashes over you like a tidal wave.

Eddie feels it before you can even pull back, you know he can. Your body stiffens, a sharp inhale between kisses, and you’re gone.

Nothing to break your fall.

You pull away from him, wet mouth already tainted with him, tongue already familiar with his taste— too late to go back.

There’s barely a whisper of space between you, but it feels like miles. Your world pans out, and you’re staring at Eddie, watching him witness your descent.

Your hands fall from his body, trembling and clenching once, twice.

Eddie doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Watches you like he’s studying you, trying to pick you apart.

Horror.

It drags through you like a snake.

What did you do? What door has just opened, and how do you close it before it’s too late?

His eyes shift, something dark behind the curtain of golden earth you’ve started to dream about.

It’s brief, a flicker, a small flash across your face, but he sees it. That wide-eyed, gut-punched, what have I done? look. His face settles with a look that makes your insides churn.

The air shifts. The warmth drains. And the moment is over.

Eddie swallows, your breaths still uneven, his lips wet as he drags his tongue over them, tasting you.

Fuck, you can taste him too. So clearly. Like you’ve split an orange over your mouth, drained it of its juice, let the acid burn you from the inside out.

You take a breath, shifting, memorizing the feeling of his hands on your waist when you speak, “Can you—” you clear your throat, “—I need to get home…”

Silence. Heavy. Overwhelming— It settles over you, the sound of cicadas in the trees plays like a symphony to the wind of thoughts in your mind.

Eddie stares for a long beat, like he’s waiting for you to take it back. Like he can see right through you. Like he’s hoping. But you don’t.

He nods. Sniffs, wipes a thumb across your nose to distract himself from the storm, eyes glancing away as he kicks at the dirt.

“Yeah… yeah, okay,” his jaw flexes, and he steps back, rings clinking against the metal door when he holds it open for you again.

This time, you don’t look at him, and you don’t dare to touch him.

The van is deadly silent.

A sharp contrast to the vibrant atmosphere you had carefully curated throughout the night. Most times you have been around Eddie, he’s a fountain of nonstop noise. He’s constantly saying or doing something— and the times that he’s not, it’s usually because he’s just being an ass.

But Eddie’s silence tonight isn’t a part of some joke he has. No, Eddie’s silence is just that. Silence. And it’s unnerving.

You don’t know what to say.

And this time, it’s not because you’re scared or have nothing to say to Eddie. This time, it’s because nothing you say or do can erase what you didn’t say or do.

You did the complete opposite of what you know, truly, deep down in your chest, you wanted to do. Instead of pulling Eddie closer, pressing your lips to his again and telling him he tasted like shitty cotton candy and smoke, you pulled away and acted like he’d spit poison in your mouth.

You curled away from him, retreated into whatever stupid little hole you’d dug for yourself, and resumed your facade of ‘don’t speak, never happened’.

But this happened.

You kissed Eddie.

And no amount of silence can deafen the buzzing ghost of his lips on yours.

Your hands rest in your lap, fingers picking at the skin around your nails as you avoid looking over at Eddie, scared he’ll be looking. But of course he isn’t. Because he’s driving, eyes locked on the road ahead, one hand gripping the wheel, the other clenched against his thigh.

His rings catch an occasional flash beneath passing streetlights. Just minutes ago, they had cooled your hot skin and played like an anchor to your dizzying mind. You’d thought they were cool, so incredibly and undeniably him. Now, they just look like armor.

The weight of the night fogs the air like smoke that won’t clear.

You wish there were noise. A cracked window to hear the wheels or Eddie’s usual loud music— but there’s nothing but the silent hum of the van beneath you.

You debate asking for a song— anything to kill the silence. But you think it’d do more damage than good. Like cheating. Like throwing a rug over the bloodstain.

You glance at Eddie again, dragging in a breath, words dancing on your tongue before you exhale, silent, letting it go unsaid.

You wish he’d say something. Anything. You wish he would just… be Eddie.

Call you some stupid pet name, say you’re dumb, make fun of you for running from a kiss. You nearly want to beg for it.

But he’s done being Eddie tonight.

He gave you Eddie, and you took it, chewed it to bits, and spat it right back in his face.

Now, he’s just a boy, driving you back home, holding pieces of something you almost gave him. And you feel it in the way he won’t look at you.

He’s close to your neighborhood, worn-out tires pulling you closer and closer to the end of what could’ve been a perfect night.

You hate to break the silence, hate that you have even to say the words bubbling in you, but you know it’s for your own good— both you and Eddie’s.

“Could you maybe… drop me off a block away?…”

You glance at him, notice the clench in his jaw, the way he rolls a shoulder, seemingly decompressing himself. “Sure.”

It’s short. Clipped. Not the usual teasing lilt Eddie carries when he addresses you.

You take it anyway— grovel with it.

You don’t try again. You’re not one to beg, and you have no reason to plead for his forgiveness— your hesitation about whatever this is was not ill-natured. He knows that. You know that.

You think he knew it before you did.

He turns into your neighborhood, takes a few turns, and gets you as close as possible before he rolls to a stop, just below a streetlight.

He doesn’t turn the car off, the soft hum of the van filling in the silence. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a sound or do anything to indicate the end of the night. But you know it is either way.

You don’t unbuckle right away. Your fingers fidget with the strap, teeth chewing at the fleshy part of your lip. Your heart is loud in your chest, begging you just to open your mouth and say something, but all the words taste like cotton.

You look at him.

He still won’t look at you.

And when you think he won’t speak, he swipes a thumb across his nose and clears his throat, voice low and hoarse, “Uh… get home safe.”

Not what you wanted to hear, but better than nothing.

You nod. A ghost of a movement, a thank you caught in your throat.

And then the belt clicks when you unbuckle, your fingers curling around the handle to gently open the door as if anything more will shatter you into something worse.

You step into the cool breeze, the silent summer wrapping around you again, this time not as comforting as before.

You hesitate for a moment. Hope he’ll say something, your name, anything. But he doesn’t.

So, you take his silence, close the door, and turn around. Back to your home, back to your room where you’ll toss around in bed and think about tonight until it eats you alive.

You walk, silent sounds of nature enveloping you with each step you take. You can still feel him everywhere around you. Your lips still tingle, your hips still burn.

God, what did you do?

You don’t dare to glance back because you can hear Eddie’s van still running. Sitting there, watching as you walk down the street, his protection being the loudest thing he’s said since that kiss.

Finally, when you reach the end of the block, the van rumbles back into motion and disappears down the street, taking with it a version of the night that could’ve ended differently.

The house is quiet when you eventually slip inside.

The lights are off, a soft glow of the moon peeking through the windows as you sneak your way up to your room. You pass by Steve’s room, wonder if he’s awake, wonder if he could sense his friend’s presence practically drenched over you. Your stomach twists at the thought.

He’d chew you to bits if he ever found out. Tell you that you’re being selfish. That you know summer will come to an end.

You walk past his door, straight to your room, not bothering to turn the lights on.

Your clothes feel like an echo of the night, a reminder of what you’d tasted. What you’d felt. Who you tasted. Who you felt.

You peel them off slowly, tired from your day, but hoping that, maybe, if you move gently enough, the regret won’t sting as much.

You drop onto your bed, the spin of the ceiling fan painting a vivid image of what your stomach feels like.

You kissed him.

And then you left him.

Your fingers dance across your stomach and ribs, clasping around the small necklace on your chest. You twirl the small pendant between your fingers, replaying the night over and over in your mind, trying to figure out how it could’ve gone differently.

But it never changes.

It ends the same, with him driving away and you walking in the dark.

Eddie makes it halfway home before he pulls over.

The road is empty, the van ticks and cools as it idles under a broken billboard, and Eddie’s mind is a whirlwind.

His body is still buzzing, still high from the good parts of the night, but the way it’s clashing with his mind as it plummets to that dark space he’s uncomfortably familiar with— it makes him feel like an exposed nerve.

You kissed him.

And then you ran.

And Eddie doesn’t know what the hell to make of that. Doesn’t know if that means something, or if it meant too much, and that’s why you shut down. Maybe he pushed too hard, too quickly— it wouldn’t be the first time he’s done that. Because it’s not like he hasn’t been here before— people pulling back once they realize he’s not worth the mess.

Still, it felt different. You felt different.

Until you didn’t.

No. She still does. She is different.

He wrestles with his thoughts for a moment. Hates that he’s always quick to want a final word, a solution, something. He’s not patient. Never has been. And his mind spins like a fucking metal sphere in a pinball machine— Eddie’s not cut out for this. He gives and gives and gives, and when he’s inevitably left wondering why no one will take it, he spins out.

“Get home safe.”

The most pathetic thing he could come up with. He should’ve said more. Should’ve said, Hey, I liked that. I wanted more of that. I wanted you.

But he didn’t.

Because you didn’t.

And because he’s a coward.

He leans back against his seat and sparks up a cigarette before peeling back onto the road.

It doesn’t matter. You made your choice, and Eddie will respect it, even though he thinks it is stupid.

No matter how badly he wants to turn around and go back to you. No matter how badly he wants to shake you and yell out, This is okay. This is good— we’re good.

Kiss me again and stop fighting this.

Be good with me.

A week passes with a long stretch of silence between you and Eddie.

Not the comfortable kind. Not the lazy, late-summer kind that curls around you like a cozy blanket. Not the kind that’s mutual in a sense where you both know once you’re face-to-face again, it’ll be like zero time has passed. No, this one crackles. Burns. It hums, like static, loud and noisy in your ears, itchy beneath your skin— because all you can do is relive that kiss— over and over— like it’s stuck on a loop. Trapped behind your ribs like a lingering cold, refusing to let go.

And it’s not the good part that clings. Not the taste of cotton candy and cigarettes, or the warm, roughened fingertips on your skin. No, what clings is what you did after— you ran.

No explanation, no call, nothing. And every day that passes just makes you feel worse.

That plummeting look in Eddie’s eyes when you caved into yourself— it follows you in every dream. It’s worse than guilt. It’s a tether— a burn.

The silence sticks to you in every room— on your skin, behind your eyes, between every thought— and in the quiet moments you find, it grows deafeningly loud.

You do things to distract yourself. Rearrange your room. Color-code your closet. Plan for the next school semester, even though your schedule is already solidified. Run useless errands with your stepmother, feign interest in countertop samples and paint swatches, just to keep your mind busy.

But none of it works.

Because Eddie’s there.

In every passing car with loud music, in every corner of a room that feels too hot, too still.

He’s folded into the silence and the noise, in the little breath you take between words and the way your stomach clenches when you let your mind drift.

Eddie’s thoroughly infiltrated your system whether you like it or not— and fuck, you’re a fool to say he didn’t.

He’s bright. Searing like the summer sun at its zenith, the kind of heat that saps your strength and leaves you dizzy, thirsty for more.

But he’s cold, too— ice in the root of your chest when you remember how his face shifted the second you shifted. How quickly his warmth cooled when you didn’t stay.

Eddie is everything you’ve ever run from— loud, frayed, rough, unpredictable in a way that makes your skin buzz.

Guys like him were never an option. Too much, too raw, too real. You don’t touch things that burn like that. You weren’t supposed to.

But now you’ve touched him. And it’s already too late.

You’re singed. Marked in ways you can’t see but you feel.

You should be thinking about how to let it go— how to shake it loose, bury it, re-stitch the part of yourself that unraveled in his hands.

But instead, you keep remembering. His hands. The way he looked at you, like he couldn’t believe you were real. The way he tasted— cigarettes, artificial sugar, smokey cinnamon— a summer storm, and the brightest crack of light— Eddie Munson is out to ruin you.

His eyes wanted more. His hands wanted more.

And the worst part was, you do too. You don’t know what exactly you want from him.

But it’s him.

It’s his crooked grin, his smoke-rough laugh, the way he touches you like he knows you better than you know yourself.

It’s the pull— that stupid, reckless pull— and the part of you that craves chaos a little more than you ever admitted.

You don’t know why, you just know you want it. And maybe, deep down, you’re terrified of what that says about you. What it says about the lack of control you thought you had, so carefully crafted all your life.

One kiss from a leather-bound boy and it shattered.

It feels like a beginning. One you slammed the door on way too fast.

And now? You have no idea if it’s too late to open it again.

You want to think he’s fine, that this wasn’t some huge thing for him. That he’s used to girls coming and going. That maybe you’re making a bigger deal of it than it was.

But then you remember the way he looked at you afterward. Like you’d given him the goddamn moon and snatched it back before he could get a grip on it.

It feels rotten in your gut. A spinning wheel of regret, slow like molasses, scraping at your insides with each turn. You don’t know if you crushed something good before it had a chance, and you really don’t know how to clarify that.

You could just ask him. Call. Show up at the bar on one of the nights he performs. What would you say? Would he even want to talk to you? Or is your cowardly rejection still simmering in his chest the way it is in yours?

Fortunately, and maybe unluckily, you’re not left wondering for long.

The answer comes in the form of your father's car. Eddie spent the week fixing it, and now you’ve been tasked with picking it up from Eddie’s place.

You let it sit for two days. You can’t even bring yourself to slip on a pair of shoes to head over to Eddie’s place, because once you’re there, you can’t hide anymore.

Because what happens when you step into Eddie’s home and you’re slapped with the truth of what your week-long spiral was really all about? What happens if it destroys what was left in your satchel of perseverance? What happens when Eddie looks at you and there’s no longer that stupid glint dancing in his eyes?

You’d live on. Obviously. But not without a bruised ego. And maybe a little bit of a growing distaste for cinnamon and sugar.

And you think you hate that.

Steve forces you to go on the third day. If he notices your reluctance, he doesn’t mention it— just impatiently waits in the driveway and curls his nose when you slip into his passenger seat— “…Are you wearing perfume?”

“Shut up, Steve, just drive.”

And you try to focus on the drive or the music, anything but Eddie, but your mind lands on him every time you try to flip it. So you give up. Two minutes left anyway. And then you’ll be forced to face the man who’s been haunting your mouth for the past week.

It’s the peak of the day when you find yourself in front of Eddie’s door— the time when the sun turns the distance into rippling waves of heat. Steve didn’t waste a second to drive off, leaving you behind in a cloud of dust and nerves.

The trailer park is a different kind of solace. Not soft, not serene— just stretched. There’s a hum beneath your skin, something slow and buzzing, itchy like you’d just walked through a field of tall grass. Everything feels slowed down here, strung out, like the air itself is holding its breath. Or maybe that’s just you.

The gravel crunches beneath your shoes like it’s daring you to keep going. The road twists and curves around sun-bleached trailers; a box fan lowly hums in the window of one, a dog barking before settling down in the shade of another.

You should’ve worn something else. Sweat beads at the back of your neck, slipping down your spine, and your heart’s beating faster than it should be for a simple car pickup. You tell yourself it’s just the heat, but you know better. You’re two steps away from the door that makes you want to bolt back to California.

You climb the creaky but sturdy steps, like they’ve been there for years of time and weather. There are scuffs along the door, worn and loved, a sense of a thoroughly used home that oddly stirs your insides. You hesitate for only a second, bite the bullet before you raise a fist and knock twice on the door, sharp and quick.

Cicadas hum in the distance, the dog barks, the fan hums. You debate stealing the bike off to the side and high-tailing it home.

You stare at it long enough to imagine it before the door swings open.

Eddie. Barefoot. Wet hair with sweats hung low on his hips like he wasn’t expecting anybody for the rest of the day. His skin is still dewy from a shower, ink dark and slithering across the expanse of his skin. You swear you don’t watch the bead of water that drips from his hair and rolls down the side of his neck but you can damn near feel it.

Eddie’s eyes slightly widen when he sees you, shifting and opening the door more so he can fully see you.

“Hey.” He plainly says.

You draw in a breath and hold his eyes, “Hey.”

A silence simmers, not loud, but there. For a moment, neither of you moves. And now that you’re looking at Eddie again, face-to-face, if you think hard enough, you can remember how his lips feel.

Eddie blinks like he remembers why you’re here, “Car’s out back. Keys are here somewhere.”

He lets you in, holds the door, and lets it swing shut behind you as you enter his home. The air is cool inside, tinged with whatever soap he used and the sharp note of twine from the fan spinning on the ceiling.

Eddie walks a few steps ahead, taking a hand through his damp curls as he heads for the kitchen counter. “You know, uh…” he says without looking back, digging into a catch-all bowl full of keys, change, and mismatched guitar picks, “it’s nice to see you’re, like, alive. Didn’t die on the walk home, or something.”

You glance around his trailer—guitar leaning in the corner, a record sleeve half-tucked under the couch, light bleeding golden through the dusty blinds, a shit ton of mugs lined on the shelves with baseball caps lined above them.

“You watched me.” You remind him.

As you watch him, he pauses for a beat before he shrugs, “I did. And then I drove home thinking, ‘should I have popped a mint before I kissed her?’”

When he turns around, keys in hand, he’s grinning—eyes soft, a little nervous under all that casual. And there he is. Eddie peeking out from behind the boy you left beneath the streetlamp.

The tiny voice in your head sings as if he’s risen from the dead.

You take the keys from him, slowly. “You tasted like cotton candy,” you say, fingers brushing his, “and cigarettes.”

And cinnamon. Sugar-coated wet dreams and the end of summer— you won’t tell him, you’ll let it toss around in your brain like a mantra until you’re sick of it.

Eddie quirks an eyebrow, eyes slightly narrowing in question, “Bad combo?”

You hum, clutching the keys as you pull your hand back, “For some, maybe…” You tip your head, holding his gaze.

Something grows in Eddie’s eyes. Something small yet true.

It’s quiet, then, where nothing really needs to be said, but you’re both aching to say something anyway.

You take a silent breath, a calm settling over you that hadn’t been there all week— something that clarifies you know what you should say.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I didn’t… I didn't handle it well.”

Eddie straightens with a deep breath and makes a face, playful and easy. “No worries, princess. Had plenty of hit-and-runs before. I’m a connoisseur.”

You roll your eyes, even as something in your chest tugs, “I’m trying to be sincere, Eddie.” You deadpan.

The grin on Eddie’s face makes your hands hot. “I know,” he leans in, voice a little lower, like the moment has shifted. “It’s cute.”

He steps back, nods towards the back door with a gaze dancing in his eyes, making your chest thrum, “C’mon, I’ll walk you out. Gotta show off my mechanical skills.”

You follow him out. Try not to eye the expanse of his back through the shirt he’s wearing, try not to remember the way his arms felt beneath your fingers, even though you’d been remembering it since then. His scent wafts behind him like a taunting train of ‘remember this? Remember how close you were to that?’.

It puts you in a daze.

The screen door snaps shut behind you when you step out, the light’s softened, everything golden, and long shadows.

Eddie runs a hand along the hood of your father's car and taps it, “Changed the oil. Transmission put you out on the road, so I fixed that, too. And I tightened your brake line— it was loose enough to make me nervous, and I’m already high-strung as it is.”

“You’re so modest.” You hum as you walk up to the car.

He smirks and shrugs, watching as you approach the driver’s side, “I try.”

You open the door, gazing at him as he props it open for you. A callback to memory, vivid and true.

“Thanks…” You softly say.

Eddie nods, “Don’t mention it.” He glances away, squints at the setting sun, and shifts in his spot, “You uh…” he pauses and scratches the back of his neck, you tilt your head, “You ever been to the drive-in? The one out past the fairgrounds?”

You crack a smile, gazing at him as he turns back to you. You tilt your head, the sun gleaming over him. Somewhere in his eyes, there’s a fairy, swirling the pools of brown and making magic under the sun.

It’s working. Annoyingly so.

“The one that shut down like four years ago?” You huff out a laugh.

Eddie smiles, “Did it?”

“Definitely. Yeah.”

Eddie quirks a brow like he’s questioning your knowledge. You could’ve sworn you saw them breaking the screen down last time you passed it all those years ago. You shift in your spot, leaning against the door, “This your way of asking me out?”

Eddie grins then, sun peeking out in his cheeks, deep enough to make the beast in your chest purr like she’s been asleep for years. Whether she hates the sun or craves it, you’re not sure.

Eddie shrugs, “Just asking if you wanna sit in a car with me for three hours and make fun of bad dialogue.” he gazes at you for a moment before leaning in, voice low and convincing, “Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

You look at him, rolling the idea in your mind, tasting it behind your teeth. You hum, fingers twitching against the car door before you speak, “No. And you said that at the fair.”

Eddie’s smug demeanor falters, disbelief in his voice when he responds, “No?”

“No.”

“You wound me,” he groans, dragging a hand over his face, “I’m a wounded soldier here, honeybee. Bleeding out. Throw me a bone at least.” He dramatically pleads.

You roll your eyes, already turning to get in the car. “I’m romantic as hell, by the way. I’ll bring you flowers and kiss you at the door, the whole nine.”

It’s cute— his marketing skills— and maybe if you stayed a little longer, you’ll cave. You glance at him, strapping the belt across your torso and holding back the smile in your cheeks as he gazes down at you. You reach for the door and shake your head, “Goodbye, Eddie.”

Eddie looks at you like he always does, with stars in his eyes and his heart on his sleeve, “Bye, Malibu.”

You don’t ask why he’s still smiling at you like that, and you don’t let yourself wonder what it means. You just shut the door and let the warmth in your cheeks settle on the drive home.

He doesn’t let up for nearly two weeks.

Eddie’s on a running campaign to get you to agree to this magical drive-in movie date he’s proposed, and he’s relentless about it, too. He keeps his appearances up at the house, wasting away in Steve’s room until he finds a moment to slip away and find you.

The first time he finds you in the kitchen, cutting a bowl of fruit for yourself when he rounds the corner. He’s got a lovesick grin on his face and a mouth full of smug, flirtatious words waiting to come out at a moment's notice.

“Movie’s still on the table.” He hums, walking around you like an animal taunting its prey.

You don’t bother looking at him, slicing through thick blocks of pineapple as you hum, “No.”

“Free drinks.” He offers.

“Still no.”

The second time he asks comes a day later while you’re lying by the pool, sunglasses perched on your face, a book in your lap. Eddie leans over you, wet hair dripping chlorine and sun, dampening your pages, “Name the candy, I’ll get it.”

“Eddie—” You grimace, pressing a hand to his chest and shaking your book off with the other. You ignore the warmth beneath your fingertips, glaring up at him through the dark shades as he continues to ramble.

“Popcorn? Gummy worms? Licorice? Gross, but I’ll look the other way. I’ll even let you hold the remote.”

You look at him, deadpanned as he wiggles his eyebrows at you.

“There is no remote.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and waves a hand, “You’re missing the point.”

You lift your glasses just enough to give him a look, “Goodnight, Eddie.”

Eddie’s face twists in mild confusion. “It’s three in the afternoon.”

“Exactly.”

You lose count of how many times he asks. He gets creative with it, though. Will pass by your room and slip an index card under your door with a single Dum-Dum taped to it and the words— MOVIE’S THIS WEEKEND?— scribbled in shitty handwriting with two check boxes beneath it. Both of the boxes say yes.

You draw a third box, write ‘no’ beside it, and check the box before sliding it back under the door.

The Dum-Dum was strawberry flavored and painted your tongue red.

You now have a stash of Dum-Dums piling up on your dresser.

Nothing is holding you back from saying yes to Eddie. Aside from the fact that he’s Eddie, and every time you’re left alone with him for a prolonged amount of time, your brain starts glitching out like a jumbled tape until you start thinking stupid things. Stupid things that land you pressed against his van with his tongue down your throat— not like you’re still thinking about it or anything.

By the start of the second week, Eddie’s purely asking for the bit. He likes the chase, says it all in his grin and the twinkle in his eye every time you shut him down, and he throws a hand over his chest like a lovesick dog.

So by the time he leans against the doorframe of your room and asks again on a random Wednesday night, he’s moving off muscle memory.

“Drive-in’s still on the table. So are the snacks. And the cuddles. Just say the word, I’ll heat up the van and cue up the mood lighting.”

You’re perched in front of your vanity, smoothing cool moisturizer beneath your eyes, not bothering to look back when you respond, “You got mood lighting in your van now?”

“Princess, please,” Eddie scoffs, waltzing in like he knows his way around the place. “I’ve had mood lighting. That lava lamp has been through everything with me.”

You snort, and he plops on your bed, splaying out like a cat that’s getting comfortable, his feet still planted on the ground as he talks to your ceiling, “Anyway, no pressure. Just sayin’ I can get ready in five. Six if you want me to shave.”

You glance at him through the mirror, blink once, and consider that he’s still there, draped over your sheets like a lovelorn teenage boy.

“Okay.”

Eddie doesn’t move. And honestly, if you looked close enough, you might think he might have stopped breathing.

“Uh…” He clears his throat, sitting up with a fist over his mouth as he coughs a few times. “Was that— sorry— that was a yes?”

You suppress the grin that threatens to split across your lips. You close the containers on your vanity and stand, pushing the chair in, “Yes. Now get out. Before I change my mind.”

“Oh shit, you’re serious? Like— like this Saturday?” He asks with wide eyes.

“Friday. And I need to be home by midnight, no later.” You demand.

Eddie nods, like a child getting scolded and trying to regain trust. “Midnight, no later, got it.”

You nod, standing before him, arms crossed over your chest. A silence falls over the room for a moment. You blink once, eyeing Eddie as he sits on your bed, a slow grin spreading across his lips.

“I totally cracked you—”

“Get out.”

“Got it. See you Saturday, Malibu.”

You don’t care to wipe off the smile on your face when the door shuts behind him.

You don’t tell anyone.

Not Mia, not Steve— not even the bathroom mirror you’ve been avoiding all day.

You spun a lie at dinner, something short and simple about having a movie night, and when your dad asked who with, you shrugged and said “Mia,” like it wasn’t a sin. Technically true. Mia exists. You could be with Mia. You’re just… not.

Instead, you’re going to be with Eddie. Steve’s friend.

Eight o’clock. That’s when you’re meeting him. A block away, under the streetlamp, just like you’d agreed.

The house simmers to a quiet state as you get ready. You pace a little, change your outfit twice before going back to the original skirt and top you’d picked out. You apply your lip gloss once, hate the shade, and wipe it off before applying a clear one. You smell an array of perfumes until they all smell the same, and you’re forced to just spray something random, biting your tongue as you repeat to yourself, it’s just a movie. Not a date. Stop acting like this is something because it’s not.

It’s getting dark when you slip out the back gate, your purse in one hand with your pride in the other, perfume clinging to your skin like a secret. And maybe that’s what this is. A secret mission. Something stolen and sweet. Something reckless.

Or maybe it’s a mistake.

Somewhere along the way, between the gate and the driveway, your pride slips and falls to the pavement.

Just a movie. Not a date. This is nothing.

You tell yourself that once more as you walk down the block, holding onto your purse like a lifeline. The air is cooling with leftover heat from the day, a slight breeze that instantly cools it, and reminds you of the season. The sky has dimmed to a navy, the kind of dusk that makes the street lights flicker like they’re nervous too. You should be nervous.

You are.

But you don’t let it show. Because you don’t get nervous over boys. Not even boys that kiss you like you’re not breakable. Not even boys that hold your gaze like they’re daring you to run.

But the closer you get to the street corner, the more your stomach knots. The more you start to second-guess whether this is a good idea, which it’s definitely not. But you keep walking anyway. Like your common sense has just magically disappeared, and you’re moving on a whim.

Because this isn’t just a drive-in movie. It’s another step into a story you didn’t plan to write. And planning is how you survive. Lipstick, posture, perfectly-timed smiles, perfectly aligned future— armor. That's always been enough.

And then Eddie came. And you don’t typically feel sorry for turning away from a boy; you never had to feel sorry. Because none of them has been him. And now you can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at you when you said sorry. Like he didn’t want to hear it, but needed it anyway. Like he’d been waiting for you to say something real, and now that you had, he didn’t know what to do with it.

And it didn’t feel like a game.

That’s the part that’s unraveling you. It didn’t feel like a win. It felt like a surrender.

You pause before you turn the corner, allow yourself one more moment of quiet nerves as you breathe, smooth your sweaty hands over your skirt, and crack a smirk that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

And then you walk.

You can already hear Eddie’s music booming from the radio of his van, and it does little to ease your nerves. Because, of course. Of course, Eddie Munson announces his arrival to the entire neighborhood.

As you get closer, you spot him near the van, leaning against the passenger door like he’s posed for some photo he doesn’t know about. His jeans are cuffed, scuffed boots toeing the gravel with a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The faintest smirk tugs at his lips when he sees you. Something in you settles.

“Hey, runaway,” he calls out, flicking the cigarette to the curb and grinding it beneath his heel, “Nice of you to show.”

“I had to slip out past Steve and a dad who breathes like a dragon,” you say, lifting a brow as you approach, arms crossed. “You, meanwhile, are trying to alert the entire neighborhood with this volume. Jesus, Munson.”

Eddie grins, wide and unapologetic, as he swings the passenger door open with a dramatic flourish. “Apologies, princess. Good habit. Makes for a great entrance.”

You hum as you climb into the passenger seat, the scent of smoke and old leather filling your nose, “I’ll give it a five out of ten.”

Eddie makes a wounded expression, “Harsh— and rude— rough way to start the night, honeybee.”

You halfheartedly shrug as he closes the door and jogs to the driver's seat. Another moment of quiet nerves. And then he slips in, “I’ll change it for you. Just say the word. I don’t change it for many people, so take that shit seriously.”

You smirk, watching as he turns the key in the ignition, “A sacred honor?”

“An elite one,” he solemnly nods, “Most people? They get Motörhead or nothing. But for you, honeybee?” He looks at you and cracks a stupid, heartfelt look, “I’d play Madonna for you.”

You glare at him, fighting the smile on your lips as you roll your eyes, “Alright, loverboy,” you nod towards the road, “start driving. You’re burning up your cool points every time you talk.”

Eddie scoffs and waves you off, peeling the van onto the road with a shake of his head, “Rude. Again. Shouldn’t have fixed your car.”

You can’t help the laugh that rolls off your lips.

You drive in silence for a moment. The city is asleep, everyone home with their families, tucking their kids in for a night’s sleep. Every light is green, the sun still dropping, flickering through the line of trees along the winding backroads. Fields roll out beside them like a running scene to match the radio as it swiftly shifts into the next song. This one is slower. Something you doubt Eddie listens to in his free time.

You glance at him, the way the light hits his jaw, his fingers tapping to the rhythm. You crack, “Fine. You get, like… maybe a point for the mixtape.”

Eddie smirks without looking, like he knew it was coming, “A point? Out of?”

“Five.”

Eddie scoffs out a laugh, “Tough grader.”

You shrug, shifting in your seat, eyes drifting back to the road, “Earn the rest.”

Eddie glances at you, tilts his head back and forth like he’s thinking before he speaks, “What if I bought you gummy worms?”

You turn back to him, “Do you have gummy worms?” You ask in a faux uninterested tone.

Eddie’s teeth dig into his bottom lip as he reaches blindly toward the backseat. He shuffles around momentarily, eyes never leaving the road, one hand on the wheel. You watch in amusement as he pulls out a crinkled gas station bag, holding it up like a trophy. “I come prepared.”

You pause, eyes narrowing in suspicion, “How long have those been back there?”

“Like a day.” He shrugs. You raise a brow, and he rolls his eyes. “Maybe three. They’re still good. Little stiff. Builds jaw strength— y’know artificial sugar never rots, inspector.”

“Rots your teeth.”

Eddie smiles, “So do you. Sweet as honey. I’m still diggin’ in.”

You shake your head, glancing away as a smile cracks across your lips, so wide you nearly feel embarrassed. You sigh, leaning back into the seat, “I’m not chewing stale gummy worms just to impress you.”

“Fine,” he rips the bag open with his teeth, “More for me.” He pops one into his mouth and chews dramatically, loudly, and obnoxiously. He hums as if it’s the best candy he’s ever tasted, “Best ones in the state, baby. Sure, you don’t want me to momma bird you?” He asks, popping another one in as he glances at you.

You grimace, looking at him, tone drenched in all seriousness and play, “You better not spit that at me,” you warn.

Eddie turns to you slowly, lips full of threat, chewed-up sugar bullets ready to fire. “I could. I’ve got perfect aim.”

You gape in disgust, blinking in disbelief, “You’re disgusting.” You exclaim. His lips purse, and your hand clamps over his mouth, startled but still smiling. “Chew, Munson. And swallow. I’ll sit here all night.”

His eyes sparkle, darting between the road and you, lips pressed into a smile against your palm. One brow lifts, smug, like he’s silently saying that’s not as much of a threat as you think it is.

