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skywalkerslvt · 4 months ago

Text

I'll teach you

❥Pairing: Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

❥Summary: What happens when your hot grumpy neighbour teaches you how to play guitar

❥CW: older man/younger woman, smut, oral (f!receiving), unprotected p in v, drinking, porn with a bit of plot, jackson era joel, pet names (baby), takes place before the 2nd game, events of the fic take place over the course of a few months so i guess it could be considered slow burn?, 10k words

❥a/n: been working on this for a hot minute. hope y'all like it <3

You’d arrived in Jackson three years ago, just as the first snow of winter began to settle over the valley. The cold had been biting that day, the kind that seeped into your bones and made you second-guess your decision to leave the QZ you’d called home. But you had made the journey anyway, braving the dangerous roads and infected-filled wilderness because you’d heard rumors about Jackson—a safe place, a thriving community.

You hadn’t expected much when you arrived, not beyond a chance to survive another winter without ration cards or the constant threat of FEDRA patrols. But what you found was something entirely different. Jackson wasn’t just a refuge; it was a community. Families lived in modest but well-kept homes, the streets were lit at night, and people smiled as they passed each other. For the first time in years, you felt a glimmer of hope that life could be more than just surviving.

You didn’t have family or friends with you. You’d come on your own, carrying little more than a backpack and a knife. At first, it was lonely, being surrounded by people who already seemed to belong. But the folks of Jackson were kind. Maria had greeted you at the gates with a warm smile and a plate of hot food, and after a few days of settling in, she assigned you work. It wasn’t glamorous—greenhouse duty, stable cleaning, kitchen shifts—but it was honest, and it gave you purpose.

It didn’t take long for you to find your footing. You worked hard, keeping your head down and pulling your weight. The people of Jackson appreciated effort, and before long, you were part of the rhythm of the town.

That’s when you first met Joel.

He lived a few houses down from you with Ellie, who you’d heard bits and pieces about—something about a cross-country journey and Joel’s fierce determination to protect her. He kept mostly to himself, only speaking when necessary, and always with that deep, gravelly voice that sent shivers down your spine.

Joel wasn’t like the other men in Jackson. He didn’t laugh loudly over drinks in the Tipsy Bison or chat idly while working. He was quiet, gruff, and so incredibly focused that it was intimidating. He didn’t do small talk, and his piercing brown eyes could cut through you like a knife.

And he was older—significantly older than you. You guessed he was in his early 50s, though he moved with the strength and efficiency of a man much younger. The years had left their mark on him, though. His salt-and-pepper hair, the lines etched into his face, and the way his brows always seemed furrowed gave him a stern, unapproachable air.

You’d been paired with him on work assignments occasionally—greenhouse duty, patrols, and once in the kitchen, though he didn’t seem to enjoy that one. At first, the silence between you had been unbearable. Joel wasn’t rude, but he wasn’t friendly either. He didn’t ask questions or make conversation beyond what was necessary to get the job done. But as time passed, you came to appreciate his quiet competence.

Still, you couldn’t help but find him attractive. It was ridiculous, really—having a crush on someone so serious and unapproachable. But there was something about him that drew you in. Maybe it was his strength, the way he could take down an infected with a single swing of his knife. Or maybe it was the rare moments of softness you’d glimpsed—how he talked to Ellie with a tenderness that seemed at odds with his gruff exterior.

You told yourself it was just a passing fancy. A silly infatuation that would fade with time. But every time you found yourself working alongside him, your heart raced just a