You tap your finger against his cheek, unrelenting in your demand. He laughs, swallows, then nips at your palm, smiling when you squeal and pull away with a curse of his name. You roll your eyes, dragging your hand against the material of your skirt as you glare at him, though your glare does nothing to extinguish the pure joy on his face.

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“It’s my best quality.”

The tension in your shoulders has unraveled, just a little. Enough to let you enjoy the rest of the ride and not freeze when Eddie reaches out and flicks his fingers softly against your knee when he says something else—something dumb and playful.

It makes you feel warm and fuzzy around the edges, like the last time you’ve smiled this much for this long was in a dream.

The drive-in is past the fairgrounds, just like Eddie had said, but it’s not the one you remember. This one is a lot more… handmade. It’s behind an old, rusted warehouse surrounded by a field and a gravel parking lot where cars are lined up— some parked like they’ve been here all day, and others parked without a care in the world, crooked and taking up space.

It looks like something out of a dream, if the dream were hazardous and a little bit illegal. There are fraying extension cords snaking on the gravel, and dented trucks are parked parallel to hold up a white sheet that sways in the wind. The projector flickers every so often on the sheet, casting a light against it like it’s fighting to stay alive. Warm lights are lit across the lot, lawn chairs are scattered around cracked open coolers, and a faint hum of music from a van that looks just as run-down as Eddie’s. It’s the kind of scene that looks warm and feels exactly so.

Eddie parks the van with the back facing the movie. He greets a guy when he steps out, someone named Mickey with rowdy hair, stoned eyes, and a blunt. Mickey supposedly makes the best gas station nachos, and for some reason, you absolutely believe that.

You both climb in, Eddie first because he swears he’s a gentleman that’s not grabbing for a chance to look at your ass even though you caught him doing so just moments before. Inside, Eddie has tossed in a nest of mismatched pillows and blankets, thrown around in a cozy manner yet somehow chaotically organized. Snacks and drinks are stashed in a bag, snuggled into the blankets like it’ll keep them cool.

You fail to suppress a smirk as you settle with your back resting against the seats, raising a brow as you glance at him, “So, this is your thing? Lure unsuspecting girls into your van with snacks, blankets, and a movie?”

Eddie scoffs, feigning a wounded expression as he crashes in next to you, already grabbing a drink and passing one to you, “You think I do this for just anyone?”

You take the canned drink, cracking it open with a hiss and sipping with a hum, “Absolutely.”

Eddie gasps dramatically, clutching the drink to his chest. “I’m wounded, princess. Truly. I fought hard for this, by the way. And I thought we had something special.”

You shoot him a dry look over the rim of your can. “You said that after I let you steal one of my fries.”

“Because we do,” he says, matter-of-factly. “You just don’t recognize the depth of our cosmic bond yet. I mean, remember that kiss? Knocked the wind outta me. Could’ve sworn I saw your eyes roll.”

Your face warms. It’s faint, but unmistakable, like a match sparking beneath your skin. You try to hide it with a scoff, nudging his shin with your foot as he giggles.

“My eyes didn’t roll. How would you even know? Your eyes were supposed to be closed.”

Eddie hums, unbothered, ripping a bag of sour candies open. “I’ve got a third eye. The bangs aren’t just an accessory.” He digs a piece of candy out, popping it in his mouth before offering the bag to you. You pick one, toss it in, and immediately regret it. The taste is sharp and mean, catching in your throat and pulling a wince from your chest.

You cough through it, taking a sip of your drink to ease the stress, “Jesus. Is that candy or chemical warfare?” You cringe.

Eddie grins around his chew, popping another in like it’s nothing, “Little from column A, little from column B.”

You swallow the candy, shaking your head as you lean back on your hands, stretching your legs out, “Your taste in candy is criminal.”

“Funny. That’s what they said about my music, too.” He drums his fingers against his drink like it’s a snare, mock-riffing. “I’m a menace across multiple industries.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips tug upward despite yourself. The movie flickers on the sheet in front of you, voices murmuring from the speaker someone set up between the trucks. The air smells like weed and sunscreen, someone’s smoking close enough to catch the faint buzz of it.

Eddie shifts beside you, closer without fully touching, like he’s testing the air between you. You don’t move away; somehow, the closeness relaxes you more than you’d imagined. Your laughs become loose around the edges, Eddie’s limbs soften, and your eyes meet more.

The van warms in a summery haze with quiet laughter, hushed jokes behind mouthfuls of candy, and the occasional moment when either of you pretends to care about the movie. And somewhere between that, your ankle passes Eddie’s, like a ghost, a memory of the diner, and a nudge into something more.

Eddie is warm beside you, and his thigh presses against yours each time he shifts, which, unfairly, seems to happen more often than not. Your bodies are pressed close, your arms touching, a film of sugar forming over your tongues.

“So,” He speaks softly, warm breath dusting over your temple, a smile trickling around the edges, a nervous undertone so quiet you almost miss it. “Give me the verdict. What’s my rating now?”

You glance at him. His eyes are on you, not the movie. Your eyes dart back to the movie, a small smirk easing across your lips.

“Four stars.”

Eddie scoffs, dramatically offended, “Four?! Out of five?”

“Mhm.” You nod your head, still pretending to watch the movie.

“Why? What did I do?” He stresses.

You shrug, “You forgot my flowers.”

Eddie pauses, only the hum of the movie filtering through the van. He sits up a little, “Who said I forgot ‘em?”

You glance at him, just in time to see him turn around and reach over the middle console, rummaging through bags and the empty soda cans he keeps tossing back. You watch, listen to him mutter to himself, toss aside a hoodie before— “Aha!”

He plops back beside you, triumphantly smiling as he extends a hand to you, clutching something, “I’m a man of my word.”

A single rose.

Well— it was a rose. At one point. Now it’s a little mangled, missing a few leaves, petals slightly crushed, stem bent in the middle like it gave up halfway through standing tall.

Your hand flies to your mouth.

“You let it die before it got to me?”

“I was freaking the fuck out!” Eddie exclaims, absolutley not ashamed, “I got it two hours before I picked you up. And then I forgot it. But then I remembered during the drive and panicked and tried to hide it in the snack bag—”

You burst out with laughter. The sad, wilted rose hangs between you as a testament to Eddie’s story. It makes your ribs ache with lack of air, and your cheeks warm as Eddie tries to explain why his gift is now fit for a compost pile. And then— to your horror— your breath hitches and you snort. A real, startled, uncontrolled snort, right from your lips. And you immediately clap a hand over your mouth like you can shove it back in.

Eddie goes stock still, eyes wide as he looks at you.

“...Oh my god,” he whispers, “Did you just—”

“Shut up,” you groan, face burning as you shove the rose against his chest,

Eddie places a hand over yours, grasping it like a lifeline as he laughs in awestruck disbelief. “No, no— jesus christ. What was that? Do that again.”

“Eddie—”

“Please,” he begs around a laugh, clutching the rose like a microphone, “Do it again. I think I hear angels.”

You groan again, laughing harder now as you collapse sideways, not even thinking when you bury your face in Eddie’s shoulder to hide your embarrassment. His body shakes with laughter, both you warm and full of it. His free arm wraps around you instinctively, pulling you close, and when he glances down at you—your nose tucked against his shirt, his rose wilting between you—he softens.

Warmth radiates from him like a furnace, and for a second, you just stay there, trying to catch your breath, your cheeks aching from smiling. And in the quiet stretch of time, you feel it shift.

The buzzing, the teasing, the fizzy high laughter— it all slows, softens. His thumb rubs an absent-minded circle over your side. You tilt your head, nose brushing over his collarbone, and when you glance up, he’s already looking at you.

There’s a crease between his brows, like he’s trying to memorize something. Like he’s caught off guard by how much he likes you in this moment. And you can’t exactly laugh about it because, well, you feel it too. You feel how good this is, how real it feels, tangible and soft and bright.

He shifts, eyes flickering over your face. “Hey,” He softly says, voice low, reverent.

You blink up at him. “Hey.”

His fingers, rough and calloused, dust across your jaw.

And then, quieter: “You gonna let me kiss you again?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He kisses exactly how you’d been dreaming of since the first kiss. This time, he tastes like the night's warmth, laughter sprinkled over his tongue, and sugar behind his teeth. You fall into it like muscle memory. Like your body had been prepping for it all this time.

You pull away first. Barely. Just enough to breathe. Though you can’t breathe much when your bodies are still pressed so close like this— Eddie’s arm holding you, you practically draped over him.

Your eyes flicker to the side, a nearly unbearable heat creeping up your chest, lips tingling like they’re still pressed to his. You feel him watching you, still, drafting the aftermath— quietly smug, fond in that boyish way that makes you want to kiss him all over again just to shut him up.

He lifts the rose—pathetic, crushed thing—and sniffs it theatrically before murmuring, “Still smells like a rose.”

You laugh— can’t help it— and the softest little snort escapes. You don’t care to hide it this time. And Eddie lights up like a kid on Christmas.

“Again!” He whispers, scandalized and delighted. You roll your eyes as he tugs you closer, “I’m two for two!”

“You’re annoying.” You weakly push at him as he grins.

“How many people have gotten you to laugh like that, hm? Come on.” He leans in, nuzzles your cheek like it’s muscle memory, smiling when you squirm away from him. “Tell me I’m the one and only. Say it. Say, ‘Eddie Munson is my laughter lord and chaos prince.’”

You bat away at him, trying and failing to suppress your smile. “You’re so stupid.”

“And you snort when you laugh. Which means I win.”

You roll your eyes, settled against his shoulder, snuggled like you belong there. “I’m regretting kissing you.” You halfheartedly murmur.

“No, you’re not,” he grins. He twists the rose between his fingers, eyes gently flickering over your face. Then, gently, he runs the soft rose petals over the bridge of your nose. The brittle petals whisper across your skin, light and teasing, until they dust the tip of your nose. Your nose crinkles on instinct.

Eddie freezes, dragging in a breath. “Don’t move.” He whispers like he’s trying not to spook a deer. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire fucking life.”

You laugh, batting the rose away as you giggle, “You’re a sap.”

“And you’re a shitfaced liar,” he mumbles lowly, leaning forward, eyes dancing across your face. His eyes flicker to your lips like magnets pulled to steel. Your breath stutters, eyes stuck on his. “You totally wanna kiss me again.”

You fight the smile on your lips as you shake your head, “No.”

Eddie’s already leaning closer, eyes flickering to your smile as one approaches his lips, “Yeah, you do.”

Your false protest dies on his lips. It’s softer this time. Slower. Deeper. More curious, like he’s trying to memorize you from the inside out.

The rose falls to the ground somewhere, wilted and pathetic. Eddie pulls you close, lips twitching against yours like he’s quietly reminding you that he won. His fingers splay wide across your back, knuckles curling into your top as you press against him, his other hand coming up to cup your face.

Your fingers curl against his chest, holding on like you need it to anchor yourself. Your legs shift between his, and you’re nearly draped over him when you tilt your head, lips parting in an invitation that he takes like it’s sacred.

His tongue slides against yours— slow, careful, sweet— and your body reacts before your mind catches up.

Heat licks up your spine, curling in your belly, and you melt into him. Everything else fades— the movie, the night air, the mess of candy wrappers and pillows around you. It all collapses beneath his lips, the sinful flick of his tongue against yours, his fingers curling around your waist, the tremble in your thighs.

You make a sound you don’t mean to. A soft, involuntary moan caught between a hitch in your breath, featherlight and aching.

Eddie pulls away. Quick and abrupt. Like he’s just touched something electric.

His breathing’s uneven, lips pink and bruised, pupils blown wide in disbelief. “Yeah,” he shakily breathes, eyes darting like he can’t afford to look at you. He peels his body from yours, “Yeah. Okay. That’s enough. No more.”

You blink, wide-eyed and dazed, “What—?”

“I’m gonna jizz my pants.” He says, completely deadpan. He presses a palm to his crotch as he sits up, eyes blown as they dart around the floor of the van, like somewhere in the rubble, he’ll find his dignity. “Like. Seriously. I’m gonna blow a load in my pants— you can’t just… you can’t make sounds like that.”

You laugh, sharp and bright, your face flushing all over again. Eddie looks at you like you’re insane and groans, “Unbelievable. You’re laughing? At a time like this?”

“I didn’t mean to,” you say, halfheartedly and amused.

“You moaned, babe. Into my mouth. Like we’re in some kind of fucked up romance novel.”

“I barely did.” You argue.

“I felt it vibrate in my soul.”

You drop your face into your hands, hiding your warm cheeks, ignoring your mind as it replays the scene over and over again, but Eddie’s already tugging your wrists down, grinning like a menace, one thumb brushing over your pulse as the other brushes your cheek.

“Don’t hide,” he says, a little gentler this time, “It was hot. You’re hot. That’s the whole problem.”

You groan, rolling your eyes as Eddie grins. “I’m never kissing you again.”

Eddie flops beside you with a contented sigh, stretching out like a happy cat, folding one arm behind his head. “In your dreams, honeybee.” He grins, crossing one ankle over the other.

“You’ve kissed me— thrice now. Nearly killed me with that last one, too, so,” he shrugs, “I know your secrets. I own your laugh. It’s mine.”

You narrow your eyes, glaring at him, fighting to keep your gaze from wandering back to his lips. “You don’t own anything.”

“Wrong,” Eddie loudly claims. He cracks a can of soda open, taking a sip before speaking, “I own your laugh. That snort? That’s legally binding.��

And for some reason, you decide not to fight him on that.

Eddie starts the van back up exactly fifteen minutes before midnight.

You both climb out, dusting off crumbs and straightening your clothes to at least try and look like you didn’t spend the last twenty minutes of the movie chasing each other's lips. You can barely pay any mind to the commotion of other cars around you as you waltz to the passenger side because you’re still buzzing with the feeling of Eddie’s body pressed to yours.

The drive is quiet, but much different than the last time you’d spent in the silence of his van. This time, there’s a content lull in the air. Your head leans against the window, your skin warm and flushed in the places his hands had been. Your lips still tingle. Eddie hums to an old cassette, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel like he’s trying to burn off the leftover energy.

Familiar trees pass in a blur, softer this time, like the night has smudged a yellow glow over your eyes. You feel it in your chest. In the way your fingers twist in your lap, thrumming with a need to touch something. You don’t look at Eddie, too afraid of what you’ll do if you catch a glimpse of him.

The streetlight buzzes overhead when he stops below it, the same one he picked you up from. Somewhere in your purse, the crushed-up rose sits, folded up and full of the night. Later, you’ll pull it out and stare at it like it might summon the curly-headed boy into your room. You think you might already miss this night, as if you’re not still sitting in it. And that shakes something loose behind your ribs. Fear, hope, dread. It all mixes together and pumps through you like a drug.

Eddie drags in a dramatic breath, tapping the wheel a few times, “Five minutes to midnight, Cinderella.”

You glance at him, fingers curling around the strap of your purse. “So,” he hums, glancing away for a moment, “You gonna kiss me goodbye?”

You lift a brow, watching as pearly white canines peek out from Eddie’s smile. “Do you know how dramatic you are?”

Eddie scoffs, “Of course I do.”

“And you watch way too many romance films.”

Eddie presses a hand over his heart, “I’m a hopeless romantic. Sue me for having a hobby— you know what I’m not hearing though?”

You press your lips together, fighting a smile as you hum.

“I’m not hearing a no.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for the door handle, your smile finally cracking when Eddie leans across the console and tugs at your arm. “C’mon, baby,” he purrs, “One for the road.”

You turn to him, looking at him draped over the console like some stupid, dramatic Renaissance painting. He looks up at you, a glimmer in his eyes, and something soft and warm. His thumb drags over your elbow, gentle and kind.

You turn more to him, lean down, and kiss him. It’s light. Slow and sure, like something you’d tuck in your pocket and keep.

You pull away, your nose dusting over his, not quite fully pulling away just yet, when your eyes dance for a moment. Eddie’s lips twitch into a smirk, his voice gentle when he speaks, “Maybe you watch too many romance films.”

You roll your eyes, pulling back and turning to open the door.

“Same time tomorrow?” Eddie pathetically calls as you step down from his van.

“Goodnight, Eddie.” You shut the door before he can say anything else, but not quickly enough to hide the smile that lingers on your lips.

And you don’t look back, but you know Eddie doesn’t start the van back up until you disappear behind the next block.

Eddie weasels his way in like a professional con artist.

It’s not much different from before— Eddie was always somewhere lounging around your house from the beginning, but now, it’s different. Now, it’s loud. Big. Because now you know what his hands feel like on your skin. You know how he sounds when he’s breathless. You know his laugh, his smile, and the way he downs a can of soda like he’s just crawled out of the desert.

You know his favorite color is blood red. He likes sour candies even though they make his entire body shiver “like he’s dying”. He names inanimate objects and talks about them like they’re real people. He hates window shopping, but he doesn’t mind that you enjoy it.

You don’t know all of him, but the parts that you do? It feels like everything. And it suffocates your days like wet heat.

And it makes your insides churn whenever you see him, relaxed on your couch, bickering with Steve about something you don’t even care to listen to because you’re stuck thinking about how you were under him. Just two days ago.

You busy yourself, like before, only this time, it doesn’t work at all. The last time you tried to occupy yourself to forget about whatever is unfolding between you and Eddie, it at least worked until the silence crept in. But now, Eddie runs through your mind as if he were made to be there. And again, it doesn’t help that he’s constantly in front of you, cracking sly grins like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. Like he can tell you’ve been pacing holes into the carpet of your room and clenching your thighs every time you get a whiff of him.

It’s mental and physical torture.

And now, you’re fidgeting in your room, listening to the low rumble of his voice through the walls like some yearning lunatic.

You shift against the cool comforter of your bed, tapping your fingers against your stomach as the fan whirs above you. You swallow and shift your gaze to the wall, attempting to fool yourself into believing you’re not phased by any of this. That you’re not listening to the music humming from Steve’s stereo, and remembering the way Eddie had played that same song and sang off-key to it, stealing kisses between each purposely cracked high note. You shouldn’t remember the way his tongue moved. You shouldn’t still feel it.

You rise from your bed with a huff, padding your way out and down the stairs, on a mission to grab a drink you don’t need. You open the fridge and stare at it for some time, letting the cool breeze drip over you like a breath of fresh air.

You don’t hear his steps until he’s beside you, arm brushing against yours when he speaks, “You’re gonna get cold standing there like that.”

You don’t bother looking away from the fridge's contents when you respond, “I’m hot.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “You are.”

You grab a bottle of water and shut the fridge with a roll of your eyes, “Do you usually haunt every house in Hawkins, or is this just the lucky one?”

Eddie snorts, leaning against the counter as he grabs an orange from the bowl of fruits on the island. He shrugs, “I make my rounds. Got a thing for the houses with cute girls that walk around in tiny shorts.” His eyes glance down at your bare thighs.

You ignore the warmth that spreads up your neck and don’t bother tugging down your shorts. You shift in your spot, tilting your head, “You sound like a creep, you realize that, right?”

Eddie grins, leaning into your space, orange forgotten on the counter, “Kiss me again. Before I forget what it feels like.”

You don’t bother moving away from his proximity. Or maybe you just don’t want to. Either way, you stay put, breathing in his air like it’s not fogging up the senses in your brain. “It’s not healthy to be this clingy.”

“God, tell me about it. I cry myself to sleep. Kiss me— give me somethin’ new to sob about tonight.”

You look at him, deadpanned, trying—and failing— to suppress that fond look spreading across your face.

Upstairs, Steve calls out for Eddie and tells him to hurry the fuck up.

Eddie lifts a brow, tilting his head, “Time’s a tickin’, honeybee.”

So you kiss him. There, in the kitchen, with Steve just upstairs, not knowing that his best friend has his tongue shoved down your throat. And… you don’t care. At least not at the moment.

You let him kiss you breathless, one hand on your face, the other squeezing your hip, spilling a whispered moan on your lips like a prayer.

He groans low in his throat, hand sliding down until his fingers dance across the hem of your shirt, fingers slipping beneath the thin cotton to brush at the bare skin of your hip. The counter digs into your spine, but you barely notice it. You’re too busy chasing the heat of his mouth, too dazed by the way he kisses you like he’s starving.

Your fingers thread into his hair, his tongue licking across the ridges of your teeth. One of your legs lifts, hooking around his hip like it’s instinct, and you swear he gasps into your mouth, like he wasn’t expecting that.

“Jesus,” he mumbles against your lips, kissing you between each word like he can’t afford to spend a second without tasting you, “You keep doing that, and I’m gonna—”

“EDDIE!” Steve yells again, angrier this time, “We’re fucking losing, man, hurry up!”

Eddie breaks the kiss with a groan, one last squeeze to your waist, “Shit,” he grumbles. One last kiss, and then he pulls away. He looks pained. A little guilty. Hair roused, cheeks flushed. “Gotta jet, sweetfang. Duty calls.”

“Sweetfa—?”

“Good stuff, by the way. Almost tops when you moaned my name.” He winks. You blink, dazed and confused, watching as he grabs the orange and backs away towards the stairs.

“I never moaned your name.” You argue.

“Really?” He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with that usual glint that says he’s definitely being annoying on purpose, “Could’ve sworn you did.”

He disappears up the stairs with a grin and a bounce in his step, leaving you flushed and spinning in the middle of the kitchen.

You stay there a moment longer than necessary, still clutching the unopened bottle of water, still trying to catch your breath. The fridge hums behind you. The fan in the living room clicks softly. And Eddie’s voice echoes somewhere in your skull — really? Could’ve sworn you did.

He’s infuriating. He’s relentless. He’s everywhere.

And god help you, he’s starting to taste like a habit.

It festers slowly and thick at first.

One morning, you’re telling yourself that this is careless and you should stop whatever thing is going on between you and Eddie. Then, by the afternoon, you’re sitting on top of Steve’s car in the garage, eyeing Eddie as he lights a cigarette and says— “You ever think about how your left eye sparkles more than your right?”

And it’s so stupid. He’s stupid. And it makes you smile as you shove him away like you don’t want him to be closer, like he’s not already crawling under your skin and carving out a space between the grooves of your brain.

And then it’s like a flicker in your periphery. Like a dream where you had been in one place and then you blinked and you’re suddenly in a completely different setting with entirely different people.

Eddie finds his way to you like he’s a dog with a keen nose for your scent. He slips into your room like a man on a mission, spreads a palm over your mouth, and smiles when he feels your mistaken giggle against his skin, pressing you into your bed with hot, slow kisses that make your insides twist. He’s reckless and aware, always pulling away when the clock ticks, and he remembers where you are and whose house you’re in.

He takes you to the lake one night and drags you in despite your protests— and that little Eddie-shaped hole in your brain quivers to life when he grins at you, wet hair plastered across his cheeks, droplets of water melting beneath your lips when you kiss them away.

He pulls you into his favorite record store— two towns over, an elderly man at the counter, and a thin fog of dust hanging between each shelf— and Eddie’s waltzing through like it’s his home. He shows you his favorite albums, which records he’s yet to put on his shelf, which ones he thinks you’d like, and he loops a finger through the belt loop of your shorts like touching you is second nature— and by then your body is fully tethered to the drug that goes by the name of Eddie Munson.

And when you think about it— when you really sit down and think about it— between Eddie’s loud way of attracting and your quiet way of obsessing, you never stood a chance.

“You nervous?”

Eddie’s fingertips are warm against the skin of your temple, gentle as they poke like he can pluck the thoughts straight from your mind and see them for himself.

His home is warm and humming with that summer afternoon daze that seeps through when you part the blinds to let the sun drip in like a hazy memory. You’re perched on his couch, legs tucked beneath your body, a cozy sweater loose around your arms.

Eddie’s beside you, dressed in sweats and a wrinkled shirt, curls pulled into an abomination of a bun. He’s got a record spinning— Black Sabbath: Master of Reality— which he claimed to be the best way to feel the high and be high. You didn’t know what he meant by that, but you don’t exactly know what he means a lot of the time because Eddie just kind of spits out the first things that come to his mind until they make a complete sentence.

He pokes at you again, his other hand hovering over the coffee table, a blunt curled between his fingers, waiting to be sealed. You bat at him, pulling a face when he jabs a gentle finger at your lips.

“No.”

“You totally are.” He grins, turning back to his task. You watch as he twists and turns the paper around crushed nuggets of weed, expertly moving around like it’s a mindless craft. He licks the edge, smoothing it beneath his thumb before grabbing the lighter and settling back into the couch.

He lifts the blunt, glancing at you with a lazy smirk tugging at his lips, “This right here,” he broadly gestures to the room, the music, the muted TV flickering forgotten images, the glow of the setting sun, and you perched next to him, watching him like gospel, “This is God’s gift, baby.”

You raise a brow, and his grin widens, thumb flicking the lighter to life once.

“This,” he continues, lowering his voice to something just above a whisper, reverent and teasing, “is how we get closer to God.”

You snort, rolling your eyes when you respond, “You’re making it sound like a ritual.”

He sighs, satisfied in his dramatics as he wriggles against the couch and sticks the blunt between his lips, “It is,” he pauses, flickering the lighter once again, burning the end of the thick paper. He sucks it in like second nature, the burnt smell already dancing up your nose when he exhales, slow and dreamy, speaking through a cloud of smoke, “Holy communion, but with way better music.”

He offers it to you, holding it delicately between his fingers, the end burns soft and orange. You hesitate, just for a beat, eyeing it like it might bite you. His eyes are already on you, half-lidded and slow and warm.

“You don’t have to,” he softly reminds you. “I can snuff it out. We can get high on sugar, and you can kiss me until my head blows… Both heads.”

You grimace, taking the blunt, knuckles brushing against his, and he doesn’t look away. Neither do you.

“You’re gross.” You mumble, ignoring Eddie’s snickers as you bring the blunt to your lips. You take your time to inhale, let it drip down the sides of your body, and lick the sticky spots of your brain. You cough, once, then twice, and Eddie’s chuckling before you say anything.

“Oh yeah,” he grins, watching as you cough a few more times, “That’s the good shit. Your soul’s already half-floatin' outta your body.”

You glare, but it’s weak. Your lungs sting a bit, and your chest feels a tinge warmer than before. “Again,” he encourages, “Let it sit, get your brain fuzzy.”

So you do. You trust him with it.

You take another hit, eyes dancing with his as you drag it slowly, holding it in longer. It burns sweet and low and slips down your throat like a secret. Somewhere beneath the layers of your skin, the pink hollows out to a nice, warm buzz.

Eddie watches as the cloud of smoke drifts from your mouth, slipping his knuckles next to yours when you hand him the blunt, “Shit, that’s fuckin’ hot. You’re a goddamn pro. Lay it on me, baby.”

You don’t think twice, leaning forward and meeting him halfway into a kiss. It’s short and sweet, like it’s muscle memory now, and you both just want it like a deep breath.

Eddie kisses you again, deeper this time, slow and sultry, until he’s forced to pull away from the burn in his lungs. He blinks, low and lazy, a loose grin on his lips when he looks at you.

“How’s your brain?”

You smile, leaning back into the couch, closer to him, goosebumps rising over your knee when he touches it. “Fuzzy. Like I’m… dreaming but awake.”

He smiles something devious, twisting the blunt between his knuckles as he lifts it back to his mouth, “That’s good weed. That’s Master of Reality weed. Straight from the stars.”

You snort, leaning back further as the music hums around you, thick and dark, like the room itself is humming in tune. You pass the blunt a few more times, careful not to inhale too deeply. You’re already floating. You feel it in your spine, in the heavy, molten drag of your limbs.

You wave your hand in surrender on the fifth offer, melting down into his couch as you groan, “No more. I’ll become smoke myself if I take any more.”

Eddie smokes it down to an inch, rambling on about this and that and getting distracted when his favorite verse from “Lord of This World” plays from the stereo.

“Oh— oh, shh. This part is—this part is holy.”

He closes his eyes, socked feet planted in the carpet, knees spread as he drops his head back, throat bared and soft like he’s in the middle of a sermon, and air-guitars the bassline with a reverence that borders on offensive. You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh, and he throws his head around, curls bouncing with every exaggerated nod.

He opens one eye and peeks at you, throwing one thumb your way when he speaks, “That’s gonna be me in hell, by the way.”

You huff a laugh, and he grins, “Like, you think it’s gonna be flames and pitchforks, but no— I’m just down there rockin’ out with Satan, doing solos while he adjusts the EQ.”

You finally lose it. You wheeze out a laugh so hard your body curls and your head hits the pillow in your lap, uncontrollable giggles slipping from your lips. The weed makes the room feel light, more vivid, more real, and less timed.

“You think I’d look good in little red horns?” Eddie asks. He gazes off in front of him, squinting to find the picture. “I feel like I could make it work. Add some flair. Punk rock prince of darkness.”

You lift your head, gasping around a fit of laughter, “You sound ridiculous.”

Eddie scoffs, “Get real, babe,” he starts, “You meet me in a club and I’ve got tiny horns and glitter eyeliner? I’m like a haunted cupid— don’t act like you wouldn’t make a mistake.”

You’re nearly crying at the image, Eddie joining in on the laughter until you’re left breathless and aching, your legs draped over his, leaning into his shoulder like it’s natural for you.

Eddie’s tracing lazy patterns on your knee by the time the record shifts into the next song, slower and thick with a steady bass, layered with occasional drops of naked strings and a haunting flute.

You’re reminded then, with Eddie’s warmth sticking to you and his scent filling your lungs, that this—whatever this is—is getting harder and harder to dance around. You’re reminded that it’s getting difficult to keep pretending this doesn’t mean something.

Eddie’s hand drifts toward yours, his fingers brushing over your knuckles. “Tell me something real.”

You blink. Then hum, soft and sticky, “Like what?”

Eddie shrugs, his chest rumbles beneath your cheek when he speaks, “I dunno,” he lifts your pointer finger and drops it, playful, accepting when you curl it around his thumb, cool silver kissing your skin. “First thing that comes to mind.”

You hum again, watching as your fingers dance. Your heart races. You shove away the voice of reason in your head, hesitating momentarily before you reply, “I wanted to hold your hand at that stupid bonfire.”

Eddie huffs a sharp laugh, “I fuckin’ knew it.”

You groan with a roll of your eyes, shifting to move away, only to be caught by his hold. He kisses you. Cups your face and hums like you’re a sweet drink.

“I did too,” he says, as if you didn’t already know. “But I thought I’d get punched.”

You snort, not bothering to deny yourself another kiss before you mumble, “You would’ve.”

He smiles, his mouth still pressed against yours, his fingers spreading and wandering over your thighs, waist, dipping beneath your sweater. You get tangled, shifting over him until your knees are pressed into the couch on either side of him, and he’s letting out a low groan in the back of his throat, fingers squeezing at your lower back like he needs to remind himself where he is in the space of reality.

You don’t know how you stray down the path; things move slowly and fast simultaneously, and his touch is warm and greedy. Rough hands anywhere he can freely reach, lips losing composure against yours before they drag over your jaw and down your neck.

You gasp a wet breath, every pass of his mouth over your skin sends shivers ricocheting down your spine. You tilt your head, hungry for more, chasing the sensation.

Eddie groans, nuzzles against you, and drags in a breath like you can cure him from the inside out. He mumbles something— your name or maybe a curse— and lets his hands drag up against your bare sides and back down to the base of your spine. He pulls you close, moaning when you shift over him, nipping at the skin of your neck when your breath hitches.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers, “You keep doing that, and I’m gonna explode.”

You smile, sinking a hand into his hair, gently directing his mouth back to yours. You shift against him again, tasting his moan just as you’d planned, drinking it down like wine. He kisses you breathless, open-mouthed and slow, dragging his tongue through your mouth until you’re gasping. It’s easy to drown in him. Easy not to think.

He shifts, holds you against him, and places you beneath him on the couch, holding himself up with a hand beside your head. You follow each of his kisses, chasing him when he threatens to wander, fingers curled against his shirt.

His kisses are sloppy and greedy, trailing down your jaw and neck, hands pushing up your sweater to mouth at your tummy as he slinks his way down your body. His hair is messy, barely held with a hair tie, spilling around his face in soft, dark waves. It’s soft beneath your fingertips as you glance down at him, goosebumps rising over your skin when he kisses just below your navel.

You want to look away, the heat crawling up your neck wants you to look away— laugh it off, pretend it’s not serious. But you can’t. You’re caught in it. In him.

Your mind is floaty and warm, neurons misfiring when his rough hands drag over your bare hips, knuckles leaving sparks behind when they curl over the waistband of your shorts to pull them down your thighs.

They’re dropped somewhere off to the side, useless and out of mind, when he smears his lips over the inside of your knee.

He spreads you out, gazing over your clothed core like it holds the answers to life, death, and everything in between.

You’ve never been looked at like this.

Not like you’re just pretty—not like you’re some girl a guy wants to mess around with and forget about. No, Eddie looks at you like you’re his first and last sin, like he’s been wandering through the world with a hunger and only just now figured out what it was for.

And it’s you. You, spread out on his couch, still flushed and buzzing from the slow burn of weed, and his fingers tracing over your thighs like a prelude. You, half naked in panties and a sweater, and nervous beneath the low lamp glow of his bedroom, heart thrumming so hard it makes your breath catch.

His gaze flickers up to yours, brown eyes gleaming with something soft and lustful. He kisses somewhere on your inner thigh, fingers giving you a gentle squeeze.

“You okay?” He asks, voice lower now. Gravely, quieter. Like it’d be a sin to break the hush of the room.

You nod too fast, then slow yourself. “Yeah…” You breathe. Your fingers curl against the couch, elbows digging into the velvet material. “Just… you're looking at me like that.”

His lips twitch into a grin, eyes dropping to your stomach where his hand splays out, anchoring you to the moment. “Can’t help it,” he says, “You’re looking at me like no one’s ever touched you before.”

“Because no one has.”

You don’t realize what you’ve said until the words are already out, barely louder than the low hum of Sabbath still playing in the background.

It’s not like you weren’t planning to tell him. Honestly, you were sure it'd never even get this far. And you’re not ashamed about it. Especially not when all Eddie does is pause, eyes flickering between yours, like he’s tasting the truth of your words.

And then he softens.

His lips curl against your knee, a hand dragging over your other thigh as he murmurs, “Thanks for telling me, honeybee.”

It’s the name— the way it drips from his mouth with a different thickness than all those other times he calls you that— it tugs something loose in your chest.

He drags a finger over your cotton-covered center, just one, barely even applying pressure over the softest part of you. You clench around nothing, throbbing like a heartbeat. And Eddie feels it beneath his thumb.

“Already?” He murmurs, amused, voice a little wicked, a little worshipful. You let out something like a strangled whine hidden in a shaky breath. “That’s cute.”

You shift, lips parted like you want to say something but can’t quite find the words. Eddie leans down and noses at the seam of your thigh, letting his curls tickle your skin.

“Open up for me, baby.”

And you do. Just like that. Without hesitation. Like your brains completely gone and all that’s left thinking for you is your pussy.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and drags them down slowly, like unwrapping a gift. They join your shorts in a forgotten land somewhere.

Eddie settles between your thighs with a look of wonder. “Oh, fuck,” he breathes. “Look at you.”

You’re squirming now. Cheeks burning, legs wanting to close like you can hide your arousal as if it’s not dripping onto his couch, but he holds your thighs open with steady hands.

“Nuh-uh,” he gently says, “C’mon, let me look at you. You’re so fuckin’ pretty.”

Eddie doesn’t look the least bit ashamed of how he’s ogling you. In fact, he seems quite pleased with himself when he dusts a thumb over your clit just to make you clench again, like he wanted to see it for himself this time.

He slides a finger down your pussy, all the way down to the stream of wet, sticky arousal leaking from you. He drags it back up to your clit and introduces a second finger to part your folds, exposing you for all your worth. You squirm, heart racing, something devious and hot settling in your gut.

He hums, hooking a hand around your thigh and pressing a kiss to the inside of it. His lips trail wet kisses along the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed and unhurried. Your breath snags when he lingers, a thumb caressing your hip, eyes flicking up to meet yours again. He looks like he’s waiting for something— permission maybe. Your tongue is heavy in your mouth.

You tilt your hips in invitation.

Eddie moves like a man on a mission.

His mouth brushes over you so gently at first, more thought than touch. His breath is warm against you, cooling the heat of your cunt like ice on hot skin. You gasp, your hips twitching, and he pulls back slightly, murmuring something you can’t quite catch— something that sounds like so sensitive, laced with laughter and awe. He kisses you, lips pursed over your clit like something holy.

Then his tongue moves— slow, deliberate. Laving through your folds, dipping lower to catch the wetness dripping from your hole, tasting it—tasting you. You can feel him learning you. Not fumbling or nervous, but curious— measured. Every flick, every kiss, every drag of his mouth is purposeful, like he’s sorting the puzzle pieces out before placing them down, twisting them this way and that to figure out what makes your legs shake.

And it’s new. So new. You’ve touched yourself before, obviously. But this— Eddie— his tongue, his mouth, his hands? It’s something else entirely. It’s like being rewritten.

“God, you’re sweet,” he groans, voice low and rough against your skin. One hand is firm on your thigh, holding you open, his thumb tracing over the quiver in your muscle. The other drags slowly up your belly, fingers spreading wide, feeling your breath stutter under your palm. A needy breath slips from your lips. You can no longer hold yourself up, the back of your head hitting the couch with a soft thud when your eyes flutter shut, a shaky hand finding his on your tummy, fingers lacing together.

His lips close around your clit, suckling soft and pointed with intention. You moan— unfiltered and raw— and that’s all he needs.

Eddie doubles down, patience out the window, full throttle greed and lust— firm, hungry, focused. The kind of pressure that makes your hips lift, your fingers tight around his, a litany of oh fuck ohfuckohfuck spinning through your mind so fast it barely registers.

You feel full of sensation. The heat curls in you tighter and tighter, unbearable, blinding— and he won’t stop humming and moaning like every drop of you fills him with pleasure too— it makes your toes curl and the coil in your belly tenses.

“C’mon, let go for me,” he mumbles, lips dragging against your center. He licks your clit, suckles, hums. “Don’t hold back on me, baby, just— fuck, give it to me.”

Your eyes fly open. You don’t even remember them squeezing shut. He looks up at you from between your thighs like he’s found religion. Like you’re god and he’s your loyal disciple. And the way you’re unraveling, crying out, legs trembling, stomach contracting under his hand, you think maybe you have to.

Another pass of his tongue, another suck at your clit, and you’re done. You come with a sharp, choked sound, thighs closing around his head as the pleasure bursts white-hot behind your eyes.

And he doesn’t stop. He keeps drinking you in, licking and nuzzling into your wet heat like a man starved. He doesn’t even seem like he has intentions to ever stop— not until your hips twitch away from overstimulation, not until you’re whining out his name in a voice you’ve never heard yourself use before.

He parts from you with a gasp, wet sticky strings of arousal bowing and snapping against his lips. He drags his mouth over the inside of your thigh, sticky pleasure smearing over your skin. His lips are pink and shiny, his grin wicked and proud. He looks wrecked. Happy.

He kisses the fold between your core and your thigh. Mouths his way up over your hip, breathes you in like a drug. “Shit, honeybee,” he pants, nips at your rising tummy before he crawls up your body. “Best meal to date.”

You blink at him, dazed.

He taps your hip when you squirm. You mirror the lazy smile on his face. “Twenty out of ten,” he adds, smug. “Can’t wait for the next visit.”

You laugh, breathless, shy, and boneless. You can’t even be embarrassed.

Eddie kisses you with raw need, humming as he presses his body over you. “I saw heaven. She had your mouth. And your thighs.”

You huff out a laugh, lazy and spent, “You’re gross.”

Eddie doesn’t disagree.

Somewhere between the start of the night and 4 AM, you realize you have to go home.

It’s with a dramatic groan from Eddie and the shameful event of grabbing your panties off his floor that you finally find enough life in your limbs to shove your feet into your shoes and make him grab his keys.

Eddie’s got a shit eating grin on his face the entire drive to your place. He’s humming to the radio like a drunk idiot, drumming made-up rhythms against the skin of your thigh and acting like he can’t tell how often you’re shifting in your seat like you’re sitting on hot rocks. The hot rocks being the constant flicker of mental images of Eddie between your thighs.

You don’t want to leave.

You decided to admit that when he turns the corner onto your street. You wanted to stay there, in the Munson trailer, curled against Eddie and feeling weightless.

But you know you have to. It’s late, and the world is waking up soon, and you’re supposed to be in your room by the time your father passes by your room to say goodbye for the day.

Eddie pulls up just far enough down the street to avoid the headlights hitting your windows. He puts the van in park but doesn’t let go of your hand. When did you even start holding hands?

“Same time tomorrow?”

You glare at him, fingers twisting between his. “That gonna be your signature line all summer?”

Eddie grins, “You love it. Gets you giddy and smiley inside.”

You roll your eyes, failing to suppress the smile on your lips. You lean over to kiss him, just once, quick, before he can make another dumb joke, and you can think too hard about what it means now that you’ve started to kiss him goodbye.

He kisses you back like he means it. Like he always does.

“Go,” he whispers against your lips, one thumb nudging your chin, “Before I change my mind and lock the doors.”

One last kiss through a smile, and you hop out.

You walk the short distance, same as always, cringing at the soft creak of the front door when you open it. The house is still asleep. The faint hum of the fridge, the ticking of a clock. You move up the stairs like a ghost, slow and careful.

You pass Steve’s room, but the echoes of hesitation are nearly gone this time. You’re too happy to stress over the implications. And not at this hour. Not after the night you’ve had.

But then— “…Where the fuck have you been?”

Steve is standing in the bathroom doorway, looking like he’s just stumbled out of a bar fight. His shirt is all twisted, his hair is mussed, and you think you see a bit of dried drool on the corner of his mouth.

Your heart skips a beat, but you’re quick— too quick, maybe, “I was with Mia.”

He stares, eyes squinted in that sleepy glare people get when they barely notice they exist. His jaw ticks once, he blinks, and he nods like he’s decided he’s not awake enough to interrogate that.

You nod, let the tension slide just a little before you move on.

You make it two steps past him— “Since when do you smoke weed?”

You stop. A ghost of Eddie’s fingers pressed against your sides ripples across your skin. “Huh?”

“…You reek.”

You blink and debate whether or not to respond. You glance at Steve, consider the fact that he’s barely standing straight, and then you realize— he probably won’t know if this was real or a dream by the time he wakes up again.

“Goodnight, Steve.”

Your heart is pounding in your ears by the time you shut your bedroom door. You press your back against it, hold your breath, listen for footsteps. Nothing.

Just the hum of your fan, the buzz of leftover weed, the phantom feeling of Eddie all around you, and the one thought left spinning in your head—

You can’t wait to see him again.

There's nobody in the future

So baby let me hand you my love

Oh, there's no step for you to dance to

So slip your hand inside of my glove

- hold me x fleetwood mac

part four.

cutie lil taglist: @kellsck @your-nightmaredoll @hereforshmut @emxxblog @mdurdenpitt @glassbxttless @peculiarwren @aactuaaltraash @daveythorntonslocker @bl1ssfulbaby @strangereads @wdsara48 @cowboylikemunson @mrsjellymunson

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a/n: WOWOWOW GUYS IM SO SORRY FOR SUCH A LONG CHAPPY OMG!!! i also formerly apologize for how LONG this took me to put out, but i hope i did it justice and you'll forgive me hehe

anyway, as always, thank you for riding along, i hope ur enjoying their gross lovesick era, ily and appreciate any and all forms of feedback <3

#fic rec #this was incredible #and cute as shit #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie x reader

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rip-quizilla · 1 month ago

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he's free now

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rip-quizilla · 2 months ago

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DAKOTA JOHNSON and PEDRO PASCAL Off the Cuff | Vogue

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rip-quizilla · 2 months ago

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Guns and Roses: Chapter 4

my fave chapter so farrr

TW: emotional abuse/emotionally abusive relationship, swearing, gaslighting, body image/insecurity, mean not fun words

masterlist

Summary: As the warmth of spring sets in, a day at the lake offers a rare moment of vulnerability between the two. Guards are lowered, emotions come to the surface, and it feels like a turning point—until something happens testing the fragile connection, leaving more hurt in their wake than before.

The first time Joel saw you, it felt like the air around him thickened, freezing him in place. It wasn’t the snow falling gently outside, blanketing the ground in quiet softness—it was the sight of you, standing there with your back to him. Your brown hair caught the dim light, and for one devastating moment, he thought of Tess. That same brown, the same fall of hair down your back, made his heart stutter. He swallowed hard, chest tightening. It had only been a day since he’d arrived in Jackson, and he was still adjusting. His eyes locked on you, memories rushing in, ones he fought every day to bury.

But then you turned. It wasn’t her. Of course, it wasn’t her. It was you. And for some reason, that realization hit him even harder. You were beautiful in a way that made something inside Joel lurch and crack. He tore his gaze away, barely listening as Tommy droned on about the layout of the dining hall, each word just a dull hum against the storm inside Joel’s mind. That beauty—the kind he couldn’t allow himself to feel anything for—had him gripping the reins of his self-control with white-knuckled fists. He could feel his heart drumming in his chest, and he was disturbed at how much your sheer presence had unraveled him. It was dangerous to feel this way, especially here, especially now, and he hated how his control was slipping, the tension in his jaw betraying just how affected he was.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

“I need some air,” he muttered, voice hoarse, cutting off Tommy mid-sentence. Without waiting for a response, Joel pushed through the back door into the cold.

The snow fell in slow, lazy swirls, the air biting into his skin. He stood there, hands braced against the rough wood of a post, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. It wasn’t the cold making him shiver—it was the flood of memories crashing down on him, images of Tess tearing through his mind with relentless force. Her voice, her face, her eyes the last day they’d spent together… and that bite. That awful, rotting wound on her neck, raw and swollen. The edges of the bite were ragged, torn where the infection had begun its merciless spread. The skin around it was discolored, veins darkened and creeping like tendrils of sickness, the center festering with oozing blood. It had been a gruesome, final mark—a sight that made Joel’s stomach lurch, knowing it was the end. That memory clawed at him now, cutting deeper than the cold ever could.

“I never asked you to feel the things I felt.”

Tess’s words echoed through his mind like a curse. He had tried to shake them off back then, tried to bury the guilt and pain deep down where he wouldn’t have to face it. But no matter how hard he tried, it clung to him, a weight that refused to let go. His fingers dug deeper into the rough wood of the post, as if somehow it could anchor him, provide the stability he so desperately craved.

But it didn’t.

The turmoil inside him raged on, unstoppable. She had loved him—he knew that now, too late—and he had felt something for her too. What that feeling was, he couldn’t quite name. But it had scared him, terrified him enough to push her away when she’d needed him most.

Now you stood there, inside the dim lighting of the dining hall, a stranger who didn’t even know him yet, whose eyes hadn’t met his, whose name hadn’t passed his lips. And that terrified him. You were an unknown, someone untouched by the weight of his past, and somehow that made it worse.

His chest tightened further, his hand coming up to rest against his heart.

He felt like he was dying.

His mind spun back to Tess—her trembling hands, her last look, that fierce determination as she made him leave. The fear in her eyes— a type of fear he had never seen from her before—haunted him. He had failed her. And he couldn’t survive failing someone again.

It took him longer than he would have liked to pull himself together, but eventually, the deep breaths began to work. He opened his eyes, the world coming back into focus, and straightened. Tess’s ghost would always linger, but he couldn’t let her memory break him.

When he stepped back inside, the warmth hit him, though it did nothing to ease the tension coiling in his chest. His eyes immediately found you, your soft smile catching him off guard. The kind that could ruin him if he let it.

“Joel, this is—” Tommy’s voice faded into the background again as you stepped forward, extending a hand. You introduced yourself, but the sound of your name barely registered. All he could feel was the warmth of your hand in his, so soft against the roughness of his own.

It was then he made a decision—a choice he knew he couldn’t take back.

He would keep you at arm’s length. No matter how kind or good you seemed, no matter how much the softness in your eyes tempted him to care, he couldn’t afford it. He wouldn’t let you in. Because if you got close—if you really got close—you could leave. You could break his heart, make him feel things he swore he’d never let himself feel again.

Or worse, he would disappoint you.

He’d prove to himself, and to you, that the darkest, deepest parts of his mind were right—that he was a failure of a man.

So, right then and there, as he let go of your hand and forced himself to step back, Joel decided he would do whatever it took to keep you far, far away. He’d be cold, distant, and harsh. He’d make sure you knew your place, even if it wasn’t the truth. Letting you in would mean risking everything he’d built to keep himself together.

And he couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen again.

•••

You were asleep, but it didn’t feel like sleep. Your dream state and reality blurred together, hazy and disorienting. Your body felt heavy, the sheets twisted around you as the familiar dread settled in—a feeling you knew too well. In your mind, you were back in that kitchen, the light dim, the air thick.

You stood in the kitchen, hands trembling as you clutched the edges of the countertop. It was a small thing—a forgotten grocery item. You’d said you were sure you mentioned needing more milk, but he stared at you with that cold, detached look he always got when things weren’t going his way.

“I don’t know why you always do this,” he said, his voice low but edged with accusation. “You never said anything about milk.”

“I did… I swear I did,” you murmured, your voice faltering as doubt crept in. Did you forget? No, you were sure. Weren’t you?

He shook his head, letting out a condescending laugh. “You always make up these things to make me feel like I’m the one who’s wrong. It’s like you enjoy confusing me.”

Your stomach knotted, the familiar fog of guilt settling over you. “I’m not trying to confuse you. I just thought—”

“You’re always thinking the wrong things, aren’t you?” His voice softened, but it wasn’t comforting. It was dismissive, like you were too simple to even get something this basic right. “Maybe if you paid attention once in a while, we wouldn’t have these problems.”

You felt your throat tighten, the words sticking like thorns. The argument wasn’t about the milk anymore—it was about how you were always the problem, always the one messing things up. No matter what you said, you couldn’t win. He made you question your memory, your intentions, even your sanity.

And then he’d turn it around. He’d wrap an arm around you, his voice shifting to that soothing, fake-sweet tone. “I just want you to be better, that’s all. For us. I’m only saying this because I love you,” he said, pressing a kiss to the side of your temple, the gesture so tender, yet it made your skin crawl. The warmth of his lips felt wrong, like a tainted affection that only deepened the pit in your stomach.

But it didn’t feel like love. It felt like you were sinking.

You jolted awake, heart racing, chest tight, the sheets beneath you damp with sweat. The dream had felt so real, like you were right there again, trapped in that endless loop of doubt and guilt. The remnants of his voice still clung to your mind, refusing to fade, making it hard to breathe. It was only when your eyes drifted to the clock hanging on the wall, its hands pointing to 8:02, that you were pulled back into reality.

But even reality offered little relief. The dream had only stirred up Joel's words—the ones that cut just as deeply as your ex’s had. Except Joel had been more direct, more confrontational, less insidious, but still brutal in a way that made you question everything. It had been two long, restless weeks since that conversation in the stables—two weeks of replaying every word, every glance, every breath. And now, all you could think was, why? Why had Joel bothered? Why hadn’t he just kept hating you like before? You’d grown accustomed to the cold indifference, to the distance he had maintained so carefully, like a wall between you both. But now, there was something unsettling in the space between you, something confusing and raw.

His biting words echoed alongside the voices from your past—the same ones that had always made you doubt yourself, made you question if you could ever truly trust someone who could hurt you so deeply, only to turn around and apologize as if it could erase the pain. No matter how many logs he stacked or doors he repaired, you weren’t sure you could move past it.

You took a deep breath and forced yourself out of bed, hoping the morning routine might dull the weight of the dream. It wasn’t until you were brushing your hair that Maria’s invitation to the lake came back to you. The lake, an hour or so outside of Jackson, had been patrolled recently—no signs of infected, no danger, just the promise of calm waters and a quiet escape. The idea of cooling off in the lake’s embrace felt like a lifeline, especially with the oppressive spring heat pressing down, making the air feel thick and suffocating. You could feel the humidity clinging to your skin, beads of sweat gathering at the nape of your neck as the relentless sun bore down, almost punishing. The lake sounded like a reprieve, a chance to cool off and, maybe, push the heavy thoughts aside for a little while.

But when Maria mentioned Joel, you hesitated. Your heart gave a traitorous flutter, and she noticed it instantly—the way your smile faltered just slightly, the flicker of uncertainty in your eyes. You could feel her gaze lingering on you, sharp and perceptive.

“I can ask Tommy not to invite Joel and Ellie?” Maria offered gently, though there was something in her gaze—an unspoken understanding, as if she could sense the hesitation you tried so hard to hide.

You forced a smile, shaking your head as if the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. “No, it’s fine. Really.”

Was it fine? You weren’t sure. After everything, after weeks of coldness followed by... whatever this was? You didn’t know if you could handle that yet. The tension, the confusion that gnawed at you whenever you were near him, had only grown worse since that day.

Maria placed a hand on your arm, her expression soft but with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Don’t worry,” she teased, grinning. “We’ll leave him out there if he says anything outta line.”

You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. A small laugh escaped you, the tension easing slightly. After all, why should Joel’s presence stop you from enjoying yourself? You’d been through enough—why let him take this from you, too? This was your chance to unwind, to escape the weight of your thoughts, even if just for a day.

“Thanks,” you murmured, feeling the knot in your stomach loosen, if only a little.

But now that knot was back, tightening in your stomach as you stood in front of the mirror, eyeing the bikini Maria had brought over. It was beautiful, crafted from leftover fabric she’d skillfully pieced together, but it hugged your curves tighter than you were used to. The way it fit made you feel exposed, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

Memories flooded in, unwanted but persistent—your ex’s voice creeping into your mind. “You should stop wearing stuff like that. It’s too revealing,” he’d said more than once, his tone always sharp, always judgmental. And then the comments about your body, the ones that stung more than you’d ever let him know. “Maybe if you went to the gym more, you’d feel better about yourself.”

The echo of his words made your throat tighten, the familiar shame creeping up. You tugged at the straps, trying to adjust them, but it didn’t help. With a sigh, you slipped on a pair of shorts and a loose tank top, hoping the extra layers might ease the discomfort. The reflection staring back at you felt foreign, as if you were seeing yourself through someone else’s eyes—his eyes.

You took one last glance in the mirror, forcing yourself to turn away before you second-guessed everything again. If you didn’t walk out now, you knew you’d never make it out the door.

But as you walked over to the stables, where you’d all agreed to meet, the thought of seeing Joel tightened something in your chest. You didn’t know where the two of you stood after his apology—whether his words had truly changed anything. You weren’t sure if you were ready to forgive him. You weren’t even sure if you could forgive him. And that was the worst part of it—the not knowing. The uncertainty gnawed at you, leaving you caught in the uneasy space between anger and hurt.

•••

When you arrived, Tommy and Maria were already waiting, gently petting the horses in front of them. You couldn’t help but smile as you watched them, their chemistry unmistakable. They knew each other like the back of their hands—Maria could keep Tommy in check with just a glance, and Tommy always found a way to make her laugh, even in the quietest moments. It was hard not to admire how natural it seemed, the effortless ease between them.

“Hey, sunshine,” Tommy called out, his grin wide and familiar, that teasing nickname he always had for you wrapping around you like a warm embrace.

“Hey, lovebirds,” you teased back, walking over, feeling a little lighter in their presence.

“You excited for today?” Tommy asked, leaning against the stable post with his arms casually crossed, that easygoing smirk never leaving his face.

“Yeah,” you laughed softly, the sound easing some of the tension from your shoulders. “The heat’s been killing me, so a day by the lake sounds like heaven right now.”

Maria chuckled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes twinkling with that familiar warmth. “You and me both. It’s about time we all get a break.”

For a brief moment, the lightness of their company made you forget the weight pressing on your chest. The easy banter, the smiles, the sense of normalcy—it almost felt like you could relax. But then, as the conversation flowed around you, your eyes instinctively scanned the stables, your heart bracing for it. You knew he would be there. You could feel it in your bones, that unsettling awareness growing stronger.

And just like that, the moment you were dreading arrived.

Joel.

He appeared behind Ellie, who greeted everyone with her usual energy, but his presence weighed heavier. You felt it instantly. Your eyes met his for just a fleeting second, but it was enough to send your pulse racing, doubt creeping in—suddenly, this felt like a bad idea.

“Alright, let’s get these horses sorted,” Tommy said, clapping his hands with a grin, either oblivious to—or purposely ignoring—the tension crackling between you and Joel. “Looks like we’re gonna have to do some sharing.” His grin faded into an exaggerated frown as if he were considering the situation seriously, but it was obvious what he was up to.

“Tommy—” Maria started, narrowing her eyes at him, already suspicious. But he cut her off, making a big show of inspecting one of the horses.

“Yeah, uh, one of the horses has a bad leg,” Tommy said, his tone overly casual, waving his hand toward the stable like he was some expert in equine care. “So me, Maria, and Ellie can take one horse, and…” He let the words hang, his eyes flicking between you and Joel with barely contained mischief. “You two will share the other.”

The second those words left his mouth, you and Joel both jumped to object.

“No, I can—”

“Hold on—” Joel started, his voice rough and low, clearly as unhappy with the arrangement as you were.

But Tommy raised his hand, already prepared for the protest. “Now, now, I know what you’re both thinking—‘Tommy, we don’t need to share.’ But look, it’s a real delicate situation with that horse. Can’t risk it limping all the way out there.” He gestured vaguely toward the stable, where the perfectly fine horse stood, as if its imaginary injury were a life-or-death matter. “Besides,” he added, eyes gleaming with mischief, “Maria and I never get to hang out with Ellie.”

Which was a flat-out lie.

Maria groaned, rubbing her temples, while Ellie snickered from behind her hand, thoroughly enjoying the scene.

Tommy’s grin was shameless, and despite every excuse you and Joel tried to form, you both knew there was no talking your way out of this one. You took a deep breath, reminding yourself that it was fine. You were both adults. A short horse ride wasn’t the end of the world. It was only an hour, after all—60 minutes, 3,600 seconds. How bad could that be?

Right?

Joel cleared his throat, his expression unreadable, but his body language gave him away—his shoulders stiff, his jaw clenched. It was painfully obvious this was the last thing he wanted. But there was no backing out now—not without making things even more awkward.

“C’mon,” he muttered, his voice rough as he extended a hand to help you onto the horse. You hesitated for a moment, the thought crossing your mind—I can get on a horse by myself—but you kept quiet. Instead, you took his hand. Your fingers barely grazed his before he pulled away quickly, almost as if the touch had burned him. He couldn’t even meet your eyes. Was he that disgusted by you?

You tried to push the thought away, focusing instead on moving back in the saddle as Joel climbed up in front of you with a groan. The scent of leather and earth clung to him, familiar and unsettling all at once. The space between you felt impossibly small, too intimate, as your knees brushed against his sides. You shifted uncomfortably, trying to find some distance, but no matter how you moved, it was never enough. You were close—too close—and there was no escaping it now.

•••

The ride was quiet. Too quiet. The distant voices of Ellie and the others ahead were little more than murmurs now, their laughter and chatter fading as you and Joel lagged behind. You kept your hands clasped tightly in your lap, determined not to touch him more than absolutely necessary.

But the steady rhythm of the horse’s gait made that resolve harder to keep. With each sway, you felt yourself slipping, your balance faltering as the horse moved beneath you. No matter how hard you tried to steady yourself, your body would tilt forward with every step, brushing against Joel again. The warmth radiating from him, the solidness of his frame, was impossible to ignore, and it only quickened your pulse.

You gritted your teeth, concentrating on staying upright. It was taking everything—your core muscles burning from the effort of holding yourself steady, your thighs clamping down on the horse’s sides to keep yourself in place. The heat wasn’t helping either; the oppressive sun bore down, and sweat beaded along your brow. The combination of the heat and the constant motion made your body ache with effort.

“Would you just—” Joel’s voice cut through the thick silence, low and laced with frustration. He turned to glance at you briefly, his eyes narrowed with irritation, and even in that fleeting look, you could see the tension in his shoulders. “You’re gonna fall off the damn horse if you don’t hold on.”

His words were sharper than necessary, rough and unyielding, but there was something beneath the surface. It wasn’t just annoyance—it was something else. Like he hated that he had to care, that he couldn’t just let it go.

What did it matter to him if you fell off the horse? Why did he care at all?

You hesitated, hovering for a moment before finally giving in, wrapping your arms around his waist. The heat of his body was immediate, the solid weight of him grounding you in a way that took you by surprise. This was the closest you had ever been to him, and your heart pounded in rhythm with the horse’s steady steps. Neither of you spoke, the silence thick, broken only by the rhythmic clop of hooves and the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind.

Finally, the lake came into view, its waters shimmering under the midday sun, a sight that should have been a relief. As you loosened your grip on Joel, you felt a strange mix of emotions—relief tinged with something else, something more difficult to name. Something stirred beneath the surface—something visceral, raw, that you hadn’t even realized was there until now.

•••

You waited for Joel to dismount first, watching as he landed with that quiet, grounded grace he always seemed to have. Just as you were about to slide off the horse on your own, you noticed him turn back toward you, his hand extended. Your eyebrows shot up involuntarily, the gesture catching you off guard. Joel offering help wasn’t something you were used to.

For a brief moment, you hesitated, but before you could overthink it, Joel stepped closer, his hand resting lightly on your waist as he guided you down. The contact was steady, his grip firm but not rough, and the unexpected warmth of his touch sent a ripple through you. You barely had time to react before your feet hit the ground.

“Thanks,” you mumbled softly, your voice more sheepish than you’d intended. The touch was brief, but enough to linger, your heart beating a little faster than it should.

You quickly stepped back, letting go of his hand and focusing on steadying yourself while Joel moved to tie up the horse. From a distance, Maria caught your eye, raising her eyebrows in a silent question—You okay? You nodded quickly, offering her a small, reassuring smile before turning your gaze to the shimmering lake, hoping it would calm the whirlwind of feelings stirring inside you.

The water sparkled under the midday sun, the surface glistening like a thousand diamonds scattered across the blue expanse. It was beautiful—peaceful in a way that made you momentarily forget the awkwardness and tension lingering around you. A soft smile spread across your face as you took in the sight, the warmth of the day finally settling into your bones.

Ellie, unsurprisingly, was the first to dive in, her energetic somersault sending a splash echoing across the quiet landscape, jolting you from your thoughts. You laughed, shaking your head as she resurfaced with a triumphant grin, water dripping from her hair and eyes shining with pride.

“Show-off,” you called out, a smile tugging at your lips as Ellie splashed around, her carefree spirit contagious.

"She’s something, ain’t she?" you said to Maria as she came up beside you.

Maria chuckled softly. "Yeah, she keeps us all on our toes, that’s for sure," she replied with a grin, peeling off her outer layers to reveal the swimsuit underneath.

"You coming?" she asked, glancing over at you as she adjusted her straps.

“In a second,” you responded with a smile, watching as made her way to the lake.

"Don't take too long!" Maria called back with a grin as she entered the water, instantly enveloped by Tommy’s arms, their playful splashes and laughter ringing through the air. There was a carefree joy in their movements, a natural ease that spoke of years spent together, of shared moments and quiet understanding.

For a moment, a familiar pang of loneliness settled deep in your chest. You’d always been good at hiding it, masking it behind independence and keeping yourself busy. But being around couples like Tommy and Maria—watching the effortless way they moved together, the love they shared so openly—reminded you of something you had long buried, or at least tried to. The ache of wanting that kind of closeness, of sharing your life with someone who truly knew you, hit harder than you expected, leaving you feeling more exposed than the summer heat could explain. But with the promise of love came the risk of vulnerability—the fear of being too much or not enough. The idea of opening yourself up like that, of letting someone in, carried a weight you weren’t sure you were ready to bear.

Shaking off the feeling, you bent down to unlace your boots, slipping out of your shorts and tank top. Your swimwear hugged your body a little too tightly, making you feel self-conscious under the sun’s glaring light. It had been years since you’d felt truly confident in your body—before the words that had forever changed the way you saw yourself, leaving invisible scars behind.

You assumed Joel was still occupied with tying up the horses, his back turned to the group. But as you straightened up, you could feel his gaze on you, the weight of it unmistakable. His presence, always so quiet and watchful, sent the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end.

You turned slightly, catching Joel’s eyes trailing over your body before he quickly averted his gaze. But not quickly enough. That brief look—just a flicker of something in his eyes—sent a rush of heat through you. Suddenly, you felt shy, arms wrapping around yourself instinctively, as if you could shield yourself from the weight of his gaze. You had never expected to feel exposed around him, never thought his glance would affect you like this. Yet here you were, standing at the edge of the lake, completely thrown off by the raw intensity of the moment.

Joel cleared his throat, the sound breaking the thick silence between you. His hand remained on the horse’s reins, gripping them tightly as though he needed something solid to ground himself. His face gave nothing away, but the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly, betrayed him. It felt like he was holding something back—something unspoken.

You thought you heard him murmur something under his breath, too quiet to catch. Whatever it was, it sent a ripple of tension through the air, making you even more aware of the shift between you. He didn’t meet your eyes again, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever he had whispered was meant to stay unsaid. The moment hung between you, heavy and uncertain, leaving you more unsettled than before.

You took a step toward the lake, needing something—anything—to pull you away from the weight of that moment, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of his eyes still lingering on you. Even as you walked, his gaze felt like a tangible presence, and it took all your effort not to glance back.

You stepped into the cool water, the sharp contrast against the heat of the day sending a shiver through your body. The chill was refreshing, grounding you as it enveloped your skin. Ellie, of course, was quick to start splashing you, her laughter echoing across the lake, wild and infectious. She spun through the water with boundless energy, her joy impossible to resist.

Tommy and Maria soon joined in, their playful banter filling the air, and for a brief moment, you let yourself be swept up in it. You laughed, dodging Ellie’s relentless splashes, the cool water against your skin making you feel lighter. For those few minutes, the tension eased, and all that mattered was the simple joy of being in the water, laughing alongside them.

But from the shore, Joel watched—quiet, steady, and distant, his eyes following your every move, even if he tried to hide it.

Joel’s POV:

He couldn’t stop himself from looking. Couldn’t stop himself from noticing every little thing about you—the way your small hands had clung to him on the horse, the heat of your grip still lingering on his skin. And now, there you stood, at the edge of the lake, exposed under the bright sun, bare in a way that made it hard to breathe. His eyes traced your form, and before he could stop himself, he muttered under his breath, “Fucking hell.”

The way your gaze had held him, the way you moved—it was undoing him. Every ounce of distance he had fought tooth and nail to keep, every wall he had meticulously constructed, crumbled in an instant. Months of hard-earned control, months of convincing himself that he didn’t care, that you didn’t matter, shattered with just one look. He had thought he was safe, thought keeping you at arm’s length would protect him, would be enough to keep you away. He thought if he could just say the right things, those cruel, cutting words—the ones that slashed through you, calling you a burden—it would be enough to drive you away for good.

And it had worked. He saw the way your face crumpled when he said it, the way your heart seemed to break right in front of him. That moment had haunted him ever since, the memory clawing at him in the dead of night. If he had truly wanted to keep you away, he should’ve stopped there. He shouldn’t have fixed your door. He shouldn’t have apologized. Hell, he shouldn’t have come here today, where every glance at you was undoing him in ways he couldn’t stop.

But here he was, watching you, and realizing it had never been enough.

You had wormed your way into him, past every defense he’d spent years perfecting, twisting something deep inside him—something he thought he’d buried so far down it couldn’t ever resurface. But you’d found it. You slipped through cracks he didn’t even know existed, without even meaning to, and now, watching you, he felt everything unravel. The walls, the distance, the control—it was all crumbling around him, and the worst part was, he couldn’t stop it.

He didn’t know if he even wanted to anymore.

Then, you stepped into the lake, and it stopped him cold. The sun caught your hair, turning it to gold as you waded through the cool water, the surface rippling around you like silk. Your cheeks were flushed with a rosy pink from the sun, your skin smooth as it peeked through the water’s surface, glistening in the light. Your laughter—light and unburdened—floated across the air, so carefree, it felt like a melody he didn’t deserve to hear. You were radiant, glowing with a joy he hadn’t seen in you before—not around him, anyway. A small, unbidden smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, slipping through the cracks of the guard he kept so carefully in place.

It wasn’t just this moment that cut through him; it was the memories. Seeing you around Jackson, time and time again, he tried to keep you from occupying his thoughts—and failed every single time. From the very beginning, from the first time he saw you in the dining hall, your presence had unsettled him, and it hadn’t gotten easier since. He remembered the first patrol you’d taken together—how he had to force himself not to look at you for too long. How he silently berated himself for letting that raider get so close to you. He thought of the time he’d cut his hand open, and how you’d carefully stitched him up. He would’ve rather let the hand fall off than have you that close, because it did something to him, something he couldn’t afford to feel.

He would catch glimpses of you at the stables, in the market, moving through town with that same smile you wore so easily. You were kind, always kind—and he had been nothing but cruel to you.

And that’s when it hit him—guilt, sharp and brutal. Seeing you like this, so free, so happy, twisted something deep inside him, because he knew. He knew that, more often than not, his presence had cast a shadow over you. You were better without him. Lighter. And damn if that didn’t burn more than anything else.

"Joel!" Tommy’s voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him back to the present. "You gonna stand by that damn horse all day or join us?"

Joel blinked, realizing Tommy and Maria were both staring at him, grins on their faces. Ellie floated nearby, splashing water aimlessly. He narrowed his eyes at Tommy, his usual scowl slipping into place, but Tommy just raised an eyebrow in challenge, undeterred.

Joel let out a heavy sigh, pushing off the tree where the horse was tied. His feet felt heavy as he walked toward the edge of the lake, the tightness in his chest growing with each step he took toward the water—and toward you.

You were there, just a little ways from the others, your back turned to him as you floated peacefully, completely unaware of the way his gaze lingered. The sun glistened off the surface of the water, highlighting the smooth curve of your shoulders, the way your hair clung to your neck. His chest tightened further.

Without a word, Joel reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and over his head. For a moment, everything seemed to slow—the air felt thick, like even the wind was holding its breath, waiting for something to break.

Just as he pulled the shirt off, you glanced over your shoulder, and for a heartbeat, your eyes locked. The lake, the people, the sounds of laughter all faded into the background as that unspoken tension settled between you again, thick and palpable.

He hesitated, shirt in hand, the water lapping at the edges of his boots. And you were looking at him—not with annoyance or indifference, but with something that made his chest tighten. Something he hadn’t expected to see in your eyes.

Joel finally pulled his shirt off, and your breath caught in your throat. For a moment, you were frozen, unable to tear your eyes away from him. The way his body moved, the sheer strength in his broad shoulders and muscular arms, was hard to ignore. His skin was tanned and weathered, a testament to years of hard labor and survival. Scars traced across his chest—some faded, others fresher—each one a silent story of the battles he’d fought, and won. They crisscrossed over his skin like a map of pain and endurance.

Despite the roughness, he looked good—better than you had ever let yourself imagine. His body was broad, solid, and the soft swell of his abdomen triggered a heat between your legs. His skin gleamed under the sunlight, the muscles in his back shifting as he tossed the shirt aside, his jaw clenched in that familiar, determined way.

And then you realized what you were doing—biting your lip as your gaze lingered too long on the way the sun kissed his skin, how his body moved. Heat rushed to your cheeks, embarrassment creeping in as you quickly turned away, but not before he caught you looking.

He stepped into the water the cool lake seemed to welcome him as he waded in, the ripples spreading around his legs, the water shimmering against his tanned skin. You couldn’t stop watching—how could you?—as he drew closer, the water now lapping at his waist, glistening droplets clinging to the lines of his body.

You forced yourself to tear your gaze away, swallowing the heat that had suddenly risen in your chest. Turning back to Ellie, you splashed her playfully, hoping the cool water would distract you from the sudden tightness in your throat, the strange warmth creeping across your skin.

But it was hard to ignore the feeling that the temperature had gotten hotter—not from the sun, but from something else entirely.

•••

You had been in the lake for what felt like hours, the cool water a soothing contrast against your warm skin, your fingers slowly pruning from the time spent submerged. Your hair floated softly around your shoulders, catching the fading light as the sun began its descent, casting a golden glow over everything. The sky had shifted into breathtaking hues of pink and orange, the kind of beauty that made the world feel still for just a moment.

Ellie, Tommy, and Maria had already climbed out of the lake, their laughter echoing as they made their way to dry off. You half-expected Joel to follow them, to leave the water behind, to leave you behind. You braced yourself for the sound of him moving through the water, for the quiet splash that would signal his retreat. But it never came.

Instead, silence stretched between you, broken only by the gentle lapping of the water against your skin. The lake suddenly felt smaller, like it was closing in around you both, as if the world had narrowed until it was just the two of you, floating in the stillness.

Then, without warning, you felt it—the gentle current, or perhaps something else, pulling you closer to him. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the space between you shrank until your body drifted into his. The contact was soft at first, barely there—a brush of skin, a collision of warmth in the coolness of the lake.

“Sorry,” you murmured, the word slipping out as your heart pounded in your chest. You moved to pull away, but before you could, his hands found your waist, his touch gentle but firm, grounding you in place. His fingers curled around your hips—not possessive, but steady—like he was anchoring both of you in that fleeting moment.

“S’alright,” Joel said, his voice low and rough, thick with something you couldn’t name. In the quiet, it sounded almost too intimate, the words carrying more weight than they should. As if realizing it himself, he quickly withdrew his hands from your waist, but he didn’t move away. He stayed close, the two of you now facing each other in the water.

The lake swirled around you both, but all you could feel was the heat radiating from his body, the way his touch seemed to linger in the coolness of the water. Your breath hitched, your heart beating in time with the soft ripple of the lake. The silence between you felt heavy, charged with something you couldn’t shake, and the air around you thickened as if waiting for something to happen.

You looked up at him, and in the soft glow of the setting sun, his face was bathed in gold. His eyes—usually so guarded, so hard—were softer now, searching yours with something you had never seen before. There was an intensity in his gaze, but beneath it, a tenderness lingered, like he was silently asking a question he wasn’t ready to voice. The pull between you made your chest tighten with something unnameable, a feeling that left you off balance, dazed and heavy.

You were acutely aware of where his skin brushed against yours—the faint caress of his hands that had barely touched you moments ago, the way your legs accidentally bumped his beneath the water. Despite the closeness, something fragile hung in the air, as if the moment would shatter if either of you moved too suddenly.

Joel cleared his throat, shifting slightly, his eyes breaking away from yours for a split second. “You, uh… you doin’ alright?” His voice was rough, awkward, like he wasn’t used to asking such questions, especially not to you.

You blinked, surprised by the softness in his tone. He had never been cruel, exactly, but this gentleness? This was new.

“Yeah, I’m… fine,” you stammered, your own voice sounding more breathless than you’d intended. You glanced down, focusing on the water, but the tension still thrummed between you.

“You don’t usually ask how I’m doing,” you added, your lips curling slightly in a nervous smile.

Joel huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I don’t, do I?” His eyes darted back to yours, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. “I ain’t… I’m not always good at this.”

“This?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “You mean… being nice?”

Joel sighed, the words he wanted to say slipping through his fingers. You could see the struggle in the way his brow furrowed, the unspoken weight of whatever it was he was holding back. His lips parted as if to say something, but nothing came out. He just stood there, a man at war with himself.

“It’s okay, Joel,” you said softly, sensing the awkward tension rising between you. “You don’t owe me anything.”

His eyes flickered with something raw, and for a split second, his brows drew together as if your words had stung. That brief moment of vulnerability caught you off guard—it hurt him. He didn’t like hearing it, didn’t like you thinking that he didn’t care or didn’t want to.

Joel swallowed hard, his jaw clenching as he tried to keep his composure. "I know I don’t," he finally muttered, his voice quieter now, rougher. "But that ain’t the point." His gaze locked on yours, more intense than before. He wanted to say more, wanted to bridge the gap between you, but the words just wouldn’t come.

You stayed there, waist-deep in the water, not knowing what to say next. The silence between you had shifted again, thick with the weight of emotions neither of you were ready to confront. You could feel it—the pull, the undeniable gravity of something deeper growing between you, as if the water itself was holding the tension, making every ripple feel like an unspoken truth pressing in from all sides.

For an instant, you could see the battle in his eyes, as if he was torn between wanting to pull you closer and keeping you at arm's length. It was as if everything he’d ever told himself about you—the distance he tried to maintain—was unraveling, crumbling under the weight of this moment. He wanted you to need him, to see him in a way he had never allowed himself to admit.

Despite everything he’d told himself from the moment you met, now, more than ever, he wanted to be needed by you.

•••

Eventually, you had gotten out of the water, the chill in the air making the warmth of the lakeside feel even more inviting. The group had gathered lazily on the shore, towels draped over your shoulders as the last traces of sunlight kissed the horizon. You sat down, still wrapped in the lingering tension of the moment with Joel, but trying to push it aside as everyone settled into the familiar ease of friendly chatter.

That’s when you noticed Maria, her expression a little more serious than usual as she glanced anxiously at Tommy. She took his hand in hers, squeezing it like she was gathering strength from him, her excitement barely contained beneath the surface.

“We’ve got something to share with y’all,” Maria finally said, her voice soft but brimming with anticipation.

Tommy grinned, the kind of grin that said he’d been dying to spill the news but had managed to hold back—just barely. He gave Maria an encouraging nod, unable to contain his excitement.

“I’m pregnant!” Maria blurted out, her smile lighting up as the words left her.

For a second, the world seemed to pause, and then everything shifted. The air buzzed with the energy of the announcement as it sank in. Ellie was the first to react, her eyes wide before she let out a whoop of pure joy, practically leaping over to hug Maria.

"Holy shit, Maria! That’s amazing!" Ellie laughed, spinning around, her excitement contagious.

“Oh my God, Maria!” you exclaimed, scrambling to your feet. You rushed over to her, wrapping her in a tight hug and kissing her cheek. “Congratulations!” you said, your smile wide and genuine as you turned to Tommy and hugged him too. “This is incredible.”

“Thanks,” Maria said, her eyes shining with happiness.

“How long have you known?” you asked, still buzzing from the news.

“A month or so,” Maria replied, her smile softening as she glanced at Tommy. “We’ve been keeping it quiet until we were sure.”

“I’m so happy for you two,” you said, squeezing her hand.

Joel stood up, moving toward Tommy with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, murmuring a quiet "congratulations." He extended his hand for a shake but, at the last second, pulled Tommy into a brief, firm hug instead.

Tommy chuckled, clapping Joel on the back. “You ready to teach me a thing or two?” he asked, a grin spreading across his face.

Joel’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but he nodded, his voice soft. “You’ll figure it out,” he said. “You always do.”

Teach him? The thought echoed in your mind, lingering. Had Joel… had children before? The idea twisted something inside you. It made sense, the way he spoke with that quiet, heavy knowledge, like someone who had been through something unspeakable. The realization left you feeling unsettled, a sudden wave of sadness washing over you.

Ellie’s voice echoed in your mind from weeks ago: “He’s lost people.” The memory made your chest tighten. There was a quiet ache there, a sense of grief lingering beneath the surface of his rough exterior.

Joel’s gaze flickered toward you for a brief moment, and even in that split second, something passed between you—something unspoken, something heavy. It sent a ripple through the quiet moment, a fleeting connection that only deepened the mystery surrounding him.

And just like that, the celebration continued around you, full of laughter and joy. But as you watched, the pull of Joel’s quiet presence lingered, leaving you with more questions than answers, more curiosity than clarity.

Still, it wasn’t the time for those thoughts right now. Pushing them aside, you flashed a smile and said, "Well, we have to celebrate!" You glanced between Tommy and Maria, your eyes twinkling with excitement, determined to keep the mood light despite the heaviness tugging at the edges of your mind.

Tommy clapped his hands together, breaking the moment. “Alright, let’s hit the Tipsy Bison and raise a glass, or five, to the new baby Miller.”

•••

It was now well into the night by the time you left the lake, the stars twinkling above as the heat of the day finally gave way to a cool breeze. You found yourself back on Joel’s horse, your arms slipping around his waist with ease this time, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t have to ask you to hold on. You just did, without question, the tension between you from earlier now softened by the gentle sway of the ride and the exhaustion that clung to your limbs after hours in the sun and water.

You watched the broad line of Joel’s back as he rode, the ends of his hair still damp, occasionally catching a glint of moonlight as it dripped slightly. His presence, steady and solid, lulled you into a state of quiet comfort. The rhythm of the horse, the warmth of his body, and the stillness of the night all blended together, creating a cocoon of calm.

Without warning, you felt your eyelids grow heavy, the day catching up to you. Before you knew it, your head dipped forward, and you were fast asleep against Joel’s back, your arms slack but still resting around him. You didn’t hear him when he said your name softly, testing to see if you were still awake.

When you didn’t reply, Joel sighed under his breath. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with something between amusement and exasperation. “Gonna be the death of me.”

He adjusted his posture just slightly, careful not to jostle you too much as the horse trotted along the quiet path back to Jackson. The warmth of your body leaning into his back felt different now—less awkward, less loaded with tension, and more like an unspoken understanding. A quiet intimacy that neither of you needed to comment on.

When you arrived back at the stables Joel reined in the horse and glanced over his shoulder at you, still slumped peacefully against him. He shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He reached back, shaking your shoulder gently to wake you. “Hey,” he called softly, “Wake up. We’re here.”

You stirred slowly, blinking as you fought to shake off the drowsiness. Your eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, you were disoriented, the stillness of the night and the gentle sway of the horse making you feel like you were still dreaming.

“Heavy sleeper, aren’t you?” Joel’s voice pulled you from your half-daze. You blinked, disoriented for a second, glancing around the now-empty stables, trying to remember where you were.

“Huh?” you mumbled, still a little confused.

Joel’s eyebrow quirked, and his mouth twitched with amusement. “You still wanna go to the bar, or you want me to take you home?”

You straightened up quickly, rubbing your eyes. “No, no. We’re celebrating one way or another,” you said, trying to shake off the fog. “I just had a quick power nap, that’s all.”

Joel chuckled, a low, warm sound that surprised you. It was the first time you’d ever heard him laugh at something you’d said, and it caught you off guard. The corners of his mouth lifted in a way that softened his usually guarded expression.

Joel dismounted first, his movements deliberate and slow, turning back to offer you a hand. His hands found your waist again, firm but gentle, steadying you as you slid down from the horse.

“Where did Maria and Tommy go?” you asked, your voice still a bit groggy as your feet hit the ground.

“They headed out a few minutes before us,” Joel replied, his tone calm but with a hint of teasing. “Had to wake you up, remember?”

You blinked, the memory of him gently nudging you awake still a little hazy. “Right… power nap,” you mumbled with a sheepish smile.

Joel’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “Yeah, sure looked like it.” His eyes softened slightly as they met yours, a subtle warmth there that hadn’t been before.

•••

The Tipsy Bison was anything but quiet. The room buzzed with life, a steady hum of voices and laughter filling the air as people gathered after a long day of hard labor. The place was rugged and worn, but comfortable—the wooden floors creaked underfoot, and the scent of old leather and whiskey hung in the air. Dim lanterns cast a warm, amber glow over the tables, where Jackson’s residents shared stories and tried to forget the weight of the world outside, even if just for a few hours.

You stood at the bar with Maria, ordering her an orange juice and three beers for yourself, Joel, and Tommy. Behind you, Tommy and Joel were seated at a table near the corner, their heads leaned in slightly as they murmured to each other.

As you waited for the drinks, you turned to Maria, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Maria, seriously, I’m so happy for you,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. You didn’t realize it until you felt the tears brimming in your eyes.

“Don’t cry,” Maria laughed, blinking rapidly as she fought back her own tears. “You’re gonna make me cry, and we’ll both be a mess.”

You let out a small laugh, brushing at your eyes. “No, seriously. I can’t wait to meet this baby. I’m going to be the most insufferable aunt ever,” you added with a grin, “and this baby is going to be spoiled rotten.”

Maria’s smile softened, and for a moment, the noise of the bar faded into the background. “I know you will be,” she said quietly, her voice filled with warmth. She reached out and squeezed your hand. “Thank you.”

As she let go, Maria's eyes glinted with mischief, her teasing smile returning. “So… you and Joel, huh? I saw you two at the lake today. Seemed… close.”

Your face instantly flushed, and you fumbled for words, completely caught off guard. “I-I don’t know,” you stammered, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. “He’s just… been nicer, I guess? Not as grumpy as usual.”

Maria chuckled softly, raising an eyebrow as if she wasn’t quite convinced. “Nicer, huh? Sounds like progress to me.”

Just then, the bartender set your drinks down, breaking the moment to your relief. You picked them up, handing Maria her orange juice before heading toward Joel and Tommy, who were still deep in conversation, their heads bent close as they spoke in low voices. As you approached, you could hear the faint murmur of their discussion, though you couldn’t make out the words.

You glanced at Joel, a smile tugging at your lips before you even realized it. The day had gone so much better than you had expected. Joel’s usual gruff exterior had softened into something different, something softer. You hadn’t expected to see this side of him—the man behind the walls he kept so carefully in place.

And in that moment, as you walked toward Joel, you made a choice. The bitterness you’d been holding onto for so long was finally starting to thaw. His small kindnesses today—the way his hand had brushed your waist when he helped you off your horse, the quiet looks he gave you when he thought you weren’t watching—had planted the smallest seed of hope in you. Maybe, just maybe, things could be different between you two. Maybe you could leave the hurt behind, move past the sharp words and the tension that had defined your every interaction.

But then you heard it.

Tommy, with that usual playful smirk, leaned in closer to Joel. “So… you and her, huh?”

You and Maria froze mid-step, still a few meters away, unnoticed.

Joel’s entire body stiffened. Even from behind, you could see the tension ripple through his posture, his grip tightening around his glass, jaw clenched as if trying to hold something back. You couldn’t see his face, but his voice was enough. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” he muttered, low and tight, like he was struggling to keep control.

Tommy chuckled, oblivious to the storm brewing in Joel’s chest. “Come on, man. I saw the way you two were today at the lake. You’ve been spendin’ time with her, helpin’ her out. Thought you couldn’t stand her at first, but now…” He shot Joel a look, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “She’s a good girl, Joel. Real sweet. Pretty too. Can’t say I’d blame you if—”

“Stop,” Joel snapped, his voice sharp, cutting through the air like a whip. There was an edge to it that hadn’t been there before—a coldness, an urgency, like he was desperate to shut this conversation down before it went any further.

Tommy blinked, startled by the sudden harshness in his brother’s tone. “Whoa, hey. I’m just sayin’—”

But Joel’s mind was racing. His heart pounded in his chest, blood rushing in his ears. He hadn’t expected Tommy to bring this up, hadn’t expected to be confronted with the truth that had been gnawing at him for weeks. You were getting under his skin, and that scared the hell out of him. Today had only confirmed what he’d feared—that he’d let you in too far, let himself care too much. You were the closest anyone had come since Tess, and that terrified him.

He’d had a good day with you today, better than he’d had in a long time with anyone. It had been easy to be nice, to let the tension between you slip away for a few hours. The way you had smiled at him, the way your laugh had filled the space between you both, made it impossible for him not to soften. For a moment, he had allowed himself to forget the walls he had built, to push aside the fear that constantly gnawed at him.

But hearing Tommy mention it—seeing someone else notice the change in him—sent a jolt of panic straight to his core. It was like the spotlight had been turned on, illuminating the truth he’d been trying to bury. Tommy had seen it, the closeness, the way Joel had softened around you. If Tommy could notice it, how long until you did too?

The realization hit him hard. He couldn’t afford to let you get that close. He couldn’t allow himself to feel this way, to care this deeply. The last time he’d let someone in, the cost had been unbearable. Losing Tess had shattered something inside him, and now, the idea of losing you—of letting himself care enough that it could hurt him like that again—was paralyzing.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do. He pushed you away.

“She’s annoying, Tommy,” Joel said, his voice hard and clipped, each word forced out like a bitter pill. “Doesn’t know what she’s doin’ half the time. Always in the way. Trust me, I could never be with someone like that.”

The words hung in the air, thick and heavy, like a blow that landed right in your gut.

Tommy’s smile faltered, his face falling into disbelief. “Jesus, Joel…” he muttered, shaking his head, the warmth in his voice gone, replaced with quiet disappointment.

But Joel didn’t see you standing there—had no idea you were close enough to hear every cruel word. The cold indifference in his voice cut deeper than any wound. It wasn’t just that he didn’t care—it was that he dismissed you, reduced you to an annoyance, a burden. A burden he barely tolerated.

The sound of glass shattering on the floor yanked both men’s attention back towards you.

You stood there, frozen in place, the beers you had been carrying now in pieces at your feet, amber liquid spreading across the wooden floor. Your heart felt like it had been torn apart, the weight of his words crashing over you, suffocating you. You had heard every single word, each one striking harder than the last, until the fragile hope you had been holding onto crumbled to dust. The air felt heavy, your chest tightening painfully, each breath a struggle as the full force of his rejection washed over you.

Tears welled up in your eyes, the dam breaking before you could stop it. No amount of blinking could hold them back now—they spilled down your cheeks freely, hot and unstoppable.

Maria stood beside you, her hand flying up to cover her mouth, her wide eyes darting between you and Joel, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she had just witnessed.

Joel’s gaze finally met yours, and the look on your face—the hurt, the betrayal—hit him harder than anything he’d ever felt. The coldness in his chest, the wall he had tried to build between himself and his feelings for you, shattered in an instant. His heart twisted painfully, and for a fleeting moment, you saw regret flicker across his face.

But it was too late. The damage had already been done.

He opened his mouth, as if to say something, to explain, to fix the mess he had just created, but the words wouldn’t come. They stuck in his throat, useless.

You didn’t wait for him to speak. Without a word, you turned and walked away, the tears streaming down your face, your breath coming in short, shaky gasps.

You had been ready to forgive him. You had been willing to let go of the past, to give him—and the two of you—a chance. But now? Now you weren’t sure if you ever could.

Not after this.

•••

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#bashing my head against the computer screen #dammit joel #what a dick #please communicate #you 45 year old man child #fic rec #joel miller #joel miller x reader

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rip-quizilla · 2 months ago

Text

Guns and Roses: Chapter 3

Chapter Summary: At dinner with Tommy and Maria, you navigate the awkward tension with Joel, who appears to be displaying subtle signs of change. As the days progress, you find yourself grappling with the complexities of his words and actions, trying to decipher the shifting dynamics of your relationship.

11k words.... no comment No TW, enjoy !!! Lemme know if you’d like to be added to the tag list, thank you so much for your support guysss Previous chapter

It had been a week since that patrol with Joel—a week since you’d carefully stitched up his hand, and those quiet words he’d spoken still lingered, refusing to leave your thoughts. In the days that followed, you’d buried yourself in work—tending the garden, taking on extra watch shifts, anything to keep your hands busy and your mind from wandering to him. You hadn’t seen him at all—not in town, not at the gates, not during the late hours when patrols overlapped. You hadn’t felt the weight of his gaze, that quiet intensity that always seemed to linger when he looked your way. And maybe that was for the best. Easier. Simpler. Less complicated by the tangle of feelings you weren’t ready to face.

You came home late from an extra patrol you’d picked up with Maria, the cold biting into your skin, each gust of wind slicing like shards of glass. Exhaustion clung to you, settling deep in your bones, dragging your steps as you trudged down the empty, snow-covered street. The soft glow of the streetlights flickered faintly, casting long shadows across the snow.

By the time you reached your front door, your fingers were numb, stiff from the cold. Just like clockwork, the knob resisted you—stubborn and unyielding, as it always did. You muttered a string of curses under your breath, the sound carried away by the biting wind as you jiggled the handle. For months, you’d meant to ask Tommy to fix it, but it always slipped your mind—until moments like this, when exhaustion weighed you down, the cold gnawed at your skin, and all you craved was the warmth waiting inside.

But the damn door had other plans.

Finally, after what felt like a battle of wills, the door gave way, and you stumbled inside. The warmth greeted you like a long-lost friend, wrapping around you, instantly melting away the chill that had seeped into your bones. You stood there for a moment, letting the quiet of the house settle over you, your breath escaping in a soft sigh. With a weary kick, you sent your boots tumbling off, shaking the stubborn remnants of snow from your clothes, relieved to finally be home.

Upstairs, you peeled off your clothes and stepped into the shower, the hot water hitting your skin like a balm. It melted away the grime and exhaustion, the day’s weight slowly washing down the drain. You closed your eyes, surrendering to the warmth, the steady hiss of the water drowning out the world. For a brief moment, there was nothing but the soothing heat on your skin, each droplet tracing lazy paths down your neck, over your shoulders, and along your back. You sighed deeply, releasing the day’s burdens with it.

After your shower, you wrapped yourself in a towel and padded quietly across the floor, the cold air biting at your damp skin. You crawled into bed, where the soft sheets welcomed you, their coolness quickly warming against your body. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, a gentle reminder of Maria’s sachets, mingling with the earthy scent of the cabin’s aged wood. The weight of the blankets settled over you, grounding you, cocooning you from the chill of the night that pressed against the window.

In this silence, an escape from the chaos outside, you could finally let the world fade away—its noise, its burdens, slipping into the background like a distant hum.

As you lay there, the quiet of the room enveloped you, and your mind began to wander. You thought about life—how everything had shifted, how different it all was now. The past felt so distant, almost like a dream. There was a time, before Jackson, before the world fractured, when the most trivial issues consumed your thoughts—what to eat for dinner, whether to meet up with friends after school, the simple, everyday choices that seemed so important then. Now, those concerns felt like relics of another life, buried beneath the weight of all that had changed. You had learned to live with the loss, to accept that some wounds never fully heal, yet the emptiness still lingered beneath the surface, like a quiet ache that never really faded.

Jackson had given you stability, a sense of home you hadn’t felt in years. It was strange, really, how something so small and unremarkable could offer so much comfort. Tommy and Maria—kind, steady, always there—had become your anchors, giving you a place to belong when you thought that feeling was lost forever. You’d stumbled upon Jackson by chance, after weeks of traveling alone, exhausted and battered by the world outside. You hadn’t expected to stay, let alone find safety, but something about the place, the people, made it feel like a refuge from the constant chaos.

Maria, with her quiet strength, had been the first to welcome you. Her friendship slowly chipped away at the loneliness you carried like a second skin. Tommy, with his warmth and easy smiles, always ready with a joke or quick laugh, made the weight of life feel just a little bit lighter.

Yet, even with Jackson’s security and the friendship of people like Tommy and Maria, you tried to avoid the thoughts that crept in during the quiet moments—the yearning for someone to truly share your life with. But love in this world felt selfish, a luxury you could no longer afford.

All that mattered now was survival.

You buried that ache deep, convincing yourself it was easier this way, after the scars of your last relationship had left you afraid of opening up again. The pain of the past had taught you to keep your walls up, and though you longed for connection, the fear of being hurt again kept you at a distance. Even now, the loneliness remained, hiding in the shadows, always waiting.

Without realizing it—or maybe without wanting to admit it—your thoughts drifted to Joel, just as they did every night, like clockwork.

You couldn’t help but wish things were different between you two. That you could turn back time, undo the awkward silences, soften the sharpness of his words, and erase the coldness in his eyes. The distance between you and Joel felt like an unbearable weight. It wasn’t just his words that stung—it was the way he looked at you, like you were someone to tolerate, an inconvenience in his tightly guarded world. You often wondered what it would take to break through that wall, to have him look at you the way he did Tommy or Ellie—with that rare warmth, the quiet loyalty he reserved for only a few.

But maybe it wasn’t just Joel. Maybe it was you, too. Maybe there was something fundamentally wrong with you, something about the way you occupied space that made you feel like an outsider, always on the fringes, looking in. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but the thought gnawed at you relentlessly. Was it something you’d said? Something you’d done? Or was it simply who you were—always too much or never quite enough?

The echoes of your past relationship still lingered, making you second-guess every word, every gesture. You had been made to feel like you were too needy, too clingy, and that doubt had rooted itself deep inside you. Now, every interaction felt like a delicate balance, as if any misstep might confirm the fear that you were just…too much.

You sighed, pulling the blankets tighter around yourself, as if they could somehow shield you from the weight of those thoughts. But the image of Joel’s hardened gaze clung to you, like a bruise you couldn’t touch without feeling the dull ache beneath. The friction between you had thickened into a wall so impenetrable, you didn’t know how—or even if—you could break through it. With that heaviness pressing on your chest, you let your eyes drift shut, sleep slowly creeping in, even as your mind swirled with memories: his sharp words, the cold bite of snow, and the wide, unbridgeable distance between you.

But then there were those rare moments, like when you had tended to his hand. His fingers, rough and calloused from years of survival, had briefly rested in your own, forming a fleeting connection. For just a second, you thought you saw something softer in his eyes, something that disappeared as quickly as it came. It left you questioning whether it had been there at all, or if it was just your tired mind imagining what you wished to see. That glimpse of warmth was always so brief, it felt almost like a dream, gone before you could even grasp it.

Your eyes grew heavy, the exhaustion finally settling in, and before you realized it, you had drifted off, once again with thoughts of Joel lingering in your mind.

It was becoming a pattern—no matter how hard you tried to push him away, he always found his way into your last waking thoughts, like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

•••

The next morning, you woke with a quiet sense of resolve. The world outside felt different, lighter somehow, as if the weight of the previous days had begun to lift. The snow, once harsh and unrelenting, had softened in the night, its flurries now gentle, drifting lazily through the air. There was something in the crispness of the morning—a quiet, unspoken promise of change. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there, lingering in the air. It whispered of new beginnings, though what those might be, you weren’t sure just yet.

You stepped out onto the front porch, the wooden boards creaking softly beneath your weight. The morning was still, but the world around you was beginning to stir. People walked by in small clusters, bundled up against the cold, their breath visible in the crisp air as they moved through the motions of daily life—talking, laughing, going about their routines with a sense of quiet purpose. Children’s voices carried faintly from a distance, their laughter bright against the otherwise muted morning. There was a peacefulness to it all, an ordinary rhythm that felt comforting in its familiarity.

The garden in front of you lay dormant, a barren stretch of earth dusted with a thin layer of frost, its potential hidden beneath winter’s icy grip. For now, it seemed lifeless—a quiet, desolate patch of ground that mirrored the stillness around you.

But you had plans for it.

You had told Maria and Tommy all about your dream for the garden, how this coming spring, you would finally put it to life. As you stood there, cradling your coffee in both hands, warmth seeping into your fingers, you imagined what it would become. In your mind’s eye, the empty space transformed—bursting with color, vibrant and wild, flowers of all kinds stretching along the fence, breathing life back into the soil. And most of all, there would be roses.

You had always loved roses—their fierce, unapologetic beauty, delicate yet resilient, with thorns that spoke of their strength. You could already picture them—soft pinks, fiery reds, deep purples—spreading across the garden, filling the air with their sweet scent. The thought brought a small smile to your lips, a quiet hope stirring within, as if nurturing the garden might somehow heal something within you too, fill some sort of void you had become too aware of.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the creak of Tommy’s front door swinging open across the street, pulling you from your reverie. He lived right in front of you, and the sound was as familiar as the rhythm of the town.

Instinctively, you glanced up, your eyes landing on Joel as he stepped out alongside Tommy. They were deep in conversation, their breath forming clouds in the cold morning air. You couldn’t make out the words from this distance, but then something caught your attention—Joel’s laugh. It was rare, almost unexpected, the sound soft but carrying across the quiet street. It lingered briefly in the air before fading, like something you almost didn’t catch but somehow couldn’t ignore.

Your eyes lingered on Joel longer than you intended. He looked much the same—his shoulders squared, his expression as unreadable as ever. But something was different in the way he stood next to Tommy. There was a subtle ease to him, a rare sense of relaxation in the way he moved, the tension that usually clung to him seemed to soften, if only slightly. The bandage still wrapped around his hand was a quiet reminder of the last time you’d been alone together, stirring a mix of emotions inside you—uncertainty, regret, and something you couldn’t quite name.

And then he caught your eye.

For a heartbeat, everything seemed to freeze. His gaze locked onto yours, and for a split second, you saw his eyes flicker over you, a subtle once-over that made your breath hitch. His expression remained unreadable, but the way his eyes lingered left you feeling exposed. Embarrassment surged through you as you realized you were still in your pajamas, the thin fabric showing more skin than you would’ve liked. Flustered, you quickly looked away, turning your attention back to your coffee, hoping its warmth might somehow hide the flush creeping up your neck.

It was too much to stay outside any longer, the cold biting at your skin and the weight of Joel’s gaze unsettling you. You were already on your way back inside when Tommy noticed you, his eyes catching the awkward exchange.

As you scurried toward your door, fumbling with the stubborn knob once again, Tommy couldn’t resist. “Everything alright over there?” he called, a teasing lilt in his voice. You felt the heat rise to your face, hastily ducking inside before you had to answer, hoping the door would shut fast enough to hide your embarrassment.

From across the street, Tommy’s laughter rang out, likely at the clumsy spectacle you’d made of yourself. What you didn’t see, as you hurried inside, was the faint hint of a smile pulling at Joel’s lips—a rare flicker of amusement that softened his hardened expression. He watched you disappear, his gaze lingering on the door long after it had shut, as if your rushed retreat had left something behind, something only he could recognize.

•••

The knock on the door interrupted you as you sat reading, pulling you from the pages just as you were starting to lose yourself in them. With a sigh, you set the book aside and opened the door to find Tommy standing there, his usual grin plastered across his face, leaning casually against the frame.

“Hey, kid,” he greeted warmly, his eyes darting to the door handle before letting out a laugh. “Still fighting with this old thing, huh? I thought this morning might’ve been its final battle.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. You loved this about Tommy—the way he could make you laugh, no matter what. He had this duality about him, able to take command on patrols, protect the town, and then switch to being a total clown at the drop of a hat. It was a rare skill, and you appreciated it more than you let on.

You thought back to that one time, when you’d come back from a patrol, shaken up after a close call. The adrenaline had barely worn off, and you couldn’t get your mind to settle. Not long after you made it home, Tommy had shown up with a deck of cards, a grin on his face, and simply said, “Heard you need to learn how to lose at poker.” The next couple of hours were spent with him playfully mocking your terrible hand and telling stories that had you laughing until your stomach hurt. He never once asked about what had happened on patrol, and somehow, that made it better. He had this way of knowing exactly what you needed, even when you didn’t.

“Anyway,” Tommy continued, snapping you back to the present as he straightened up, “You’re coming over tonight. Maria’s cooking up a storm, and we’re not taking no for an answer.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What’s the occasion?”

Tommy shrugged, grinning as usual. “Do I need an occasion to hang out with my favorite people?”

“Uh-huh,” you said, not entirely convinced. “Who else is coming?”

“Just the usual suspects,” Tommy replied, throwing in a playful wink. “You, Joel, and Ellie. Figured we could all use a night to unwind. Besides, we’ll finally get to hear some of those patrol stories now that you two aren’t at each other’s throats anymore.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “Right. Because we’re such great storytellers.”

Tommy laughed. “Hey, if nothing else, it’ll be entertaining to watch you try.”

You forced out a chuckle, though it felt hollow, the irony of his words twisting in your gut. The lies you’d fed Tommy were beginning to catch up with you, knotting something tight and uncomfortable in your chest. Just like last week, when he’d casually asked how patrol with Joel had gone, and you’d plastered on a smile, insisting everything was fine—because that was easier than admitting the truth. But now, the thought of spending an entire evening with Joel, pretending like nothing had changed, made your stomach twist. You hadn’t corrected Tommy then, and now you weren’t sure how much longer you could keep up the charade.

Tommy must have caught the flicker of hesitation in your expression because he waved a hand dismissively before you could even form a protest. “No excuses, alright? Six-thirty sharp. Be there. Gotta run!”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving you standing there with a knot tightening in your stomach. The prospect of dinner with Joel hung heavy in the air, a weight you couldn’t quite shake as the reality of spending the evening with him settled uncomfortably on your mind.

•••

That night, a low hum of anxiety thrummed in your chest, your mind racing through every possible scenario of how dinner might unfold. Would Joel sit in stony silence, barely acknowledging your presence? Would his gaze linger too long, sharp with frustration, making you wonder if you’d said or done something wrong again? Or maybe he’d be short with you, his words clipped and cold, each sentence feeling like a subtle reprimand. You imagined accidentally dropping a fork, the clatter echoing louder than it should, and him shooting you that look—the one that made you feel small, like you didn’t belong. The air always felt thick with him there, heavy with unspoken tension. You couldn’t stop replaying his words in your mind, the way his eyes had cut through you, the frustration lacing his voice. You knew he thought you were a burden, and now every little thing felt magnified—every move, every word, overthought and picked apart, terrified that one misstep would only confirm what he already seemed to believe.

For the past week, you’d been silently relieved that you hadn’t crossed paths with him, grateful for the distance. But deep down, you knew that seeing him again was inevitable, not just tonight at dinner, but eventually.

You stood in front of your closet, fingers trailing over the hangers as you searched for something that felt right. After a moment of hesitation, you pulled out a soft, knitted sweater—the pale pink one Maria had once said brought out the warmth in your skin. It was thick enough to fend off the evening chill, hugging you in a way that felt both comforting and flattering. The sleeves draped past your wrists, brushing your fingertips like a quiet, reassuring touch you hadn’t realized you craved. You paired it with a well-worn pair of jeans, something familiar and easy.

As you got ready, the sweet scent of apple-cinnamon pie drifted up from the kitchen, wrapping around you like a warm blanket. It was a soothing contrast to the nerves building in your chest. Standing in front of the mirror, you left your hair down, letting it fall naturally in loose waves, framing your face. There was a simplicity to it all that made you feel put together—nothing overdone, but just enough to feel like yourself.

Pie in hand, you braved the cold night air, the chill biting at your cheeks until they flushed pink. Your boots crunched softly through the snow as you made your way across the street to Tommy and Maria’s. The faint glow from their windows spilled out into the darkness, a warm, inviting light that seemed to pull you in, offering a welcome contrast to the cold night pressing against you.

You paused at the door for a moment, taking a deep breath before stepping inside.

“There she is!” Tommy’s voice rang out, cheerful as ever, breaking the crisp silence that followed you in from the cold. The comforting aroma of roasted chicken and warm spices greeted you immediately, wrapping around you like a blanket, a stark contrast to the biting air outside.

Maria looked up from the table she was setting, her smile as warm as the scents filling the room. “Hey, glad you could make it,” she said, her voice easy and inviting, making you feel at home in an instant.

Ellie popped up from her seat with an exaggerated grin, waving you over. “About time! Thought you’d frozen out there or something.” Her teasing tone, paired with the glint of amusement in her eyes, pulled a soft smile from you, easing some of the tension lodged in your chest.

But then, your gaze drifted almost instinctively to the table, where Joel sat. Your steps faltered for a brief moment when you saw him. He looked different tonight—refined, even. His usually disheveled hair was slicked back, neater than you’d ever seen it, and he had traded his familiar, worn-out jacket for a crisp button-up shirt. The fabric stretched taut across his broad shoulders, making him seem even more imposing. It threw you off balance, and for a heartbeat, you didn’t quite know what to do with yourself.

His eyes flicked up, catching yours for just a second. The look he gave you was unreadable, as if he was holding back something he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—say. He nodded, barely perceptible, a silent acknowledgment of your arrival. The tension from the past week hung heavy in the air, thick and unspoken, settling between you like an invisible wall. But tonight, there was something different about him. A softness, a deliberate effort, though you couldn’t quite pin down why.

You hesitated, your familiar unease creeping back in, knotting in your stomach. It was like Joel could sense it. His gaze lingered, just long enough to make you question everything, the silence between you filled with things you both refused to say.

“You brought pie?” Maria’s smile widened as she took the dish from you, her eyes bright with appreciation. “You didn’t have to, but thank you. It smells divine.”

You managed a small laugh, though Joel’s presence still weighed on your thoughts. “Figured it’d make up for my lousy company,” you teased lightly, trying to shift your focus.

Maria chuckled, giving your arm a light pat as she placed the pie on the counter. “Oh, stop it. We’re just glad you’re here.”

You gave Maria a small smile, though your nerves still fluttered beneath the surface. As you glanced back at the table, you realized everyone had already taken their seats—except for you. The only empty spot left was next to Joel. Your stomach twisted at the sight, and you couldn’t tell if it was deliberate or just an unfortunate coincidence.

Joel’s eyes were back on his plate, as if the brief exchange between you hadn’t even happened. But the tension between you hummed in the air, undeniable, even if no one else seemed to notice. As you reluctantly moved toward the empty seat beside him, you couldn’t shake the feeling of his presence, the quiet weight of it pressing against your thoughts. Sitting down, you couldn’t help but wonder if he felt it too, or if you were just stuck in your own head, overthinking every glance, every silence.

•••

Dinner was awkward, the kind of awkward that lingered like a thick fog, clinging to every corner of the room despite the efforts to keep the conversation light and flowing. The tension seemed to wrap itself around the table, settling between you and Joel like an invisible barrier, palpable even in the spaces where no one spoke.

Tommy, ever perceptive, had picked up on it quickly. His brow furrowed in confusion as he glanced your way, his expression silently asking, I thought you and Joel were fine now? The lie you had told him after that patrol—the one where you said everything was “just fine”—seemed to hover in the air, taunting you, its weight pressing down on the space between you and Joel.

And yet, no matter how hard you tried to focus on the clatter of forks or Maria’s cheerful voice, you couldn’t escape the feeling that everyone could sense it. The tension hummed beneath the surface, thick and suffocating, binding you to Joel in a way that neither of you seemed ready to face.

“Tell us about your hand, Joel,” Tommy said, his voice deliberately light, as if trying to sweep away the thick tension clinging to the room. There was a playful note to his tone, an attempt to soften the atmosphere. “Bet there’s a funny story there.”

Your eyes drifted to Joel’s bandaged hand, watching as he flexed it slightly before lifting his fork to his mouth. The memory of you stitching him up flickered in your mind, and the tension between you felt as raw as it had that day.

Joel barely glanced up, his jaw tight, his focus still pinned on the plate in front of him. “It’s nothing, Tommy,” he muttered, the gruffness in his voice like a wall shutting down any further inquiry. His words were flat, dismissive, a quick brush-off. “Just a scratch.”

Tommy, still blissfully unaware of the deeper currents beneath the surface, pressed on with a grin. “But it happened during patrol, didn’t it?” He threw a playful glance your way, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “And I heard Sunshine here patched you up. Woman of many talents, huh?”

You forced a small smile at the nickname Tommy had given you, trying to match his lightheartedness, but the unease settled deeper in your chest. Tommy always meant well, but he didn’t see the cracks beneath the surface. His playful tone smoothed over something jagged, but it wasn’t enough to shake the heaviness between you and Joel.

Maria, though—she wasn’t fooled. She always had a way of sensing the undercurrents, and tonight was no exception. Her eyes caught yours across the table, a flicker of understanding passing between you. It was the kind of look that said she knew more than anyone else in the room and wouldn’t push, but she was there if you needed her.

You busied yourself with passing plates, focusing on the small, routine tasks as a distraction from the tension that had settled deep in your chest. Ellie, bless her, filled the silence with her usual bright energy, recounting some story about an old man who’d mistaken her for a boy during patrol.

“… and I swear, he didn’t believe me until I had to practically spell it out for him!” Ellie’s voice rang through the room, her laughter contagious. Tommy chuckled, shaking his head, and Maria smiled softly as she listened.

But even Ellie’s infectious spirit couldn’t cut through the knot that had formed inside you. Every word, every glance felt like it was being scrutinized, held under the weight of Joel’s silent watch. You hated it—the way his presence lingered, how the memory of his harsh words still held you captive, turning you into a shell of who you were around the others. It grated at you, that all it took was a few biting words from him to undo everything, to make you doubt yourself.

You kept your focus on the plates, nodding occasionally at Ellie’s story, but your mind was elsewhere. You could feel Joel across the table, the tension between you like a live wire, sparking every time his eyes drifted your way, even if just for a second. It was like the room had split in two—one half filled with light conversation and Ellie’s laughter, and the other weighed down by the unspoken strain between you and Joel.

As Ellie continued her stories, you reached for your glass, only to realize it was nearly empty, and without thinking, your hand hesitated. Before you could pull away, Joel’s hand quietly reached across the table, refilling your glass without a word. The gesture was simple, almost unremarkable, but it stopped you cold. His rough fingers brushed the rim of the glass, and the unexpected softness in the midst of all the tension sent a jolt through you.

For a moment, you froze, your mind racing. Why did he do that? It wasn’t the kind of thing you’d expect from him—especially after the way he’d acted toward you lately. You thought he couldn’t stand you, that he saw you as nothing more than a burden. The words he’d once said echoed in your mind, tightening your chest. You had backed off, kept your distance, because he made it painfully clear he wanted nothing to do with you.

And yet… this. This small, quiet gesture. Was it just habit? Politeness? Or did he feel bad for how he’d treated you? The questions swirled in your head, and you couldn’t quite shake the confusion.

“Thanks,” you mumbled softly, your voice barely audible. Joel gave the faintest nod, never meeting your eyes as he returned to his meal, as if nothing had happened. But you couldn’t let it go. That brief touch, that moment of quiet consideration—it lingered, making you question everything. Did he regret the way he’d treated you? Or was it just you, overthinking as usual, grasping for meaning where there was none?

•••

Dinner came and went, the awkwardness that had settled over the room earlier slowly ebbing away. After that small interaction with Joel, you found yourself subconsciously loosening up. The knot of tension in your chest slowly unraveled, and you began to relax, slipping into your usual self without even realizing it. You laughed at Ellie’s stories, joined in on Tommy’s playful banter, and let yourself ease into the flow of the evening, the weight of Joel’s presence not as heavy as before.

Joel, as usual, stayed mostly silent, his focus on his plate. He only chimed in when Ellie made some snarky comment about their latest patrol, and even then, his words were short, gruff responses. But his silence didn’t feel as suffocating now—it was just… Joel being Joel. You couldn’t help but glance at him occasionally, wondering if that small act earlier had meant anything to him. But he remained distant, his expression unreadable, and you tried not to let your thoughts linger too long.

Still, the evening felt lighter, easier. For the first time in a long while, you found yourself almost enjoying the company, allowing yourself to be present in the moment. The tension that had once felt unbearable had faded into the background, at least for now.

When it came time for dessert, you brought out the pie, your hands a little unsteady as you tried to focus on the simple act of serving it. The warm, sweet aroma of apples and cinnamon filled the room, carrying with it a sense of nostalgia that momentarily eased the tension in your chest. You could feel everyone’s eyes on you as you approached the table, their conversations quieting in anticipation. But as you carried the pie to the table, still hot from the oven, you misjudged the thickness of the towel in your hands. The heat seared through the fabric, and a sharp, instinctive “Shit!” escaped your lips as pain shot through your fingers.

Before you could even react, Joel was there, reaching out without hesitation. His hand wrapped around the dish, and for a second, you were sure he’d burn himself too. But he barely flinched as he steadied it, his fingers brushing yours just as he took the pie from your grip. His touch, rough but steady, sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with the heat.

“Careful,” Joel muttered under his breath, his voice low and rough, as he set the pie down on the table with a practiced ease, barely acknowledging the burn that would have scalded most.

You stood frozen, staring at him, wondering if he felt the sting—or anything at all. His hand lingered on the dish a moment longer than necessary, and you caught the subtle tension in his jaw, the slight clenching that made you think maybe he did feel the heat but wasn’t about to admit it.

The pain in your own fingers faded, overtaken by the weight of his presence. The unexpected gentleness of his touch still buzzed through you, unsettling in its intimacy. Something about the moment—something beyond the heat—left you feeling off balance.

You looked up at him, startled by the ease with which he’d helped, by the gentle steadiness of his hand on yours. His face remained as unreadable as ever, but for the briefest moment, you felt something shift. It was subtle, barely there, but it was enough to make your heart race, to make you question everything you thought you knew about him.

You just gulped, the words thank you struggling to leave your mouth. To the others, it was nothing more than a simple slip of the hands—an almost-accident, easily shrugged off—but between you and Joel, it was something else. What exactly, you weren’t sure, but you didn’t like the way it left you feeling. That brief touch, the way he’d steadied the pie without a second thought, unsettled you. It was too intimate, too confusing, and you hated how it lingered in your mind.

As you resumed passing out plates, Ellie’s exaggerated enthusiasm over the dessert barely registered. Your mind kept drifting back to Joel, who sat quietly, his eyes fixed on his empty plate. When Tommy offered him a slice, he waved it off, muttering something about being too full.

•••

After dinner, you and Ellie gathered in the living room. Maria was in the kitchen, despite your repeated offers to help, and Tommy and Joel had disappeared into another part of the house, likely fixing something.

Ellie leaned back on the couch, stretching out like she hadn’t a care in the world. Meanwhile, your shoulders tensed under her gaze—you knew she was about to pry.

“Sooo,” she began, drawing out the word in a way that told you this was her attempt at subtlety. “What’s up with you and Joel?”

You felt your heart skip. Of course, she had noticed. Ellie noticed everything. You tried to brush it off, running a hand through your hair to buy yourself some time. “What do you mean?”

Ellie raised an eyebrow, unimpressed with your attempt to deflect. “Oh, come on. You two can barely be in the same room without it getting… awkward. So, what’s the deal? What happened?”

The word awkward echoed in your mind, and somehow, it still felt too simplistic to capture whatever this was between you and Joel. It wasn’t just awkwardness—it was tension, unspoken and unresolved. You shifted in your seat, unsure of how to put it into words. “I don’t know,” you said softly, your voice hesitant. “He said some things, I said some things… it’s complicated.”

Even as you said it, the weight of that truth lingered in the air between you. Complicated didn’t begin to cover it.

Ellie gave you a knowing nod, as if she understood more than she was letting on. “Complicated,” she echoed, her tone almost amused. “Yeah, I get that. But you know… you and Joel? You’re more alike than you think.”

You blinked at her, caught off guard by the comparison. “Alike?” you repeated, the word feeling foreign when applied to you and Joel. “Should I be offended?” you added with a playful smirk, trying to lighten the moment.

Ellie rolled her eyes but smiled. “Sure, when I first met him, he was a total asshole. And I mean asshole with a capital ‘A.’”

“Sounds about right,” you said, your tone light, but inside, something stirred.

Ellie grinned, but her expression softened as she continued, her voice lowering. “But that’s just… how he is. He builds walls, you know? Keeps people out.” She played with her fingers, her usual confidence faltering for a moment. “He’s been through a lot. Lost people. I know we all have, but… I think he just deals with it differently.”

Her words settled over you, heavy and unshakable. You hadn’t known much about Joel’s past—just bits and pieces from Tommy’s passing remarks or whispers around town. But now, as Ellie spoke, there was a deeper layer to it, something that made your chest tighten with a strange, unfamiliar ache.

“Lost people?” you asked softly, a strange feeling coiling deep in your stomach.

Ellie’s expression shifted, a flicker of sadness clouding her eyes. She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the floor as if weighing whether to continue. After a brief pause, she let out a soft sigh, the sound heavy with memories. “Yeah…” She glanced at you again, her voice quieter now. “Before we got here… there was someone else with us.” Another pause, as if the name still carried weight. “Her name was Tess.”

The name hit you harder than you expected, solid and heavy. You’d never heard about Tess, but from the way Ellie said her name, you knew Tess wasn’t just anyone. She had been important—more than important.

You swallowed, your voice hesitant as the question slipped out. “Were they… close?”

Ellie paused, glancing away, her brows furrowing like she was picking through memories, unsure of how much to say. “Yeah, they were close. I think so. It was… complicated, but you could tell she meant a lot to him.” She sighed again, her gaze distant, caught up in a world of memories that didn’t belong to you. “When we lost her, it messed him up. I mean, more than usual.”

The mention of Tess left a bitter taste in your mouth, tightening the knot in your chest. You wondered why it even mattered—why the thought of her knowing him, of softening his rough edges, bothered you at all. It unsettled you, and the fact that you were questioning it only made things worse. You didn’t care, or at least, you shouldn’t. So why the hell were you thinking about it?

Ellie’s voice grew quieter, more introspective. “It’s like… Joel builds these walls around himself. High ones. To keep people out, to keep from getting hurt again. He couldn’t stand me a few months ago, and now it’s like… he worries if I’m gone for too long or if I’m not where he can see me.” She smiled, the kind of smile that was both wistful and knowing. “You just have to keep trying to see it… what’s underneath.”

Her words lingered in the air, tugging at something deep inside you. You weren’t sure if you were ready to try—or if you even wanted to. The thought of breaking through those walls, of seeing what lay beneath, left you more conflicted than ever. Why would you want to with someone who had made it painfully clear he couldn’t stand you? But after the small gestures tonight, you couldn’t help but wonder if that was still true.

The weight of Ellie’s words settled in your chest like a stone. The image of Joel she painted wasn’t just the gruff, distant man you knew; it was someone who had been hurt, someone who had lost so much that he didn’t know how to let anyone in anymore. Maybe that’s why he was the way he was with you—maybe it wasn’t even about you at all. Maybe it was about Tess. About whatever scars she’d left behind.

You sat there in silence for a moment, your thoughts churning with everything Ellie had said. The awkwardness between you and Joel felt different now, less like anger and more like a shadow of something neither of you had the words to explain.

Ellie looked at you, her expression softening even more. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you two, but… Joel can say and do things he doesn’t mean. And, well, I actually like you, so if you two could figure it out, that’d be awesome.”

You couldn’t help but smile at her words, a faint warmth spreading through your chest. “Yeah,” you murmured, the smile lingering a moment longer. I wish we could too, you thought, casting a quick glance toward Joel. He had just come back inside with Tommy and was now standing by the door, talking quietly. You watched him for a moment, noticing how his gaze flickered your way now and then. If only it were that simple.

The evening came to an end, and after saying your goodbyes, you slipped into your house, your mind swirling with thoughts. Ellie’s words replayed over and over, He’s lost people... Her voice echoed in your head, pulling you into a whirlwind of questions that spun relentlessly. Joel never shared much about his past—especially not with you—but Ellie had unknowingly cracked open a door, offering you a fleeting glimpse into the shadows he carried.

Now, for the first time, you found yourself wondering what it might be like to know him beyond the gruff exterior, beyond the walls he’d built so high and guarded so fiercely. The idea unsettled you, the weight of it lingering longer than you expected, tugging at a curiosity you weren’t sure you wanted to explore.

•••

A week later, you found yourself returning from another long night shift with Maria. Patrol had dragged on, leaving you bone-tired, your limbs heavy with exhaustion as you finally made your way home in the late afternoon. The snow had mostly melted, clinging only in stubborn patches, and the biting cold had eased. The air had shifted, carrying with it the faint warmth of the approaching spring. The sharp edge of winter had softened, replaced by a mild breeze that whispered of change. Yet, despite the gentler weather, the fatigue weighed you down, every step toward home feeling heavier than the last.

As you trudged up the steps to your front porch, exhaustion draped over you like a heavy blanket, your mind was already set on the hot shower waiting inside. But something felt… off. The door opened too easily.

You paused, confusion furrowing your brow. Turning back, you pushed it again—this time slower, more deliberate. It moved smoothly on its hinges, without the familiar stubborn resistance you’d grown so used to. Gone was the creak and the nightly battle just to get inside.

Curious, you pushed it open and closed a few more times, realization dawning on you. It had been fixed.

A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “Tommy,” you muttered softly to yourself, shaking your head with a mix of amusement and gratitude. He must’ve finally taken pity on you after seeing you struggle with it the other day on the porch.

A warm shower and a much-needed nap later, you found yourself heading to the famous Jackson pub—something you and Tommy did regularly, with Maria occasionally tagging along. That evening, as the sky deepened into a cool twilight, you made your way through the brisk air toward the bar.

The moment you stepped inside, the warmth of the room enveloped you, the familiar hum of conversation and bursts of laughter offering a welcome reprieve from the cold outside. Memories of this place rushed back to you, woven into the fabric of your time in Jackson. This was where you’d celebrated your last birthday—Tommy insisting on toasting you, and the whole pub joining in with a boisterous, off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.” You remembered how embarrassed you’d felt but couldn’t help the warmth that settled in your chest when Maria brought out a cake she’d somehow managed to make despite all the supply shortages.

And then there was the night after one of your toughest patrols, when Maria had dragged you in here for “just one drink” to unwind. You’d ended up staying for hours, swapping stories with Tommy and Maria while the pub filled with laughter and the comforting sound of clinking glasses, the stress of the day melting away.

You spotted Tommy and Maria easily, sitting at a small table by the window. Tommy was already nursing a glass of whiskey, his grin widening when he saw you. Maria leaned in beside him, chatting quietly, her soft laughter mixing with the sounds of the bar. The glow from the dim lights above bathed the room in a cozy warmth, making it feel both alive and familiar—a place full of memories and moments that felt like home.

“Hey,” you greeted, sliding into the seat next to Tommy with a grin. “How’s it going? Long day?”

Tommy glanced up from his drink, giving you a welcoming nod. “Always is. Had to sort out some supply issues earlier, but we got it under control. Maria’s been on my case about takin’ a break, so… here I am.” He gestured around the pub with a wry smile.

Maria chuckled from across the table. “If by ‘taking a break,’ you mean half-listening to me while checking in with half the town, sure.”

“Hey now,” Tommy shot back, holding his hands up defensively. “I’m right here, aren’t I?”

You laughed and shook your head. “Well, at least you’re both here, so that’s something. Speaking of which, thanks for fixing my door, by the way. I didn’t even hear you come by. You’re officially off the hook for at least one favor.”

Tommy looked at you, confused, his glass halfway to his mouth. He lowered it and furrowed his brow. “Fix your door? What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

You blinked, surprised. “The front door—remember? It used to stick all the time. You said you’d get to it eventually.”

“Yeah, I remember. But I didn’t fix it,” Tommy said, chuckling as he leaned back in his chair. “Trust me, if I’d finally gotten around to fixing that door, I’d make sure you knew. I’d probably make a whole show of it, to be honest. That thing’s been givin’ you hell for months.”

Now you were the one confused. “Wait, seriously? You didn’t fix it?”

“Nope,” he said with a grin, shrugging. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a mystery handyman.”

A wave of confusion swept over you. If it wasn’t Tommy, then… who? You shook your head, a small laugh bubbling up despite the strange, nagging feeling in the back of your mind.

Maria, who had been listening quietly, raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “Maybe you’ve got yourself a secret admirer,” she joked, though a flicker of genuine curiosity sparked in her eyes.

“Yeah, or a fucking stalker,” Tommy chimed in with a grin.

“Tommy!” Maria scolded, swatting him lightly on the arm.

He laughed, unbothered. “Or maybe you were just drunk and forgot you fixed it yourself.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head with a smirk. “Very funny,” you said, though the joking didn’t entirely settle the strange feeling gnawing at you. Even as the conversation drifted to other topics, the thought lingered, tugging at the edges of your mind. Who had fixed the door? And why wouldn’t they say anything?

As you made your way home later that night, the streets quiet under the soft cover of darkness, your thoughts kept circling back to the door—how easily it had opened, how it had been fixed without a word, without explanation. A gentle breeze stirred the air, the last remnants of winter whispering through the night, but it wasn’t enough to chill you. You felt light on your feet, a little tipsy from the drinks and the easy company of the evening, but even that couldn’t shake the strange feeling gnawing at you.

When you finally reached your porch, you hesitated, turning the knob once more. The door opened with a soft click, smooth and effortless, as if it had never been broken at all. You stood there for a moment, the faint breeze brushing against your skin, staring at the door as if it might somehow reveal its secrets.

A quiet mystery settled over you, but for now, it remained unsolved. With a sigh, you stepped inside, the warmth of your home embracing you as you closed the door behind you. Maybe you’d never know who had fixed it. Or maybe… you already did.

You just weren’t ready to admit it yet.

•••

The next morning, as you groggily made your way toward the front door, still half-lost in the remnants of sleep, something unusual caught your eye and halted your steps. You blinked, trying to shake off the haze of early morning sluggishness. You had woken up with a mental list of things to tackle—maybe a trip to the market for supplies, finally tackling that patch of overgrown weeds in the garden, or even sorting through the clutter slowly piling up in the house. But all those plans slipped from your mind as you stood there, staring in disbelief.

The snow that had once piled up in your front yard—left untouched and heavy for weeks—was now neatly pushed aside, creating a clear path through the garden. It wasn’t just a quick shovel job either; it was precise, deliberate. You frowned, stepping closer to the window to get a better look.

“What the hell?” you muttered under your breath. You hadn’t even thought about shoveling the snow—not with everything else weighing you down lately.

You pressed your hand against the cold windowpane, peering outside. There were no footprints, no signs of who had been there. The remnants of snow were perfectly undisturbed except for the careful path that had been made. It was as if someone had come and gone without a trace, but with deliberate care.

First the door, now this.

Your eyes scanned the rest of the garden, and that’s when you noticed something else. The pile of firewood stacked by the side of your house—it had grown. You hadn’t even realized it had been running low, but now fresh logs were neatly stacked, perfectly arranged. It wasn’t just a casual pile; it was deliberate, almost too neat to be random. The firewood you had struggled to keep up with all winter had somehow been replenished overnight, quietly and without a word.

You stood at the top of your porch steps, hesitating, your gaze sweeping the street. You half-expected to catch a glimpse of someone lingering nearby, the person responsible for these quiet, thoughtful gestures. But the street was empty, bathed in the soft morning light spilling across the snow-dusted town.

For a brief moment, you wondered if this was Tommy, playing one of his pranks on you. He would be the type to mess with you like this. But no—Tommy wouldn’t have been able to resist bragging about it, he was much too proud to do something this thoughtful and remain anonymous.

Suspicion crawled up your spine again, and your thoughts immediately landed on one person.

Joel.

Yesterday, the mysteriously fixed door. Today, the snow cleared. And now, the firewood. It couldn’t all be coincidence, could it? You chewed the inside of your cheek, weighing the possibility.

The idea that Joel—the man who had barely spoken to you in weeks, the one who had kept his distance—might be behind this felt almost… absurd. But at the same time, you couldn’t shake the thought.

You stood there for a moment longer, staring out at the empty street, your mind racing. The thought of Joel quietly looking out for you, going out of his way without even telling you, left you feeling strangely unsettled. It didn’t make sense, yet a part of you knew—he was the only person it could be.

As you stepped outside, the faint breeze brushing against your cheeks, your eyes instinctively scanned the street, and there he was.

Joel stood by the stables, his back to you, deep in conversation with Tommy. His arms were crossed over his chest, his posture rigid, as though he carried the weight of a world unseen. For a moment, you stood still, rooted to the spot, watching him, your thoughts spinning.

Could it really be him?

You couldn’t help but remember the sharpness in his voice the last time you had clashed—the coldness in his eyes when he’d called you a burden. His words had sliced through you like ice, leaving behind a wound that still stung. It was a moment you hadn’t been able to shake, no matter how hard you tried. That Joel, the one who had made you feel small and unwanted, couldn’t be the same person quietly taking care of you now. Could he? And if so, why?

And yet, there was this. The fixed door. The neatly cleared snow. The replenished firewood. These were acts of quiet kindness, thoughtful gestures that didn’t align with the distant, sharp-edged Joel you remembered. They didn’t make sense—not with the man who had gone out of his way to keep you at arm’s length.

Your gaze lingered on him, the questions swirling in your mind. What was he trying to tell you? Or was he even trying at all? The small, invisible acts felt like whispers of a truth you weren’t quite ready to face. Something about Joel didn’t add up—and that unsettled you more than anything else.

•••

Later that day, you made your way to the stables, seeking the quiet solace that always came from being around your horse—a ritual that had become your sanctuary on days off from patrol. The stable was your refuge, a place where the weight of everything outside seemed to lift, where your mind could finally quiet. The familiar scent of hay filled the air, mixed with the earthy warmth of the animals and the soft rhythm of their breathing. It was calming, grounding.

As you entered, your horse whinnied softly in recognition, his large brown eyes locking onto yours with a familiar sense of trust. You smiled, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly as you approached him. Running your fingers through the rough texture of his mane, you began brushing it with gentle, practiced strokes. The repetition was soothing, and though it was a routine, it felt like something more—a quiet, unspoken connection that tethered you to something steady amidst the chaos of life.

You were so lost in the quiet rhythm of brushing your horse, in the familiar warmth and stillness of the stable, that you didn’t notice someone else had entered. It wasn’t until a voice, deep and familiar, broke through the calm that you realized you weren’t alone.

“Hey.”

The sound startled you, and you turned quickly, your breath catching in your throat. Joel stood a few feet away, his posture relaxed but his expression unreadable. It wasn’t just his presence that surprised you—it was that he was talking to you at all.

“Hey,” you replied, your tone more guarded than you intended. Instinctively, your walls went up, the wariness creeping in like a defense mechanism. This was Joel, after all, and every interaction with him carried a weight, an undercurrent of tension, with so many unsaid things lingering between you, like ghosts refusing to be laid to rest.

The silence that followed felt thick, hanging in the air as you stood there, bracing yourself for whatever came next. With Joel, you never knew if his words would cut, or if he’d just turn and leave, like so many times before.

But something was different this time. Instead of the familiar tension that usually thickened the air between you, there was a quiet understanding, a silence that wasn’t heavy or uncomfortable. It was… calm. The kind of calm that settled over you both as you went about your tasks, tending to your horses in a shared silence that, for once, felt like enough. The sharpness that usually lingered between you was absent, and for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel the urge to fill the space with awkward conversation or unspoken explanations.

Curiosity tugged at you, and you glanced over at Joel. He was focused on his horse, his hands moving with a practiced care that mirrored your own—a surprising gentleness in the way he brushed the coat, checked the reins, and tended to his mount. It was so natural for him, almost second nature, and watching him like this, in the quiet of the stable, was different. The weight he always seemed to carry, the burden you often felt in his presence, wasn’t as visible here. There was something almost peaceful about seeing him in this light—away from the guarded walls, the harsh edges.

Before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out. “How’s your hand?”

Your voice was softer than you intended, the question carrying more weight than you meant for it to. You held your breath, unsure how he’d respond. Joel glanced over, his eyes meeting yours, lingering there for a moment longer than usual, something unspoken passing between you. Then, almost absentmindedly, he flexed his hand, as if testing its strength.

The bandage was gone now, replaced by a pale scar tracing its way across his palm, a quiet reminder of that day. He lifted his hand slightly, giving you a clearer view of the mark, and for a brief second, you both just stared at it—the silence between you no longer tense, but strangely reflective.

“It’s better,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, but with a softness you weren’t used to hearing from him. There was no edge, no coldness—just a simple, honest reply.

You nodded, your gaze lingering on the scar for a beat longer before you turned back to your horse. “That’s good,” you murmured, and somehow, it was. Knowing that he was healing, that the wound had closed, left you feeling unexpectedly lighter, though you couldn’t quite pin down why.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable like before; something had shifted, subtle but there. Joel went back to packing up his things with his usual quiet efficiency, moving as if nothing had happened. But you found yourself watching him from the corner of your eye, your mind swirling with questions—questions you weren’t sure you were ready to ask.

Just as he was about to leave, his figure slipping into the shadows at the far end of the stable, something inside you stirred—a pull, an instinct you couldn’t shake. Your heart beat a little faster, a sense of urgency you couldn’t explain. You hesitated, the words on the tip of your tongue, unsure if you should let them fall. But the moment was there, hanging in the air, and part of you knew if you didn’t reach out now, it might slip away entirely.

“Hey,” you called out, your voice cutting through the stillness, louder than you intended. Joel stopped in his tracks, turning slowly to face you. His eyes found yours, steady but questioning, waiting for what you had to say.

For a moment, you hesitated, your heart hammering in your chest. You didn’t know why this mattered so much, but it did. You needed to know. The words felt heavier than they should, as if each one carried a weight far beyond the simplicity of the question itself.

“Did you… fix my door?”

Your voice softened, almost uncertain, but the question hung in the air between you. Joel’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something you couldn’t quite read, yet it felt all too familiar.

There was a beat of silence, the air between you suddenly thick with unspoken tension. Joel didn’t answer right away; he held your gaze, his eyes dark and searching, as though he were measuring the significance of something so small, so seemingly inconsequential. The moment stretched out, loaded with anticipation, making you acutely aware of everything around you—the ground beneath your feet, the faint whinny of your horse in the distance.

After what felt like an eternity, he gave the slightest nod, his posture relaxed but his presence charged with an intensity that unsettled you. “Yeah, I fixed it,” he said, his tone casual, almost dismissive, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. Yet even as he spoke, his eyes remained locked on yours, revealing a depth that contradicted his easy words. It felt like a quiet admission—like this small act was far more than just fixing a door.

It made sense now, knowing he’d seen you struggling with it that day, his gaze lingering as you wrestled with the stubborn knob, frustration clear in your movements. He hadn’t said a word, but the fact that he’d gone out of his way to help—it tugged at something deep inside you.

His attempt to downplay it only sharpened the contrast between the gesture and the unspoken understanding between you, a bridge between two people who had spent so long pushing each other away. That tiny thread of connection, fragile but undeniable, hung in the air like a promise of something deeper.

You swallowed hard, the tightness in your throat making it difficult to speak, but you pushed the words out. “And... you cleared the snow in front of my house?” As the realization sank in, a faint heat crept up your neck, and suddenly, you struggled to meet his gaze, unsure why the simple question made you feel so exposed. The silence stretched between you for a moment, thick with something unspoken, until he gave the slightest nod.

The acknowledgment sent a jolt through you, though you tried to keep your expression neutral. “And the firewood... you filled the bin?” you added, your voice quieter now, feeling even more aware of his presence than before.

Your voice barely rose above a whisper now, each question adding to the tension building between you, the weight of the realization pressing against your chest. Joel said nothing, but the intensity of his gaze spoke volumes, his silence holding more meaning than words ever could.

There was no grand declaration, no apology, no explanation—just that quiet, wordless acknowledgment. It had been him. Every time. He had been looking out for you, in his own silent, stubborn way, without ever needing to tell you.

“You didn’t have to do that. I don’t... I don’t need your help.” The words came out sharper than you meant, laced with the same defiance you’d thrown at him after that first run-in with the raider. You remembered the tension, the way you’d stubbornly insisted you could handle it, and how he had been just as unwavering, silently reminding you that you couldn’t. Now, as the words hung between you, that same feeling flickered to life—pride mixed with frustration, though this time it felt more complicated.

Now, standing here in the thick, loaded silence, those old wounds hovered between you, threatening to open again. You wanted to reject his kindness, to hold on to that stubborn pride that had become a defense mechanism after all the hurt you’d carried. But a part of you—small, buried, but growing—wanted to accept it, wanted to let yourself lean into the warmth of what he was offering.

Joel’s gaze softened, his rough voice breaking the silence. “I know.” There was something different in his tone this time, something almost gentle, and it made your heart clench in a way you weren’t prepared for.

He looked down, shifting uncomfortably as if he wasn’t used to these moments, these conversations that brushed too close to vulnerability. “I shouldn’t have said… those things.” His words were gruff, awkward, but sincere, and you could tell it wasn’t easy for him to admit.

His hands were stuffed into his pockets, his shoulders hunched ever so slightly, and for the first time, you didn’t see Joel Miller as the man you had sparred with, or the one who had saved you. Instead, you saw him as someone carrying the weight of his own regret—regret for the words he had said, and the way he had treated you.

“I’m not good with words,” he added, his voice rough, and you realized that this—this awkward, halting admission—was as close to an apology as Joel was capable of. It wasn’t grand, but it was real, and it hit you harder than you’d expected. You thought about what Ellie had said—that Joel kept himself walled off, a fortress built to survive, to keep from getting hurt again.

Your eyes held his, the tension between you shifting ever so slightly, as though this small, almost imperceptible gesture was his way of trying to close the distance between you—a distance shaped by the sharp words and cold walls that once stood in your way.

As he turned to leave, something tugged at you. “Joel,” you called softly, your voice almost catching in your throat. He paused, glancing back over his shoulder, waiting.

You swallowed, unsure of what to say, but not wanting to let him go without acknowledging the moment. “Thank you,” you murmured, the words simple but heavy with everything left unsaid.

His eyes met yours, just for a beat, and though he said nothing, the flicker of understanding in his gaze told you he’d heard more than just your words. With a small nod, he turned and walked away, leaving behind the faint echo of something unresolved, but no longer as distant.

You stood there, the warmth of the hay and the soft rustling of the horses grounding you in the quiet aftermath of his departure.

•••

Tag list!

@somedayheaven @ohdearvalentine @keseqna @kulekehe

@darkheartgatita @ickearmn @spacegirl-3 @mystickittytaco

#fic rec #joel miller #pedro pascal #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader

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rip-quizilla · 2 months ago

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Japanese legend: you have the face of who you loved most in a past life

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rip-quizilla · 2 months ago

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my sister walked into my room, put her hands behind her back and went "here's what Obama would sound like if he was gay: so uhhhh let me be queer" and then asked me if I could give her money so she could see linkin park

#my sisters are cool #but not that cool

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rip-quizilla · 2 months ago

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DEI does not mean lower standards.

You are thinking of white privilege.

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rip-quizilla · 2 months ago

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Okay this beginning is giving Pride and Prejudice and I’m living for it.

Guns & Roses

next chapter

Summary: New series! Joel Miller couldn’t stand you, and you weren’t exactly fond of him either. Yet somehow, fate seemed determined to weave your lives together, no matter how much you resisted.

TW: just mean!joelmiller - 4.8k words eee enjoyyy

Chapter One

You and Joel Miller were not friends. Not at all.

Ever since Joel Miller had entered Jackson, there had been something—something you couldn’t quite name—that kept him at arm’s length from you. It wasn’t just indifference or distance; it was as though every time you were near, it set off an invisible alarm in him, a deep, simmering irritation that crackled in the air between you.

You didn’t understand it.

It felt personal in a way that made no sense, as if just being around him was enough to make him want to leave the room.

And you had no idea why.

Sure, Joel was a gruff man, with his trademark stoicism and hard edges. Everyone knew that. He was someone who struggled to connect, someone with walls so high you’d wonder if he’d ever learned how to take them down.

But slowly, after a few months in Jackson, Joel had softened. Not by much, but just enough.

You’d see him offering small smiles to the townsfolk, his weathered hands occasionally helping out with a chore, his nods of acknowledgment more frequent. He wasn’t friendly, exactly, but he was warming up to the people around him. Jackson, with all its noise and community, had chipped away at his rough exterior.

But with you? Joel Miller remained a brick wall.

He didn’t smile at you. He didn’t wave or nod. He didn’t even make eye contact unless it was absolutely necessary. Every interaction felt like walking on thin ice, a sharpness to his silence that made the air between you ache with discomfort. The warmth you’d see in him, the small flickers of humanity that everyone else seemed to coax out? They evaporated the second his gaze found yours, as if all the walls that had softened for others came crashing back up around you.

It wasn’t just confusing. It stung.

What made it worse was that you couldn’t figure out why. You were well-liked in Jackson. You had a reputation for being kind, caring, funny—charismatic in a way that drew people in without much effort on your part. People sought you out. You were the type of person others trusted, the one who could make a tense moment lighter with just a smile. You knew how to connect with people, how to build friendships that were rooted in something real. You had friends everywhere—Tommy, Maria, the patrol groups—and wherever you went, you fit in.

But not with Joel Miller.

With Joel, it felt like no matter what you did, you could never find your footing. He didn’t laugh at your jokes, didn’t seem to care about the easy rapport you had with everyone else. If anything, his coldness made you doubt yourself, made you second-guess every interaction, every conversation. You, who had always been so sure of your ability to connect, were suddenly questioning everything.

You could still remember the day Joel arrived in Jackson, Ellie by his side, both of them looking weathered and wary. There was something raw in the way Joel had embraced Tommy, a kind of relief that softened the edges of his usual guarded self. For a moment, he had looked so vulnerable, so unburdened by the weight of the world, that you’d thought, maybe, just maybe, we’ll get along. After all, if Tommy loved him, how hard could it be?

Tommy had been so excited to introduce you two. You were one of his closest friends in Jackson, practically family, and he’d pulled you aside that day, a wide grin on his face as he said, “I can’t wait for y’all to meet, I know you’ll get along great.” There had been such hope in his voice, such warmth. It had made you smile, had made you eager to get to know Joel. You had thought of all the ways your bond with Tommy would naturally extend to Joel—how you’d become this little trio of friends, tied by loyalty and time.

But it hadn’t happened that way.

Instead, from the very first moment you and Joel had locked eyes, something had been off. You couldn’t pinpoint when, exactly, it shifted, but as the months wore on, the gap between you seemed to widen. You couldn’t understand what you had done to push him so far away, but whatever it was, it felt irrevocable. It was as if, in Joel’s eyes, you had done something unforgivable before you even had the chance to know him.

Tommy’s words echoed in your mind sometimes, taunting you with their false promise: You guys will get along great.

You remembered the first time you had met Joel—it had been one of those evenings meant to feel light and warm, filled with laughter and food. Maria had invited you to Tommy and hers for dinner, a small gathering, just family and close friends. The kitchen had smelled like garlic and rosemary, the scents swirling around you as you helped plate the dishes while Maria buzzed beside you, chatting about the latest updates in town.

Then you heard the door creak open, the murmur of low voices carrying into the kitchen. Joel and Ellie had arrived, their figures framed by the dying evening light streaming through the doorway. There was something comforting in how they stood—a familiarity, an ease that only family can share. Tommy’s laugh rang out, hearty and genuine, as he clapped his brother on the shoulder, leading him into the room.

“Hey, Maria,” Joel’s voice cut through the air—gruff, grounded, with a depth that seemed to echo from the very walls of the house. And then, Tommy turned to you with that warm brotherly smile of his, introducing you.

You’d smiled—nervous but friendly—extending a hand as you offered a casual greeting. “Hi, it’s so nice to finally meet you, Joel.”

A light-hearted joke about the food had slipped from your lips, something meant to fill the space, to break the silence, to ease the unfamiliarity. But Joel had only stared for a heartbeat too long, his hand moving to shake yours with a grip that felt as solid and immovable as stone. There had been no warmth, no softness in his eyes, no smile to meet your own. It was as if your presence unsettled him, a chill descending between you two in that brief exchange. You had felt it then—the distance, the resistance.

And it only grew from there.

Through the evening, you had tried. Tried to coax him into the conversation with little remarks, to pull him in through laughter and lighthearted banter. Ellie had laughed, her bright smile flickering like sunshine breaking through the clouds. Tommy had nearly fallen out of his chair at one of your jokes, his laughter filling the space between bites of food. Even Maria had chuckled softly, her eyes glowing with warmth as she nudged you playfully.

But not Joel.

Every time you spoke, his brow furrowed just a little deeper. His lips pressed tighter together, and his eyes flicked away from yours as if he couldn't bear to hold your gaze. It wasn’t outright hostility, but the coldness lingered like a shadow, hovering between every word exchanged. The more you tried to engage him, the more distant he seemed, as if you were pushing against a wall that refused to budge.

And the more Joel pulled away, the more it gnawed at you, turning your confusion into something more jagged, more bitter. How could someone you barely knew have such a hold on your thoughts? How could one man’s distance feel like a rejection of everything you thought you were good at?

As the days blurred together, you’d find yourself thinking about it more than you cared to admit. And as much as you tried to brush it off, tried to tell yourself that you didn’t care, that his coldness didn’t matter—it did. It mattered more than you wanted it to.

And Joel? He didn’t seem to care.

That was why, when you saw your name paired with Joel for the next patrol, you were stumped. A frown pulled at your lips as you stared at the roster, the list mocking you with its cruel pairing.

Joel Miller.

The man who could barely look at you, who actively avoided your presence, now slated to spend hours—days even—alone with you out in the wilderness. Whoever had put this together had to be playing a joke on you.

But as your eyes drifted down to the bottom of the roster, you saw the telltale initials: M & T. Maria and Tommy. The two people in charge of organizing patrols.

Of course.

You gruffed in frustration, the idea of spending hours in silence, or worse, awkward small talk with Joel, made you inwardly groan.

Shaking your head, you started the short walk toward Maria and Tommy’s house, the crisp winter air biting at your cheeks. The snow beneath your boots crunched with each step, the sound sharp in the otherwise quiet evening. Jackson’s main path was lined with soft, glowing lights that reflected off the fresh blanket of snow, guiding your way.

Their house wasn’t far, tucked neatly alongside the other homes, warm and inviting with its soft glow spilling from the windows. You could see the familiar curl of smoke rising from the chimney, a sure sign of the roaring fire inside. As you approached, you could hear voices filtering through the thick wooden walls—louder than usual, urgent. You slowed your pace, the tension in the air becoming palpable, the muffled sound of raised voices stirring something uneasy in your chest.

“What the hell is this, Tommy?” Joel’s voice cut through the stillness, gruff and laced with irritation. You stopped short of the door, your breath catching as curiosity took hold. You shouldn’t eavesdrop—you knew that��but you couldn’t stop yourself. You needed to hear what Joel had to say, especially if it would finally give you some insight into why he always seemed to look at you with that simmering frustration.

“What’s the big deal, Joel?” Tommy’s voice echoed back, exasperated but steady, trying to keep the peace.

“You know damn well what the big deal is.” Joel’s tone was biting, sharp enough to cut through the thick wooden walls. His frustration was palpable, practically vibrating through the air. “You’re pairin’ me up with her? Jesus, Tommy, you know I can’t stand her.”

The words hit like a physical blow, and your heart clenched painfully, the sting immediate and deep. You had suspected it for a while, of course, but hearing him say it out loud—that he couldn’t stand you—felt like a punch to the gut, one you weren’t prepared for.

You weren’t the type to let words get to you, especially not like this, but this—this was different. A lump formed in your throat, and before you could stop it, tears pricked at your eyes, threatening to spill over. You pressed yourself closer to the door, the silence inside the house heavy as if even Tommy was taken aback by Joel’s outburst.

Finally, Tommy spoke again, his voice filled with frustration, tinged with disbelief. “And why the hell not? She’s a good person, Joel. A damn good person with a heart of gold. What the hell did she ever do to you?”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat growing. You stepped closer to the door, your heart pounding as you waited—needed—to hear Joel’s response. You needed to know why.

“It’s not that simple, Tommy.” Joel’s voice was quieter now, the frustration tempered, but it carried a weight that made your pulse quicken.

“What the hell’s so complicated about it?” Tommy shot back, his voice rising in disbelief, clearly at the end of his patience. “You’ve barely said two words to her since you got here. If you’ve got a problem with her, why don’t you just spit it out?”

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating. For a moment, you thought Joel wouldn’t answer at all. The tension hung in the air like a coiled spring, ready to snap.

And then, in a voice so low you almost didn’t hear it, Joel finally spoke. “It’s just… I can’t, alright? I can’t… be around her like that.”

Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs, confusion swirling inside you. What did that even mean? You had no idea what he was trying to say, but it twisted something deep within you, the uncertainty gnawing at your insides.

“Jesus, Joel,” Tommy sighed, his voice carrying the weariness of too many conversations just like this one. You could practically hear him running a hand through his hair, frustration and exhaustion blending in his tone.

“Look, you don’t have a choice here. What if one day it’s just the two of you out there, the only ones available for patrol, and something goes sideways? You gonna let things fall apart because you can’t get over yourself and work together?”

There was a pause, Tommy’s words hanging in the air like a plea for reason. You knew you had heard enough. The knot in your chest had tightened to the point of pain, and you were ready to turn away, to retreat before things got worse.

But before you could move, the door creaked open.

Joel stood in the doorway, his broad frame blocking out the warm light from inside. His eyes found yours immediately, and in that instant, you knew—he had seen you. And he knew you had heard everything.

The flicker of recognition in his eyes made your chest tighten even more, your heart racing as the tension between you grew impossibly thick. There was no apology in his gaze, no softening in his expression. He just stared at you, his features tight and unreadable, leaving you suspended in the heavy silence of everything unsaid.

Behind him, you could see Maria and Tommy, their faces filled with worry, watching as the situation unfolded like a slow-motion tragedy. You felt exposed, raw, like an open wound, and the last thing you wanted was for anyone to witness that vulnerability.

Joel pushed past you without a word, his shoulder brushing yours as he strode down the steps, his footsteps heavy against the ground. He didn’t even glance back, leaving you standing there, heart in pieces, with nothing but the cold air biting at your skin.

You turned on your heel, walking away from the house, your steps heavy, dragging, like your body was weighed down by the ache in your chest. You wanted to move faster, to disappear into the night, but your legs felt unsteady beneath you, refusing to obey the urgency in your heart. Each step felt like a struggle, the sting of unshed tears blurring your vision as you tried to hold it together.

“Wait—” Tommy called after you, his voice tight with concern. “Come inside, talk to us.”

But you couldn’t. The tears were already threatening to spill, your throat tight with the pressure of holding everything in. The last thing you wanted was for them—for him—to see you like this, breaking apart in front of their eyes. Your vision wavered as the first tear slipped free, and you blinked hard, trying to will it away, trying to push down the hurt that was clawing its way up.

You needed to get out of there. Anywhere but here. You moved faster, your boots crunching in the freshly fallen snow, your breath coming in short, ragged bursts as you made your way down the path. The cold air nipped at your cheeks, but it did little to numb the burning in your chest.

Behind you, you heard Tommy rushing after you, his footsteps crunching through the snow, his voice softer now, urgent but gentle. “Hey, kid—he didn’t mean it. You know Joel. He’s complicated. He doesn’t know how to—” His words trailed off, as if he couldn’t find the right way to explain something even he didn’t fully understand.

You stopped, your feet rooted to the ground, but you didn’t turn to face him. You couldn’t. Not like this. Not when you were one breath away from falling apart entirely, from letting everything you’d been holding back flood to the surface.

“I’ll be fine, Tommy,” you said, your voice tight, barely managing to stay steady. It felt like a lie, like a betrayal of the truth you were burying inside, but you couldn’t let him see you like this. Not over Joel Miller. You wiped at your eyes hastily, trying to brush away the tears before they fell. “I just… I need to go.”

There was a pause, the silence thick between you, weighted with sympathy, with Tommy’s understanding and his guilt. He didn’t say anything else, and in that moment, you were grateful. He didn’t push. He knew better.

So you walked away, your heart heavy with the weight of it all. The cold air bit at your cheeks, but the sting of Joel’s words hurt so much more, echoing in your mind like a wound that refused to heal. And underneath it all, one question burned like fire, searing through every doubt and every hurt—Why?

Why did Joel hate you so much? What had you ever done to deserve it?

•••

The morning sun filtered through the thin curtains of your small home, casting soft, golden beams across the wooden floor. The house was modest—just enough space for one person, with a kitchen that opened into a cozy living room, and a bedroom tucked away in the back. The walls were lined with small, personal touches—books you had collected over the years, a few framed photos of moments from before, and little trinkets you had scavenged from various patrols. It was a quiet space, peaceful, but this morning, the weight of the silence felt heavier than usual.

You sat on the edge of your bed, your hands lingering over your boots before pulling them on with a sigh. The air in Jackson had the sharpness of early morning, and you knew the day ahead would be long. As you tied the laces, the conversation you’d overheard at Tommy and Maria’s house replayed in your mind—the sting of Joel’s words, the coldness in his voice. "Jesus Tommy, you know I can’t stand her." It had been days since, but the ache of it still hit like a fresh bruise, tender to the touch.

You stood and moved to the small table by the door where you kept your patrol gear—your rifle, your gloves, a well-worn coat. Everything felt heavier today. As you strapped on your holster, you caught your reflection in the window. You looked tired. Not just from lack of sleep, but from the quiet hurt that had been growing inside you, quietly gnawing at your spirit since the moment Joel’s words reached your ears.

With one last glance around your home, you opened the door and stepped outside, the crisp morning air hitting your cheeks. The stable wasn’t far, just a short walk, but the journey felt longer today. Each step reminded you of the awkward silence that was bound to hang between you and Joel, the weight of unspoken words and the tension that had always been there but now felt even more unbearable.

When you arrived at the patrol meet-up spot, your eyes immediately landed on your horse. He whinnied softly, recognizing you as you approached. You smiled faintly, running your hand along his muzzle, brushing through his thick mane. It was a ritual by now—whispering a soft hello to him, patting his side, and taking a moment to ground yourself before setting out. He was the one constant, the one being you could rely on during patrol. You leaned in, pressing your forehead gently to his, letting the warmth of his presence calm your frayed nerves.

But then, you heard the familiar sound of boots crunching in the snow behind you. Without even turning, you knew it was Joel.

You felt his presence like a weight in the air—heavy, silent. He said nothing as he walked past you, his eyes fixed on his own horse. There was no greeting, no acknowledgment, just the awkward tension that had settled between you both like a fog. The memories of that conversation played over again in your mind, and the pang of hurt hit you square in the chest as you stiffened slightly.

You stole a quick glance at him as he saddled his horse. His face was set in that same stoic expression, the one he wore around everyone in Jackson—but with you, there was an added distance. He kept his eyes averted, focusing on the task at hand, and for a moment, you wondered if this day would pass without a single word between you.

With a sigh, you climbed onto your horse, settling into the saddle with a practiced ease. The silence between you and Joel was palpable, thick like the cold morning air. You wanted to say something—anything to break the tension—but the words caught in your throat, stifled by the hurt that lingered.

Joel mounted his horse without a glance in your direction. You both sat there for a beat, the sound of horses shifting in the snow the only thing breaking the stillness. Then, without a word, he nudged his horse forward, and you followed suit, the two of you riding out together into the white expanse of the wilderness beyond Jackson.

The only thing heavier than the quiet was the unspoken weight between you.

You began your journey through the thick silence that had settled between you and Joel like a fog. The cold wind bit at your skin, but it was nothing compared to the coldness that radiated from the man riding just ahead of you. His shoulders were hunched, his back stiff, his eyes never once flickering in your direction. The snow crunched beneath your horse's hooves, the sound the only thing to fill the uncomfortable quiet between you.

Not a single word had passed between you since the patrol began. The tension was unbearable, the weight of Joel’s unspoken words hanging heavily in the air. You hadn’t expected warmth or friendliness, not after everything, but the biting silence cut deeper than you could have imagined.

Hours passed before Joel finally spoke, his voice a low mutter as he pointed toward a narrow path. “We’ll go through here,” he said, his tone flat and emotionless, as though he were simply checking off a list. It was strange to hear him speak after so long, and for a moment, it felt as though his words didn’t belong to him.

You followed in silence, the trail winding deeper into the forest, the trees closing in around you. The snow-covered ground glittered under the faint sunlight, casting long shadows that twisted and danced between the trees. The world felt smaller here, more enclosed, and with each passing moment, the unease inside you grew.

Eventually, you arrived at your destination—a crumbling cabin tucked deep in the woods, half-buried in snow, its wood aged and brittle against the cold. The stillness of the air made everything feel heavier, like even the trees were holding their breath. You dismounted your horse quietly, your fingers stiff from the biting chill as you fumbled with the reins. Joel had already tied his horse to the post, his movements precise, practiced.

He turned toward you, the lines of his face hardened, eyes sharp as they caught yours for a moment too long. His jaw clenched, the tension palpable. “Follow me,” he ordered, his voice cutting through the cold air like a whip. “And don’t say a word. Not a single word. From here on out, we’re silent.”

His command, rough and unyielding, struck you with a sharpness that left your chest aching. It wasn’t just the cold seeping into your bones—it was the weight of his disdain, pressing down on you, constricting your breath. You nodded, your throat tightening with unspoken words you knew would only make things worse.

You followed him toward the cabin, the wind howling softly around you, whispering secrets you couldn’t quite hear. The snow crunched beneath your boots, the scent of pine lingering in the air. But despite the open wilderness around you, the world felt unnervingly small. The cabin door creaked on its rusted hinges as Joel pushed it open, the sound echoing like a warning in the eerie stillness. You hesitated before stepping inside, the dim light barely illuminating the cramped space that lay beyond.

Your pulse quickened, your instincts telling you something wasn’t right. You’d been on enough patrols to recognize danger, but this… this felt different. It felt personal. Like the shadows themselves were watching, waiting.

Joel moved ahead of you, his broad shoulders tense, his gun drawn as he scanned the small room. His silence felt thick, suffocating, the air between you charged with unspoken tension. You tried to steady your breathing, to calm the hammering of your heart, but the unease gnawed at you, made every sound sharper, every shadow darker.

And then it happened.

A figure lunged from the darkness, too fast for you to react, the world tilting violently as you were tackled to the ground. The impact stole the breath from your lungs, the cold, hard floor biting into your skin. The raider was filthy, wild-eyed, his hands rough and cruel as he pinned you beneath him, the sharp gleam of a knife flashing before your eyes. Panic surged through you, but your limbs felt heavy, useless against the overwhelming force holding you down. The knife hovered dangerously close to your throat, the cold steel grazing your skin, and for one terrifying moment, you thought this was it—this was how it would end.

But then Joel was there.

He moved like a storm—fast, brutal, and unstoppable. In one swift motion, he yanked the raider off of you, throwing him to the floor with a strength that seemed to come from somewhere far deeper than just muscle. Rage radiated from Joel as his fists met flesh, each blow landing with a sickening crack that echoed through the tiny cabin. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. The raider’s body went limp beneath him, but Joel kept going, his fists relentless, pounding into the man with a fury that seemed to possess him, until the only sound left was the ragged heave of his breathing and the wet thud of blood dripping onto the floor.

You lay there, gasping, your chest rising and falling in uneven, desperate breaths. The world spun around you, the edges of your vision blurred by adrenaline and fear. You pushed yourself up on trembling arms, your body weak, every nerve on edge. Your heart thundered in your chest, so loud you could hear it in your ears, drowning out the silence that had settled like a heavy fog.

Joel turned toward you then, his chest still heaving with exertion, his fists stained with blood. His face was dark with anger, his eyes burning as they locked onto yours. “What the hell was that?” he growled, the fury in his voice so raw it made you flinch. “You could’ve been killed.”

His words were a blade, sharp and unyielding, cutting through the thin veil of composure you’d been clinging to. You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to breathe. You wanted to speak, to defend yourself, but the intensity of his stare pinned you down more effectively than the raider ever could. Every word you wanted to say died on your tongue.

And then he muttered it, low and venomous, just loud enough for you to hear: “Fucking burden…”

The words sliced through you, deeper than any knife. You felt them settle in your chest, a sharp, stinging ache that spread like wildfire, consuming the air around you. You stared at him, the sting of his words leaving you breathless, your heart sinking as if it had been thrown into the abyss.

“No,” you spat, your voice shaking with a mix of anger and hurt. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

Joel’s eyes flashed, his body going rigid as he turned fully to face you. “Excuse me?” His voice was dangerously low, like the quiet before a storm, but you didn’t back down. Not this time.

“You heard me.” Your chest was still heaving, adrenaline still coursing through your veins, but your resolve was stronger than your fear. “You don’t get to treat me like I’m some… problem you have to deal with. I’m out here trying to do my part, same as you.”

His expression darkened, disbelief twisting his features. “Do your part? You almost got yourself killed back there! If I hadn’t been here—"

“If you hadn’t been here?” you cut him off, your voice rising as the anger overtook the fear. “What, I’d be dead? Is that what you think? That I can’t handle myself? I’ve been on patrols long before you showed up. I’ve survived without you. Just fine.”

Joel scoffed, his lips curling in frustration. “Yeah? Didn’t look like it just now.”

His words were another blow, sharp and biting, but you refused to let them break you. “I didn’t need you to save me, Joel. I would’ve figured it out.”

His eyes narrowed, his jaw working as he fought to control the anger simmering just beneath the surface. “You think this is a game? You think you can just figure it out when you’ve got a knife to your throat?” His voice was loud now, booming in the small space, filled with a frustration that felt all too personal.

“You could’ve died. And for what?”

“Fuck you, Joel.”

The words slipped from your lips before you could stop them, raw and jagged, fueled by the fire burning in your chest. You didn’t care about the consequences, didn’t care that his eyes had gone dark with shock. You were done. Done with being treated like something fragile and disposable.

Joel stared at you, his body tense, his mouth slightly open like he hadn’t expected the bite of your words. For a moment, the space between you felt like a battlefield, the silence pulsing with the weight of everything unsaid. The anger that simmered in you wasn’t just from this moment—it was months of pent-up frustration, of feeling like you were constantly crashing against a wall with him, never allowed in.

Your chest heaved, your hands trembling with the adrenaline still coursing through you.

“I don’t need you to save me,” you said, your voice shaking with the force of what you felt. “I never asked for your help, Joel. And I sure as hell don’t need you treating me like I’m some burden. So fuck you.”

His eyes flashed with something—anger, guilt, maybe something softer, but he quickly buried it beneath that familiar cold exterior. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might snap back, might throw something just as harsh in your face. But he didn’t. Instead, his gaze dropped, just for a second, like your words had found their mark.

“Fine,” he muttered, his voice low and hard. “You don’t need my help? Then don’t ask for it.” He turned sharply, storming out of the cabin without another word, his footsteps heavy in the snow, leaving you standing there in the cold, breathless and burning with the aftershocks of everything you’d just said.

But even as the silence swallowed him up, you knew the storm between you wasn’t over—it had only just begun.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal #fic rec

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rip-quizilla · 2 months ago

Text

Okay some of these sentences are so beautiful they make me want to WEEP.

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

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

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

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

But Joel? Joel was different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What are they seeking?

What do they need?

And are they open to love, truly open?

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

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

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

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

That was the truth of it.

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

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

And maybe… maybe he thought you’d fail.

But something about that challenge stuck in your ribs.

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

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

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

Not until now.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

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

Joel’s food was, of course, incredible.

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

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

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

You took a breath, then another.

Wiped your mouth—gently.

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

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

That was all.

Tommy bit back a grin and reached for the bread.

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

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

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

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

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

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

He blinked at you. Once. Twice.

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

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

It shut you up.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It became a pattern—awkward, pointed, persistent.

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

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

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

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

“You ever get lonely, Joel?”

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

After that, you told yourself you’d stop.

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

But the promise frayed faster than you'd expected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel didn’t answer right away.

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

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

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

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

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

And then—he looked away.

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

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

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

He didn’t look up.

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

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

And Joel?

Joel just sat there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something like love.

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

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

She might want family.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

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

@joelmillerswife9 @meanderingcaptainswanmusings @mrfitzdarcyslover @noeeeeeeel @lostinthestreamofconsciousness

@fitzwlliamdarcy @mystickittytaco @millerdjarinn @missladym1981

@bardot49 @valkyreally @jeongiegram @fpsantiago @rattyfishrock

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

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

@dulcebloodhnd @rigoler @brittmb115 @lizziesfirstwife @nandan11

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

@sagexsenorita

#good god #your writing is immaculate #fic rec #pedro pascal #joel miller fanfic #Joel miller #joel miller x reader #cupid of Wyoming

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rip-quizilla · 2 months ago

Text

“Home sweet home”

No Outbreak!Joel x f!Reader

Joel’s Masterlist

Based on this request

Summary: After losing your home, you have no choice but to move in with your college best friend Sarah… and her ridiculously attractive dad, Joel Miller.

He does his best to keep his feelings at bay—until he catches his brother Tommy flirting with you, jealousy ignites something he can’t suppress anymore.

WC: 10k

Warning/Tags: smut, minors DNI, age gap (joel is 40ish, reader is 21), unprotected piv, oral (f!receiving), masturbation, dirty talk, creampie, aftercare, jealous joel, touch starved joel.

The message from your landlord came while you were scrubbing toothpaste out of your bathroom sink.

Building is getting sold. You have 30 days.

You stared at the screen, heart dropping. It wasn’t a prank. You called him in a panic, and he confirmed it—just as casually cruel as you remembered him being the day you signed the lease.

“You’ll get the paperwork this week. Nothing personal, sweetheart. Just business.”

It felt personal, even if it wasn’t. You’d worked your ass off to afford that shitty little studio near campus. And now? With finals looming and no savings to speak of, you were out of options.

Until Sarah Miller—your best friend, together in every class—called you ten minutes later with a plan.

“Move in with me and my dad.”

“Wait, what?”

“We’ve got space. You’ve seen the house. You’ll have your own room. Come on. It’s perfect.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Oh, come on, why not?”

“Did you even ask your dad first?”

“He won’t say no. Trust me.”

It was a nice house. You’d gone over for Thanksgiving last year when you couldn’t afford the plane ticket home. Suburban, warm, homey. The kind of place that smelled like cedar and lemon wood polish and fresh cornbread in the oven.

And Joel? Well. You didn’t know him well. But you remembered that deep Southern drawl and how he always seemed kind of quiet, brooding in a way that made it hard to tell if he hated having guests or just didn’t know what to say to twenty-year-old girls. Still, he’d pulled your chair out at the table, handed you a full plate, and insisted you take leftovers home.

He was the typical tough Texan dad with an arsenal of dad jokes, a garage full of tools, and arms like he’d never stopped working construction a day in his life. He’d raised her alone since she was little. He was protective. Gruff. A good man, by all accounts. But also a man. A very attractive, older man. And you didn’t trust yourself not to notice that.

You’d tried not to think about it too much at Thanksgiving—the way his voice dipped when he asked if you were warm enough, the way his hand brushed your lower back when he passed behind you at the sink.

You move in on a rainy Thursday, just after your last final. Your life packed in four boxes, two garbage bags, a battered backpack.

Sarah came bounding out the front door before you even reached the sidewalk.

“You made it! Jesus, you really packed light,” she said, grabbing the smallest box from your arms.

You shrugged. “Didn’t have much left after storage and panic donations. Thanks again for this, seriously.”

“Please. Dad’s thrilled. I mean, he grumbled at first, but he always grumbles. That’s how you know he cares.”

She carries one box up the porch steps, then kicks the door open like she owns the place. “Dad? You home?”

Joel appears in the hallway wearing a fitted Henley and jeans that fit too well for a man pushing fifty. His beard was speckled with gray, and the laugh lines around his eyes only made his scowl somehow more handsome. His sleeves are rolled up, dust on his hands like he’s been fixing something. He wipes them on a rag tucked into his back pocket and gives you a once-over, expression unreadable.

There’s a moment where time slows—not because anything dramatic happens, but because something in your chest clenches, tight and hot, when his eyes meet yours.

His gaze lingered on you for a second—just long enough to make your heart do something entirely inappropriate—and then he nodded.

“Thank you for letting me stay, Mr. Miller. I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience, I’ll try my best not to disturb your routine.”

Joel, in his Texas attitude: “Ain’t no trouble at all, darlin’. Stay as long as you’d like.”

“It won’t be much, I promise. Just until I can get back on my feet and find a place.”

Joel nods. “No rush, darlin’. Got plenty of room here.” He glances at the boxes in your arms. “That all you got?”

You nod. “Uh-huh.”

“Alright. Sarah, show her the guest room. I’ll heat up some chili.”

You blink. “You don’t have to—”

He’s already walking toward the kitchen. “’Course I do. Can’t have y’all movin’ boxes on an empty stomach.”

Sarah grins at you like told you so and starts up the stairs.

The guest room is bigger than your entire studio apartment. Wood floors, clean sheets, a window seat overlooking the yard. It smells like cedar and laundry detergent and a hint of tobacco smoke that clings to Joel like an afterthought. A stack of neatly folded towels waits at the foot of the bed. It’s not fancy—but it feels intentional. Like someone actually cared about making the space comfortable.

You shower, change into soft cotton shorts and a shirt, and pad downstairs, still a little unsure of your place in all this.

Joel’s in the kitchen, ladling chili into bowls, his flannel sleeves rolled again to the elbows. His forearms are dusted with dark hair, corded with strength, and you swallow hard before looking away.

He moves like he’s always half-ready to lift something heavy, the quiet confidence of a man who’s used to being relied on. You wonder what his hands would feel like—not on you, not like that, just… in your hair. On your back. Tucking a blanket around your shoulders.

He doesn’t say much over dinner. Just listens while Sarah fills the silence, talking about professors and internships and how excited she is that you’re staying. He asks you a few questions, soft and low: how your finals went, if you need help finding work over the summer, whether you prefer coffee or tea in the morning.

Simple things. Domestic things.

But every time he speaks directly to you, your skin gets hot. It’s not what he says—it’s how. That quiet, steady drawl. The way he looks at you when you answer, really looks, like your words matter. Like you matter.

And it still makes something flutter low in your stomach, the way his eyes linger on you just a second too long when you talk.

You wonder if he notices the way you sit a little straighter when he enters the room. If he sees the way you steal glances at him when you think no one’s looking.

What you don’t know is—he does.

You settled in quickly. Joel wasn’t a talker—at least not in the mornings—but he wasn’t cold either. He made good coffee, offered rides if your class schedule lined up, and grunted his approval when you loaded the dishwasher “the right way.”

He moved around the kitchen in a way that was easy to fall into rhythm with. No unnecessary chatter, just the rustle of the newspaper, the soft clink of ceramic mugs, the smell of fresh coffee and toast. It was domestic in a way that caught you off guard—familiar, intimate, comforting.

You’d only been there three weeks, and already it felt like home. Which was dangerous. Because you were starting to look forward to seeing him more than you should.

It started small—the sound of his boots in the hallway, the low hum of him talking to himself as he worked in the garage, the way his T-shirts stretched over broad shoulders that definitely didn’t belong to a man his age. A glance too long. A laugh too soft. The way your stomach fluttered when Joel passed behind you at the kitchen counter and his hand brushed the small of your back—not even meaning to.

You’d feel the warmth of that touch long after it happened, seeping into your skin like heat from the sun. And even though you told yourself not to overthink it, that it didn’t mean anything, your body reacted all the same—tense, aware, expectant.

He was always polite. Courteous. A little gruff, sure, but that just made the softness underneath hit harder. You’d hear him in the mornings, humming low and tuneless while making coffee. You caught him once, reading a paperback novel on the porch, dog-eared and sun-bleached, his thumb absently rubbing the edge of the page. You wanted to sit down next to him. You didn’t.

He looked peaceful like that—legs stretched out, glasses slipping a little down his nose, the kind of man who lived in his own silence like it was armor. You hovered in the doorway too long that day, wondering what would happen if you broke it.

Joel wasn’t nosy.

Not in the way some folks were, at least. He minded his own damn business, kept to himself, didn’t ask questions unless he needed to. But lately—ever since you moved in—it was like the house had changed its shape.

It was the little things.

The way your laughter lilted through the hallways when Sarah showed you some dumb video. The smell of your shampoo curling out from the bathroom door in warm, steamy waves. Your shoes kicked off at the front door—small, scuffed, feminine—and your toothbrush next to his in the cup like it belonged there.

You weren’t doing anything inappropriate. You were polite, helpful, respectful. You always said thank you, always rinsed your dishes before putting them in the washer, always asked him how his day was. Hell, Sarah had brought home other friends before—ones who left dishes in the sink and hair in the drain. He hadn’t batted an eye.

But you?

You looked at him like he was something else entirely.

You didn’t mean to, he could tell. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t push boundaries. But sometimes, when you thought he wasn’t looking, your eyes lingered. Slid over his shoulders when he stretched his arms above his head. Dipped down to his hands when he was working in the yard. Stuck on his mouth when he took a sip of his beer after dinner.

And Joel noticed. God help him, he noticed.

But he didn’t do a damn thing.

Not even when you laughed at something Sarah said and threw your head back, that golden line of your throat catching the light. Not even when you wore those little cotton shorts that barely qualified as sleepwear, and brushed past him like you didn’t know what you were doing. Maybe you didn’t. Maybe you did.

He saw things. Not always directly, but enough to piece together the truth.

Like the way your eyes lingered when he handed you a plate, or how your voice got quieter when he came into the room. He’d catch your gaze in the reflection of the kitchen window, see the way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention—not like a girl looking at her best friend’s dad, but like a woman looking at a man.

He tried not to think about it too much. It wasn’t right. Too many years, too many lines he shouldn’t cross. But Joel was still a man. And some things were hard to ignore.

He was older. Wiser. Should’ve been above even thinking about it. He didn’t entertain things that didn’t have roots. And this? This thing that simmered silently between you? It didn’t have roots. It was delicate, new, fleeting. Probably one-sided. Just a girl feeling grateful and safe under a roof that wasn’t falling apart.

Still.

He noticed.

Especially when he went out to hang laundry in the sun one Saturday, and there—damn near dead center of the clothesline—was a little scrap of fabric that stopped him cold.

Pink. Lacy. Your thong.

It swayed gently in the breeze like a whisper, like a secret only he was meant to see. The kind of thing no man in his position should be looking at—but God, it was hard not to. He felt the heat rise behind his ears, that deep, low ache settling behind his ribs like a warning bell.

He swallowed hard and looked away.

But not before he saw the way it fluttered lightly in the breeze, a tiny, taunting flag of temptation in the middle of his goddamn backyard.

He didn’t touch it. Didn’t move it. Just hung his own clean shirt a few pegs down and muttered to himself.

“Not your business, Miller.”

He knew he was in trouble when he couldn’t stop picturing it—you—folding those same little things in the laundry room, humming softly to yourself, maybe biting your lip while you read a text. Oblivious to the way you bent at the waist, the way your hair fell over your face, the way his eyes always found you no matter what room you were in.

He didn’t mean to stare. Didn’t want to.

But goddammit.

You were young. Smart. Kind. The kind of girl who brought home little bags of groceries without being asked, who laughed at his dumb jokes and called him “Mr. Miller” even though he told you not to. The kind of girl who still had the whole world ahead of her.

And Joel?

Joel was just a man trying to keep his eyes to himself.

Trying.

Trying not to picture things he had no right picturing. Not to wonder what you’d do if he ever reached out, just once, and touched your waist again on purpose. Not to imagine the taste of your laugh on his mouth or the feel of your thighs in his hands. But it was getting harder. Every day, it got harder.

One night, Sarah had gone out to the movies with some childhood friends — you decided to stay home. The house had grown still as you padded into the kitchen, wearing a pair of shorts so small they should have been illegal, and an oversized shirt.

He was nursing a beer at the table.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded, opening the fridge. “Too quiet.”

He watched you pull out a water bottle, the fridge light glowing against your skin. He tried not to let his eyes drift, but they did—bare legs, the edge of that damn thong visible beneath your waistband, like it was teasing him.

You caught him looking—but only for a second.

Neither of you said a word about it.

But the air felt thick. Too heavy for casual silence.

He cleared his throat. “That shirt’s a little big on you.”

You looked down, smiling faintly. “Didn’t have any clean ones left.”

There was a lull, quieter now. Comfortable, almost. Then he asked, “Sarah… she seein’ anybody?”

You blinked. “Like dating?”

He shrugged. “Just wonderin’. She doesn’t tell me much these days. Figured you’d know.”

You shook your head, setting your water down. “Not seriously, no. Some guy in one of her econ classes was trying to flirt with her, but she said he chewed with his mouth open and that was a dealbreaker.”

Joel snorted. “Good girl.”

You smiled. “Girl knows her worth.”

He nodded, eyes still fixed on the label of his beer bottle, turning it slowly between his fingers. “You got anybody back at school?”

The question landed softer than it should’ve. You watched him carefully, the way his shoulders stayed loose, but his voice had dropped just enough to make your heart beat a little faster.

You shook your head. “No one worth talking about.”

Joel looked up at you. Held your gaze.

“No one good enough?” he asked.

You shrugged. “They’re… I don’t know. Loud. Kind of cocky. They talk a big game and can barely hold a conversation. Or your attention.”

His jaw shifted like he was biting back a thought. “Boys your age are idiots,” he said finally. “They don’t know how to treat a woman right. Not yet.”

You let out a soft laugh. “That sounds like personal experience.”

His eyes flicked back to yours, steady, unreadable. “Somethin’ like that.”

The silence settled again—thicker now. Not awkward. Not quite.

You leaned against the counter, sipping your water, eyes flicking to his, soft and a little unsure.

“I’m not bothering you being here, am I, Mr. Miller?” you asked suddenly.

His brow furrowed. “Joel, please. And no, course not. Why would you think that?”

You shrugged, looking down. “You’ve been kinda… quiet lately.”

He hesitated.

Tell her the truth, or don’t?

That the silence was the only thing keeping him from saying something he shouldn’t. That he didn’t trust the way his voice might sound if he told you how pretty you looked when you were tired. That if he let himself talk too much, he might never stop.

“I’m just tired,” he said instead, and the lie sat heavy in the space between you.

You nodded slowly, but your expression didn’t quite believe him.

Joel watched you disappear back down the hallway, and when he heard your bedroom door click shut, he let out a long, quiet breath.

This was a bad idea.

All of it.

Letting you stay. Letting himself look. Letting himself feel. He’d kept his head down for years—just work, just routine, just doing right by Sarah. But now? Now, every second you were in the house chipped away at his resolve.

But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was pink lace swaying in the sun.

The spare room was cozy in a mismatched, homey way. The walls were painted a soft blue, the bedspread faded but clean, and an old acoustic guitar leaned in the corner like it had stories of its own. You were sitting cross-legged on the bed, while Sarah sprawled out in the doorway with a soda and a bag of chips, already halfway through her second story about her high school boyfriend getting chased off by Joel.

“I swear to God,” she said between crunches, “Dad answered the door holding a wrench. Like, deliberately. Just stood there cleaning it like he was in a mob movie. And Dustin? Gone. Out the driveway, full sprint. Never texted me again.”

You snorted. “Honestly, good for him. Sounds like your dad was just doing the Lord’s work.”

“Please. He was so dramatic. He didn’t even like Dustin. Said he looked like a ‘wet Q-tip with a bad attitude.’”

You laughed so hard you nearly choked.

Sarah grinned, then tilted her head, studying you. “I can’t believe you’re actually living here. Like, in my house. This is so weird.”

“Is it?”

“Kinda. You’re like, my person. And now you’re crashing with me and my dad. It’s like a weird sitcom. ‘Two girls, one grumpy Texan dad, chili every night.’”

You grinned, tossing a pair of socks into a drawer. “He’s not that grumpy.”

“Give it a week,” she said. “You haven’t seen him in lawn mode. Or ‘someone parked wrong in the street’ mode.”

“Still,” you said, casually — way too casually — “your dad’s kind of… hot.”

Sarah choked mid-sip and immediately started coughing.

You froze. Then winced. “…Oh my God.”

She held up a hand, wheezing and sputtering. “What. Did you just say?”

You covered your face with both hands. “Forget it. Forget I said anything. I—God, that slipped out. Jesus.”

She stared at you, open-mouthed, like you’d just confessed to a war crime.

“You think my dad is hot?”

You peeked at her through your fingers. “I said kind of!”

“That’s not better!”

You flopped back on the bed, groaning into the comforter. “I didn’t mean to say it out loud.”

“You meant it, though,” she accused, pointing the neck of her soda bottle at you. “That was some ‘I’ve-thought-about-this-in-the-shower’ kind of confession.”

You dragged a pillow over your face. “He’s just… rugged, okay? That whole strong, quiet, Southern thing? It’s a thing.”

“I really didnt want to know that you wanted to bang my dad!”

“I didn’t say I wanted to—”

“You didn’t not say it!”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “I’m just saying. The flannel. The beard. The arms. Your dad’s hot. Objectively.”

She blinked at you. “You cannot say that to me.”

You covered your face with both hands, half-laughing, half-dying inside. “I’m sorry. It just slipped out. Like verbal diarrhea.”

Sarah threw a pillow at you, but she was laughing now, loud and open-mouthed.

“You can’t say things like that while living under his roof!”

“I won’t!” you insisted. “It’s just between us. Totally harmless. I’ll keep it locked away.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “You better. One slip and I’m kicking your ass out so fast your socks’ll still be inside.”

Saturdays were for repairs.

Joel had the garage door rolled halfway up, sunlight slanting in dusty golden lines across the concrete, sawdust clinging to the curl of his beard, oil on his jeans, and a socket wrench in his hand. His old Ford truck sat like a patient in surgery, hood propped open, the guts of the engine laid bare.

He didn’t hear the approaching footsteps until—

“Damn, big brother. Thought I’d find you inside, makin’ breakfast for your little college girl.”

Joel grunted and turned just enough to see Tommy leaning against the frame of the garage, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up into that ever-confident smirk.

“Don’t start,” Joel muttered.

“Oh, I’m startin’,” Tommy said, pushing off the frame and strolling in. His boots scuffed the floor like he owned it, like he always did. “Sarah told me. Said you got some cute little roommate now. Friend from school. Needed a place to stay. All innocent and temporary-like.”

Joel wiped his hands on a rag, knuckles scraped raw, jaw tight.

“She’s Sarah’s friend. That’s it.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

Joel shot him a look—sharp enough to cut, the kind that used to end bar fights before they began.

Tommy held up his hands in mock surrender, laughing. “Hey now, I ain’t judgin’.If I were you, I’d be prayin’ to God she accidentally walked in on me in the shower.”

Joel exhaled hard through his nose, tossing the rag aside. A muscle in his jaw ticked. “She’s twenty, Tommy. I’m not prayin’ for anythin’.”

“Bullshit,” Tommy said, circling the truck and leaning close. His voice dropped, grin turning wolfish. “You think I don’t know that look? That tight-shouldered, jaw-clenched, eyes-averted ‘I’m definitely not starin’ at her tits’ look?”

Joel didn’t answer. Just picked up another wrench and bent back under the hood.

“Man, this is perfect. This is like every guy’s fantasy—having a sweet little thing livin’ under your roof.”

“Shut the hell up,” he muttered.

Tommy slapped his back. “C’mon. You’re not dead, man.”

Joel shot him a flat look. Deadpan, dangerous. “I ain’t touchin’ that, alright? She’s a goddamn kid. And a good one.”

“You do you, man. But let me know if Sarah has more college friends lookin’ for a place to stay. Got plenty of empty space in my bed.”

Joel gave him a warning glare that could’ve curdled milk. A low, guttural sound barely restrained in his throat.

Tommy held up both hands, grinning. “Can’t blame a guy for tryin’.”

That night Joel’d waited until he heard your door close. Waited until the house settled again. He stayed up late on purpose—he always did when the thoughts got bad. Tried to wear himself out with TV and whiskey and reruns of shows he wasn’t even watching.

But it didn’t help.

Not tonight.

His bedroom was dim, just moonlight through the blinds striping the bed in pale, prison-bar lines. He lay there in just his boxers, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his stomach.

He hadn’t touched himself in months. Maybe longer. Not seriously. Not like this.

He closed his eyes.

Usually he thought of nothing. Just the feeling. Just friction. Just need.

But tonight…

Tonight, without warning, he pictured you.

You—laughing in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, water dripping off your wrists as you scrubbed a plate. You—bent over the dryer in those little shorts, stretching on your toes to reach the fabric softener. You—curled up on the couch in his flannel, bare thighs and sleepy eyes, so soft and unaware.

Joel’s breath hitched.

No.

He shouldn’t.

He shifted on the mattress, hand dragging lower—slow, hesitant, full of guilt. His palm pressed flat over the growing heat beneath his waistband, and he exhaled like it hurt. Because in some ways, it did.

This wasn’t a fantasy. Not really.

It was memory.

Real moments. Real sounds. The way you said his name when you asked for help reaching the tall shelves. The innocent way you’d smiled that first night when he offered you coffee and your fingers brushed his.

You weren’t trying to tempt him. You weren’t doing anything wrong.

And still—God help him—he was getting hard thinking about you.

He grunted softly, frustrated, but his hand was already slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, fingers curling around his cock with a low, guttural sound he couldn’t bite back. Hard and heavy in his fist, the heat of it made him wince, like it shamed him to want this badly.

Eyes screwed shut, he tried to keep it vague—faceless, nameless. Just friction. Just relief. But his mind betrayed him.

He saw the way your panties peeked above your waistband when you bent over. The damp outline they sometimes left on your shorts. The little, unconscious noise you’d made that day you tripped and he caught you—his hands curling too tight around your waist, the soft give of your body against his. How your breath hitched when you looked up at him, close enough to kiss.

He was already too far gone.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, groaning under his breath as his hand stroked again—long, slow, dragging his palm over the tip where precum slicked his skin. Not rough. Not fast. Just aching. Like he was trying to hold on to something he had no right to want. Like he wanted it to hurt a little.

Goddamn, he could almost hear it—your voice breaking as you moaned his name, breathy and begging. Could feel your thighs squeezing around him, back arching beneath him, nails raking down his shoulders. Your pussy clenching around him so tight he couldn’t breathe.

His fist moved faster now, hips flexing up into it, lost in it, drowning in the image of your face beneath him, mouth open, eyes glazed, whispering please, please, Joel

Don’t do this. Don’t think about her like that.

But he couldn’t stop.

Because when was the last time someone touched him? When was the last time someone looked at him the way you did, like he was more than a tired man with a worn-down heart and calloused hands?

He couldn’t stop thinking about your hand instead of his—smaller, softer, fingers wrapping around him with purpose. Curious, hungry. The way you’d look up at him while you did it, those eyes wide and dark, lips parted, so goddamn pretty.

But then his mind wandered lower, your mouth around him, soft and wet and warm, the plush slide of your lips over the tip. He imagined you licking up the precum first, sweet and teasing, just to watch him squirm. He imagined the sound you’d make when he hit the back of your throat, your fingers digging into his thighs as he groaned for you.

His hips lifted without him meaning to. The sheets bunched under his thighs, breath growing louder, faster, the pressure building.

And then—

From the hallway—a creak.

Joel froze. His pulse slammed in his throat. He held his breath.

Nothing followed. Just the house settling. Just pipes groaning. Just his own heartbeat, pounding loud in his ears.

He let go of himself, panting, hand still slick and shaking.

He hadn’t even finished.

But it felt like a confession anyway.

He rolled onto his side, ashamed and aching, like his skin didn’t quite fit right anymore. Jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

You deserved better than this. Better than a man who couldn’t stop thinking about you in the dark.

But Joel didn’t sleep that night.

Because now he’d let the thought in.

And it wasn’t going anywhere.

The backyard smelled like mesquite smoke and beer. Laughter floated up with the dusk, low and warm, curling into the branches of the old oak tree Joel had been meaning to trim.

The kind of laugh that hummed through the air like music, folding into the rustle of leaves overhead, the slow creak of porch steps under shifting weight. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, leaving behind a smear of gold and lavender in the sky, and the scent of meat on the grill mixed with citronella and cut grass.

It was one of those rare Texas evenings that made you forget the heat ever existed. The kind where neighbors came out of hiding, kids darted between legs, and old men leaned against porch railings, sipping cheap whiskey like it was the good stuff.

Joel had dragged out the grill, lit the citronella candles, and let Sarah handle the music. He wasn’t a party guy—but he’d hosted enough barbecues over the years to make it seem like second nature. Burgers. Beer. Music.

You were sitting near the edge of the porch in one of those fold-up chairs with the mesh cupholders, cradling a drink and laughing at something Sarah said.

The porch light hit your shoulders just right, casting a soft glow over your skin, catching the glint of your earrings as you tipped your head back to laugh. One foot tucked under your knee, the other tapping gently to the beat of the old country song Sarah had queued up.

And you looked good.

Too good. It hit him like a sucker punch every time he let his eyes linger too long. The way your hair was twisted up off your neck, leaving your throat bare. The delicate dip of your collarbone. The curve of your lips wrapped around the rim of your beer bottle, glossy and a little smudged. You didn’t look like you belonged on his porch—you looked like you belonged in a dream.

Joel had noticed the minute you walked out of the house, dress catching the breeze and clinging in the right places. Your legs crossed and bare, that little tilt of your head when you listened too closely.

You wore that white dress like it had been made for you. Thin straps. Tied at the waist. Flowing just enough to look innocent, but short enough to make his thoughts stray. Your skin was sun-kissed from the last weekend trip with Sarah, and Joel’s eyes kept betraying him—dragging down your thighs, your knees, the hem that danced along your mid-thigh every time the wind kicked up.

Then Tommy showed up.

Joel clocked the change immediately. Tommy didn’t even hide it. The way his smile lit up when he saw you, the way he pulled up a chair right next to yours without asking, cracking a fresh beer like he belonged there.

The bastard didn’t even pause. Just waltzed in like he’d been invited to flirt. Elbows out, grin wide, voice pitched just loud enough to draw you in. Joel saw the way you smiled back, polite, curious. The way you angled your body, legs still crossed but turned just enough to make room for Tommy. It lit a fire low in his chest. One he didn’t want to name.

Joel tried to ignore it.

He manned the grill like he was supposed to. Kept his head down. Tended to the burgers and ribs, tongs in hand, beer sweating beside him.

But every time he glanced up—

There was Tommy. Leaning close. Laughing louder. His knee brushing yours, his arm slung casually behind your chair. He was telling a story, waving his hands for emphasis, and you were looking at him like he was interesting. Like he was funny.

You were in that white dress with the tie at the waist—pretty, light, a little too short. Your hair was up. You were holding a beer bottle like you didn’t know what to do with it.

And Tommy was eating it up.

Soaking in your laugh like sunlight, leaning in every time you shifted, letting his knee stay pressed to yours like it was nothing. Like he could.

Joel’s jaw was grinding so tight he could feel it in his molars. He wasn’t your boyfriend. You were Sarah’s friend. A guest in his home. A girl in her twenties.

He had no claim on you.

But watching Tommy try to take his place? Watching his younger brother flash that same damn smile he used in high school to steal Joel’s crushes?

He stabbed the burger too hard, juice hissing into the flames. The smoke rose too fast, stinging his eyes. Or maybe that was the heat building behind them. Either way, he didn’t look up again until he heard you laugh. That sound again. Soft and sharp all at once. Right into Tommy’s chest.

“Easy there, cowboy,” Bill, his neighbor, muttered from beside him, nursing a beer. “Grill didn’t cheat on you.”

Joel didn’t respond.

Didn’t trust himself to speak. Could feel the words backing up in his throat like fire behind a dam. He swallowed them with a long pull of beer, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

He couldn’t stop watching Tommy.

The way he smiled like it cost him nothing. Like there wasn’t a line between charm and audacity. Joel had always drawn that line. Tommy had never cared where it was.

His younger, easier, unmarried brother. Tan from too much sun. Smiling like he didn’t know the weight of anything. Carefree in a way Joel had never been—not even when he was Tommy’s age. Throwing out compliments like they cost him nothing, like you weren’t standing in Joel’s backyard with Joel’s beer in your hand, wearing that dress that already had his goddamn head spinning.

“You ever model before?” Tommy asked you, loud enough that Joel caught it even over the sizzle of meat on the grill. “Swear I’ve seen you in a magazine or somethin’.”

You laughed, ducked your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

That sound—your laugh—it landed like a punch to Joel’s ribs. Not because it was loud. Because it was real. Because it wasn’t the laugh you gave Joel when he muttered something dry and self-deprecating.

Joel didn’t realize how hard he was gripping the tongs until Bill nudged him again.

“Jesus, Joel. You’re gonna bend steel.”

He eased his fingers off the metal with effort, joints tight, jaw tighter. Didn’t like the way Tommy was looking at you. Didn’t like the way you were looking back.

And what scared him most—what twisted sharp in his gut—was how much he wanted to interrupt.

To go over there and say something. Anything. Put a hand on your hip. Call you sweetheart. Wrap an arm around you just to remind his brother that this wasn’t some neighborhood barbecue with a bunch of single girls. This was his house. And you were—

He didn’t even let the thought finish.

“…So I told the guy,” Tommy was saying, beer in hand, leaning one forearm on the porch post like he was settling in for the long haul, “if you’re gonna lie about catchin’ the fish, at least make it sound like you were in the same state. Ain’t nobody pulling a hundred-pound catfish outta Lake Travis.”

You laughed again—and Joel felt that one down to his goddamn bones.

“You’re full of it,” you said, grinning like Tommy was the funniest man you’d ever met.

“Nah,” Tommy shot back, flashing that boyish smile, the one Joel used to see melt girls in high school. “I’m full of charm. You’re just not used to Texas boys with real stories.”

“I don’t think you qualify as a boy anymore.”

“Oh?” His brows lifted. “But I qualify for something, right?”

Joel’s grip on the tongs tightened again. He wasn’t even looking at the grill anymore. Just standing there, motionless, trying not to glare at the way Tommy had turned a little more toward you—his body angled in that cocky stance, like he thought he was already winning you over. Like Joel wasn’t three feet away, feeling like his whole body was coiled with something ugly and hot.

He cleared his throat. Loudly.

Tommy glanced his way, casual as hell. “You good over there, big brother? Smoke ain’t gettin’ to your eyes, is it?”

Joel muttered, “Fine,” and flipped a burger that wasn’t ready.

You turned to Joel with a soft smile. “Smells amazing, by the way.”

He nodded, short. “Thanks.”

Just that. Two syllables. Because anything more and he was gonna say something he shouldn’t.

But Tommy didn’t let up.

“So, you ever go dancin’?” he asked, voice lower now, the kind of tone meant for secrets and flirtation. “You strike me as the kind that likes to lead.”

You raised a brow. “That a bad thing?”

“Oh, not at all,” Tommy said, leaning in like the rest of the world didn’t exist. “I like a girl who knows what she wants.”

Joel snapped the grill lid shut with enough force to rattle the tongs, then turned, voice sharp:

“Burgers’re done.”

Tommy didn’t flinch. Just grinned and tossed a wink your way. “See? The man’s got timin’.”

You took a step toward the food table, brushing past Joel with a polite “thank you,” your fingers grazing his—just a blink of contact, but it seared straight through him like a live wire.

Tommy stayed glued to your side as you both stepped away from the grill.

“So,” he said, tilting his beer toward you, “you been livin’ with my big brother long?”

Joel pretended not to listen. But his ears were trained on every word.

“A couple months,” you said, lifting your burger. “Sarah let me crash at her place when my lease got pulled.”

Tommy let out a low whistle. “Damn. Brave girl. Didn’t think Joel was good company for anyone under fifty.”

Joel turned slowly, voice dry. “Still right here.”

Tommy smirked, undeterred. “Relax, brother. I’m just saying—she deserves a little fun. I mean, you lettin’ her go out? See the town? Or you keepin’ her locked up like a princess in a tower?”

You laughed. And Joel could practically feel the heat climbing his neck.

“I go out,” you said, eyes bright, lips curved. “I just haven’t had a tour around the city yet.”

Tommy stepped in closer. “Well, lucky you. I’m available.”

Joel’s hand tightened around his beer bottle until the glass creaked. He took a long, slow sip, hoping the cold would cool the fire behind his ribs.

“Tommy,” he said at last, voice low and controlled, “you ever think of not flirtin’ with every woman who makes eye contact?”

You flushed—not embarrassed. Flattered. And Joel saw it. In the curve of your smile. The flicker of lashes. The little spark you didn’t even try to hide.

He was going to lose it.

Tommy leaned in one last time, voice dropping to a low hum, like a fucking dare:

“If you ever get tired of hangin’ around grumpy old men, sweetheart, you let me know. I’ll take real good care of you.”

Joel didn’t let you answer.

“Tommy,” he barked, “go grab more ice. Cooler’s low.”

Tommy blinked, then looked at Joel—and just for a second, the cocky routine slipped. That grin turned sharp. Knowing. Like he’d seen right through him.

He clapped Joel on the shoulder. “Sure thing, big brother.”

Joel watched him walk off, shoulders tense, pulse drumming, until he heard your voice beside him.

“You alright?” you asked, soft.

Joel exhaled through his nose. No. Not even a little.

But all he said was, “You hungry or what?”

You lifted your plate. “Starving.”

He nodded once, his eyes flicking down to the hem of your dress, the curve of your hip. Your hand resting there like it belonged. Like it wouldn’t kill him to touch it.

“Eat up,” he muttered. “Party’s just getting started.”

But in his head, Joel was already ending it. Because if he had to hear Tommy call you sweetheart one more time, he was gonna do something real stupid.

He found Tommy in the kitchen, dumping ice from the freezer into the cooler.

“The hell are you doin’?” Joel asked, voice already rough.

Tommy laughed. “Jesus, Joel. You’re wound tighter than barbed wire. You scared I’m gonna take her off your hands?”

Joel stepped in, slow. Controlled. Dangerous.

“I’m tellin’ you,” he said quietly, “cut it out.”

Tommy raised both hands. “Why? She’s grown. If she’s not interested, she can tell me herself.”

“That ain’t the point.”

Tommy leaned on the counter, smirking. “Jesus, Joel. She ain’t yours.”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t say she was.”

“But you sure act like it.”

Silence. Long. Heavy. Joel looked past him, to the dark yard, like he could find calm in the quiet.

“You don’t know what you’re doin’. She ain’t—”

“Ain’t what? Old enough? Legal?” Tommy scoffed. “She’s grown, Joel. More than capable of flirtin’ back, far as I can tell.”

“She ain’t some girl for you to mess around with.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes. “But she’s okay for you, right? That what this is?”

Joel’s fists were clenched so tight now it hurt. Shoulders drawn up. Holding back everything.

“You’re losin’ your goddamn mind,” Tommy said softly. “And for what? You ain’t gonna touch her. You’d never let yourself. So why’re you actin’ like she’s yours?”

Joel turned away, dragging a hand down his face.

“She don’t want you.”

Tommy smirked. “Yeah? And what makes you so sure?”

Joel looked up, dead cold. “’Cause if she did, you wouldn’t be standin’ here right now.”

Tommy’s brows lifted. But his voice was calmer now.

“Look, I was just talkin’. She’s sweet. Pretty. Grown. Not seein’ anyone. What’s the harm?”

“The harm,” Joel hissed, “is that she’s Sarah’s friend. She’s stayin’ under my roof. And you’re out there talkin’ to her like she’s some bar girl you’re tryin’ to take home for the night.”

Tommy tilted his head. “She didn’t seem to mind.”

Joel’s hands curled into fists again. And that’s when Tommy saw it. Saw the heat under the surface. The tension. The want.

“…Shit,” he said slowly. “You like her.”

Joel didn’t answer.

Tommy laughed, low and stunned. “Damn. Joel.”

“Don’t start,” Joel warned, voice gravel.

“She’s young.”

“I know.”

“She’s Sarah’s age.”

“I know.”

“And she’s livin’ with you—”

“I ain’t doin’ anything.”

Tommy’s voice dropped. “But you want to.”

That silence was louder than anything.

Tommy let out a soft whistle. “Jesus Christ.”

Joel’s hands were shaking.

“It ain’t like that,” he said, but even he didn’t believe it.

“You sure?” Tommy asked. “’Cause the way you were lookin’ tonight? If I’d put a hand on her leg, I think you would’ve taken my head off.”

Joel’s jaw worked.

“Don’t.”

Tommy held up a hand. “Alright. I get it. You got your reasons. But if you don’t want anyone sniffin’ around her, Joel, you better figure out what the hell you’re doin’. ‘Cause she’s not gonna sit in your house forever waitin’ for you to stop starin’ and say somethin’.”

Joel said nothing. Just stood there, heart hammering, blood pounding behind his ribs.

Tommy’s voice softened as he turned toward the door.

“…She looked at you, too, you know.”

Joel’s head snapped up.

Tommy shrugged. “When she thought you weren’t lookin’. Girl’s not blind. And you sure as hell aren’t either.”

He walked out, whistling again, low and tuneless.

Joel stayed in the kitchen, fists still clenched, the sound of your laugh still echoing in his ears.

And he knew then—if he didn’t act soon, someone else would.

The last guest had left an hour ago.

The grill was cold, the lights on the back porch dimmed. The backyard—once buzzing with laughter and clinking bottles—was quiet now, save for the low chirp of cicadas and the hum of a box fan in the window.

Sarah had fallen asleep hours ago, tucked under her comforter with one of those tween magazines half-open on her chest.

But sleep didn’t come easy for you—not after the way the night had unraveled.

Not after the way Joel had watched you all evening like you were something he couldn’t touch—but wanted to. Badly.

You padded downstairs barefoot, drawn by the low glow seeping from the lounge and the sound of the TV murmuring softly. The wooden floor creaked under your feet as you turned the corner.

Joel was there.

Sitting on the couch, one arm slung along the backrest, half a beer still in his hand. The light from the TV flickered across his face, painting his features in silver and shadow. He looked tired—but not in a way that meant sleep. More like he was carrying the kind of weight sleep couldn’t shake loose.

He noticed you right away, his eyes flicking toward you and holding there.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, voice low and rough.

You shook your head. “Too much in my head.”

He nodded, slow, like he understood exactly what you meant.

Joel reached down to the small cooler next to the couch, cracked it open, and pulled out another beer. He held it up to you.

You hesitated.

Then crossed the room and took it from his hand.

“Thanks,” you said, sinking into the opposite end of the couch. The beer was cold against your palm. “You okay?”

Joel’s jaw flexed. “Fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.”

He finally looked at you—and it hit him like a punch to the chest, how close you were. How pretty you looked in that damn dress. How warm your eyes were when they looked only at him.

“I’m just tired,” he said. But it came out too clipped, too tight.

His voice came quiet, a little rough. “Tommy’s just a flirt. He don’t mean half of what he says.”

You raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of your beer. “Huh. That sounded an awful lot like jealousy.”

Joel gave a short breath of a laugh—no humor in it. “Ain’t jealous.”

“You sure?” you teased. “’Cause you looked like you wanted to put him through the grill when he offered to show me his motorcycle.”

Joel’s gaze snapped to yours. “That bike’s a piece of shit.”

You smirked. “You didn’t say that earlier.”

“Didn’t feel like gettin’ into it.”

You tilted your head. “But you were mad?”

“No,” Joel muttered, voice low. “Not mad.”

You hesitated. “At me?”

His eyes met yours—dark, unreadable, like storm clouds heavy with something about to break.

“No,” he said. “Not at you.”

But the way he said it—low, rough, like gravel under bare feet—made your heart stutter.

You stepped closer.

“You didn’t like Tommy flirting with me.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to yours. He didn’t answer.

You didn’t push, not really—but you stood your ground. “You could’ve said something.”

He shook his head. “Didn’t have a right to.”

Your voice was quiet. “Do you want one?”

The silence stretched.

Joel didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

And you could feel the way the air between you changed—thickened, weighted, humming. Like the moment you speak too loud in a chapel. Like the moment before lightning splits the sky.

Then—

“You shouldn’t let Tommy flirt with you.”

That surprised you. “Why not?”

He looked at you now, really looked. Eyes dark and steady. “…Because he doesn’t know what to do with someone like you.”

The air stilled.

You couldn’t breathe for a second.

You licked your lips, your voice barely above a whisper. “And you do?”

Joel looked away. Tense. Like he was angry with himself for even letting that slip.

“It’s late,” he muttered. “You should get some sleep.”

“No.” You said firmly. “You don’t get to end the conversation like this.”

You asked again, voice softer now. “Do you know what to do with someone like me, Joel?”

His eyes were heavy on your face. Searching. Dark. And something burned behind them that he could barely hold back anymore.

“…Yeah. I do.”

Your breath caught.

“And what would you do?”

“I’d treat you so nice, darlin’,” he said, his voice like molasses, thick and warm and dangerous. “Like nobody had treated you before. A guy like Tommy likes easy, likes girls who want a good time. He’d just… touch you like he didn’t know what he was holdin’. That ain’t right.”

Joel stepped closer—just an inch. You felt the heat from him.

“But I shouldn’t,” he added, voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t want to. You’re young. You’re Sarah’s friend. You deserve someone who’s—who’s not me.”

You looked up at him, heart pounding. “I don’t want someone else.”

Joel exhaled hard. Like the words hit him in the chest.

“You’re not gonna be able to take it back if we cross this line,” he murmured. “You understand that?”

You nodded. “I’m not trying to take anything back.”

“I’m tryin’ to be a good man here,” he said, voice strained. “I’ve been real patient with you, baby. Real careful. And you—you keep lookin’ at me like that, sayin’ shit like that—and you don’t know what that’s doin’ to me.”

You leaned in just enough that your knee brushed his. “Then tell me,” you murmured. “Or better yet—show me.”

That was it.

The last thread snapped.

Joel grunted low in his throat—frustration, need, pure hunger—and then he had you.

His mouth crashed onto yours, rough and desperate and messy, like a man who’d been dreaming about this with his hand wrapped around himself for too damn long.

His kiss was all heat and punishment, his hands gripping your hips like he didn’t trust his own restraint.

He kissed like he wanted to crawl inside you, drink you down, fix something that had been broken for years.

You gasped into him. His hand tangled in your hair, another at your hip, gripping too tight, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You could feel how hard he was already, how badly he wanted this, how long he’d been holding it back. All that restraint—gone.

He broke the kiss with a growl, pressed his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“This is so fuckin’ wrong,” he panted.

“Feels right to me.”

Joel stared at you.

Then he kissed you again—harder. Dirtier. Tongue sliding into your mouth, hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t hold tight.

This time, there was no hesitation. No pause. Just want. All of it.

The kiss slowed. His mouth dragging along your jaw, your neck, breathing you in, reverent and desperate all at once.

“I’ve been so fuckin’ lonely,” he muttered. “You don’t know what it’s like—wakin’ up and you’re here, walkin’ around in those little shorts, your panties hangin’ on the line like it ain’t nothin’—and I can’t touch you. Can’t even look at you the way I want to.”

You gasped as he pressed closer. His lips brushing the shell of your ear.

Joel growled again. Low. Possessive.

“Christ.”

And just like that, he scooped you up—thick arms banded tight around you like steel, lifting you like you weighed nothing—and carried you to his room.

The room was dim, lit only by the bedside lamp. Your body stretched out on his sheets—bare legs parted slightly, skin flushed and begging, eyes glassy and wide like you were already half-drunk on him. You looked like a dream. A wet dream. Like a fantasy he’d kept locked in his chest for too long.

Joel stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, just drinking you in.

“You have no idea,” he muttered, voice cracked, “how many fuckin’ nights I’ve pictured this.”

You smiled, soft and knowing. “Then stop picturing.”

His jaw clenched. That crooked smirk flickered across his face—but there was hunger underneath it. Hunger and something darker.

His hands went to his shirt, yanking it off in one swift movement.

Your breath hitched.

Joel wasn’t perfect—he was raw, rough-edged, built like he was carved from something older than the room you lay in. Wide chest, solid arms, scars that caught the light. Real. Male. Fucking beautiful.

His eyes dragged down your body like they couldn’t help themselves. Lingering on every inch. Your breasts. The curve of your thighs. He looked like he wanted to crawl inside you.

He was on you in a second.

Mouth hot and greedy against your throat. His stubble scraped and burned in the best way—trailing fire over your collarbone, down your chest, each kiss wetter than the last, lips dragging like he needed your taste to survive.

His hand slid up your thigh—slow, reverent, rough palm against soft skin—and when his fingers caught the hem of your dress, he froze.

“I ever tell you how fuckin’ beautiful you are?” he murmured.

You shook your head, breath shaky.

He smiled—just barely. A tiny curve, crooked, a little sad, like he couldn’t believe he got to say it out loud.

“You are,” he said, brushing his nose along your cheek. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

He kissed you soft this time. Gentle. Like he didn’t want to rush a single second of this.

And then he wasn’t soft anymore.

He groaned low in his throat, that deep, broken sound like he was barely holding it together, hands dragging down the neckline of your dress until the fabric gave, slipping under his rough palms.

Then your tits bounced free—and he froze, like he’d just been knocked clean out of his body.

His eyes locked on them, dark and hungry, jaw slack with awe.

“Jesus,” he murmured, reverent and wrecked all at once. Like the sight of you was something holy and obscene.

He reached out, cupped your breast in one big, calloused hand, and you gasped at the heat of it. His thumb brushed over your nipple—slow, deliberate, circling until it peaked, hard and aching—and he groaned again, this time deeper, rougher, like he felt it in his spine.

“You’re so fuckin’ perfect,” he rasped, voice thick. “How the hell are you even real?”

Then his mouth was on you—hot, open, wet. He sucked your nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking over it, slow and filthy, while his other hand kneaded your other breast, squeezing just hard enough to make you gasp.

He sucked deep, then pulled off with a wet pop. Your nipple glistened, swollen from his mouth, and he just stared for a second—watching it twitch in the air like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to suck it again or bite.

“You don’t know what you do to me, baby,” he murmured, dragging his mouth down to the soft underside of your breast. “These fuckin’ tits—made for me. Gonna fuckin’ live here.”

Then he pressed them together, tongue darting between them, mouthing at your skin like he was claiming you with every lick.

His hand slipped under your dress—and when he felt how wet you were, he groaned deep in his chest.

“Baby…” he rasped. “You’re soaked.”

He slid his fingers through your slit—just barely—and when he felt how slick you were, his whole body jerked.

You bit your lip, hips shifting toward his touch.

“Joel,” you whined. “Please.”

He looked up at you. Smirked.

“So damn impatient,” he murmured, dragging his mouth along your jaw, “these kids nowadays, always in a rush. Don’t know how to slow down and savor it.” His voice dropped, thick and dark with heat. “But you—you want it so bad you’re practically shakin’, huh, baby? Can’t wait to be full, can you?”

You nodded, breath catching.

Joel swore again—his voice cracked when he did it, like he just couldn’t believe it.

“You don’t fuckin’ know what that does to me.”

His fingers found your clit, rubbing slow but firm, just enough to make you arch and gasp, your thighs twitching as your eyes closed in pleasure.

“Uh-uh. Look at me,” he growled, low and commanding, fingers tightening just enough to keep your eyes on his. “Wanna see every damn second of you comin’ apart for me.”

You met his eyes—and the look he gave you nearly ruined you. Like he was drowning in you. Like he’d waited years to feel this, touch this, taste this.

His voice was thick and raw. “That’s right. You’re mine tonight, baby. Gonna fuckin’ show you what it means.”

You gasped as his fingers stroked slow and filthy over your clit, teasing, circling, just enough to make you arch up into his hand.

“Gonna take care of you,” he murmured. “Wanna make you feel good, darlin’. You deserve that.”

Then he slid down the bed—hands firm on your hips, tugging your dress up. Eyes locked to the flash of your panties. His hand skimmed the waistband, thumb dragging across the soft cotton.

“These the ones I saw hangin’ outside?” he rasped.

Your lips curled. “Maybe.”

Joel exhaled hard. His eyes darkened, jaw flexed.

He pulled them down, dragged them off your legs like he was unwrapping something precious—

And when he saw you—saw you—he just stopped.

Stared.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered. “You’re perfect. You—you can’t be real.”

You tried to close your legs—suddenly shy—but his hands kept them open.

“No, baby,” Joel said. “You let me see.”

Then he leaned in and licked a slow, deliberate stripe up your cunt. His tongue was broad, hot, dragging through your folds like he wanted to taste every inch of you. And when it hit your clit, he groaned like it knocked the wind out of him.

He groaned like it knocked the wind out of him.

You cried out—hips jerking—but he held you firm.

“Sweetest fuckin’ pussy,” he breathed. He pressed his mouth there again, tongue flicking slow and filthy. “You taste like sin.”

And then he devoured you.

Sloppy, greedy, wet—sucking your clit like he meant to pull the soul out of you.

He moaned into your pussy like he was drunk on it — messy, loud, absolutely gone for the taste of you. He licked like a man possessed, mouth wet and greedy, groaning like he couldn’t get deep enough. His beard scratched your thighs raw, his tongue dragging through your slick like he’d been starved for days and finally got fed. He spit on you just to lap it back up, filthy and shameless, fucking you open with his tongue until your hips jerked and your thighs shook.

And when he wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking hard and slow, it was obscene — the sound, the pressure, the way he palmed his aching cock through his pants, he needed it just as bad. He didn’t care how sloppy it got. Didn’t care how ruined he looked. He was addicted, obsessed, devouring you like your pussy was the only thing that ever made him feel alive.

“Sweet little pussy,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Mine now, yeah?”

You nodded, head rolling back, eyes fluttering.

“All yours,” you moaned. “Please, Joel, more—”

He shoved his face between your legs like he was gonna drown there and be grateful for it. His tongue pushed deep inside you, slow and filthy, fucking you with slick, deliberate strokes that made your whole body twitch. He groaned like he could taste every second of how wet you were, how wrecked you were getting just for him.

His thumb pressed tight to your clit, rubbing hard, tight little circles that made your back arch off the bed. And when your hips tried to jerk away, overstimulated and desperate, his other hand gripped your thigh like a vice — fingers bruising, holding you right there, locked in place so he could keep devouring you, mess and all, like you were his favorite sin and he had no intention of stopping.

“You gonna cum for me, darlin’?” he murmured. “Gonna cum on my tongue like a good girl?”

You sobbed out a yes—high, desperate, helpless—and he didn’t stop ‘til you fell apart.

You shattered—back arching, legs locking around his head, hips rolling up into his mouth like your body wasn’t yours anymore.

You came hard—too hard—crying his name, grinding into his face as his tongue worked you through it, lapping up everything you gave him, humming like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

When he finally crawled back up over you, his lips were wet, beard sticky with your slick, eyes dark, wild, feral.

“You’re killin’ me,” he said, kissing your cheek. “Never wanted anyone like I want you.”

You reached for him. Pulled at his waistband. “Please.”

Joel hesitated.

“You sure?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded. “Please. Joel.”

“You’re not… you ain’t a…” he rasped, breath shaky, eyes searching yours.

“A virgin?” you finished for him, a low, breathless laugh slipping past your lips. “God, no.”

“I, uh…” he swallowed hard. “I don’t have any condoms. You on the pill?”

“Yes,” you said simply, dragging your mouth along his jaw. Then you pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, your voice dropping. “It’s okay, Joel. I want to feel all of you.”

And that did it.

He shoved his pants down in a hurry, and his cock sprang free—thick, hard, flushed dark with need, glistening at the tip with precum. Your breath caught in your throat, mouth parting as your eyes dragged down over him.

“Fuck,” you whispered, pulse thudding in your ears. “You’re…”

Joel looked down at you, cheeks tinged pink, a crooked little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he rasped. “I know.”

Your gaze stayed locked on his cock, hunger written all over your face. “Huge,” you breathed, awe and arousal tangled in your voice.

Joel’s brow lifted, just a little smug. “You think you can take it?”

You nodded eagerly. He stroked himself once, twice, guiding the head against your entrance.

“You ready, baby?” he asked, voice soft now. “I’ll go slow. I swear. Wanna feel all of you.”

You nodded, legs parting wider, arms around his shoulders.

He pushed in slow—thick cock stretching you inch by inch, dragging a long, guttural moan from both your throats—and his head dropped to your shoulder, jaw clenched like he was in pain.

“Oh my god,” he rasped. “You feel like heaven, baby. How the fuck—how do you feel this good?”

You gasped, eyes flying wide as he pushed in—slow but relentless—stretching you open inch by inch. Your nails dug into his back, clutching at the thick muscle there, searching for something to hold onto as your body struggled to adjust around the sheer size of him.

He stopped. Gave you time. Pressed kisses to your throat.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded, breathless. “Move.”

And he did.

He rocked into you slow, deep—every inch dragging against your walls, stretching you again and again—like he was trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside out. His breath came out in soft, filthy huffs as he dropped his mouth to your ear, kissed the shell of it, then began whispering the filthiest things he’d never dared say until tonight:

“How long you been wantin’ this?”

“You think about me when you’re alone, baby? Think about my hands?”

“Don’t hold back now. Wanna hear you.”

“God, you’re tight. So fuckin’ tight around me—feels like heaven.”

He pulled out almost all the way—just the head still inside, glistening, stretching you open—then slammed back in, slow but deep, right into that spot that made your breath stutter.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “You feel too good, baby. Can’t believe I waited this long…”

Your nails curled into the sheets, head thrown back. You were panting now, sweating, legs trembling from the effort of holding yourself open for him.

“Joel—please—”

That did something to him. The way you begged. His name, all soft and wrecked on your lips.

He gritted his teeth.

Then he grabbed you by the backs of your thighs and pushed your legs up, folding you open for him, pressing your knees back toward your chest.

“Hold ’em up,” he ordered, voice ragged and dark with need. “Yeah—that’s it. Just like that. Wanna see how deep I can get.”

And then he started to fuck you for real.

Deeper. Harder. Filthy. Relentless—each thrust punching a gasping moan from your throat. The angle had him hitting places that made your vision blur. The slap of his balls against your ass was wet and obscene, the bed groaning loud under the force of him, the headboard rattling against the wall.

He groaned low in his throat, watching the way your tits bounced with every thrust, the way your eyes glazed over as you took it, dripping around his cock, clenching so tight he could barely breathe.

“Been so long, baby.” he growled, “So goddamn long.”

You moaned under him, dizzy with it all—his voice, his body, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, the way his cock hit so deep now you swore he could feel your heartbeat.

“And now I got you,” he grunted, snapping his hips into you. “Can’t believe I’m inside you,” he panted. “So goddamn pretty, so young, and I get to fuck you? You’re gonna ruin me.”

Your legs were shaking, arms weak, and Joel took over, gripping your thighs himself, holding them up so he could go deeper, grind into you harder, angle just right to wreck you from the inside out.

“Fuck,” he groaned, lips dragging over your jaw, your mouth, your ear. “Pussy so good, baby—swear to God, I’ll never want anyone else again. This is it. This is fuckin’ it.”

You were already close again—the pressure building fast, his name tumbling out of your mouth over and over.

He felt it — the way your walls fluttered around him, the way your breath hitched, that telltale tremble in your thighs. He growled low, deep in his chest, pressing in deeper, grinding his hips just right.

“Come on, baby. Wanna feel you cum on my cock. You can do it for me, yeah?”

And the way he said it, the weight in his voice, the thick pressure of him inside you, the heat rolling off his body, it unraveled you completely. You came so hard it shook you—cried out, clung to him, and he cursed, hips stuttering, fucking you through it, chasing his own release now.

His thrusts turned messy, erratic, like he was losing control—because he was. You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders as he picked up the pace again, sweat slicking both of you as your bodies collided over and over.

“Where do you want it?” he panted. “Tell me, darlin’—can I cum inside you?”

“Please—please, yes—”

“Yeah? Gonna let me give you every drop?” His pace stuttered, breath catching. “Fuck—I’m gonna—shit—I’m—”

He slammed in deep—one final thrust, all the way to the hilt, hips grinding into yours, body shaking

And he came.

Hard.

Hot, thick spurts of cum filling you, spilling inside, leaking out around his cock as he groaned into your neck like it gutted him.

You were still trembling underneath him—boneless, ruined, thoroughly fucked, every nerve singing. Your body was flushed and filled and glowing, warmth blooming in your limbs, still pulsing in your core where he remained, thick and hot and buried deep. Joel hadn’t moved much. He was still inside you, still hovering above you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

And then, so gently it made your throat ache, he pressed a kiss to your forehead. Another to your cheek. Then your mouth—slow, soft, lingering, like a man drinking in salvation.

“Y’alright, baby?” he murmured, voice rough with gravel and sweetened with something like awe.

You nodded, your lashes fluttering as your eyes found his. “More than alright.”

Joel let out a quiet laugh, low and breathless. His shoulders finally softened, tension bleeding from his frame. He leaned down again and pressed a kiss to your collarbone—reverent, like worship, like the delicate skin there meant everything.

Then he pulled out—slowly, carefully, his eyes never leaving your face. You both gasped at the loss, a shared shiver rippling through you. He moved quickly after that, tugging the comforter up and over you, tucking you in like something breakable, his hand smoothing over your hip, then your belly, then back again—like he didn’t know how to stop touching you now that he’d started.

“Didn’t mean to go so hard,” he said quietly, his voice rasping. “Just… it’s been a long time. Felt so good. You felt so good.”

You turned your head, a sleepy smile tugging at your lips. “Joel, I wanted it. Wanted you.”

Something in his eyes shifted—like a storm easing, like guilt loosening its grip. He believed you. But still, he moved like a man trying to earn that belief, trying to prove he deserved the gift of you.

“Stay right there, darlin’,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “I’ll get a towel.”

You watched him go—bare, flushed, a little unsteady, walking into the bathroom with that wide, solid back and those scarred shoulders that you ached to trace again. A little older, a little weathered. But real. Solid. Yours.

Not like college boys. Not like the ones who never stayed, who’d fuck you and leave you sore and cold and wondering what you did wrong. Joel didn’t disappear. He didn’t roll over or reach for his phone or toss your underwear at you like a hint.

He took care of you.

He came back with a warm, damp cloth in one hand and a glass of water on the other. He cleaned you up with careful, practiced hands—gentle in a way that undid you, so quiet and focused it made your throat burn.

You parted your legs instinctively, and he didn’t stare, didn’t leer—just pressed a kiss to your knee as he carefully cleaned between your thighs, murmuring soft apologies when you flinched from the sensitivity.

“Sorry, baby. I know. Just a little more…”

He wiped you gently, reverently, then set the cloth aside and helped you sit up to drink.

“There we go,” he said softly, holding the glass to your lips. “Slow, now. Don’t gulp.”

When you finished, he set the glass down and climbed back into bed behind you, pulling you into his chest like he couldn’t wait another second.

“C’mere sweet girl,” he breathed, pulling you in tight.

You curled into him, soft and spent, your leg thrown over his hip, face tucked under his chin. His hands were slow, moving in lazy circles along your spine, sometimes dipping to cup your ass, then coming back up to your shoulder blades—like he was mapping you, remembering you with touch alone. When you sighed, he smiled against your hair.

“What about Sarah?”

“I’ll wake you up in the morning before she gets up,” He said. “You need anythin’? More water? A bath?”

You shook your head. “I’m good.”

Silence settled like fog—thick, warm, peaceful. His hand never stopped moving. He kept you close, kept touching you like a man afraid you’d disappear. Like a man who’d gone without softness for far too long.

“You always like this after?” you asked quietly, teasing.

“Like what?”

“So…gentle.”

He chuckled, rough and low in your ear. “Only with someone who deserves it.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “Glad you’re not twenty and selfish.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice full of amusement and something fonder. “Glad I’m not, too.”

He didn’t fall asleep. You felt it—the way his chest stayed tense under your cheek, the way his breathing was deep but too controlled. His mind was running, somewhere distant, somewhere dark.

But still, he stayed holding you. Arms tight. Body wrapped around yours like armor.

And then, when he thought you were asleep, you heard him whisper it:

“Mine now. God help me.”

You smiled into his skin.

Because you were.

So completely his.

A/N: Thank you so much for this request!! I loved the idea and I hope you liked the ending result🩷🫶🏻

Thank you as well to everyone reading this for your constant support to my fics, your kind words mean the world to me. You’re the best!!

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

#TBR

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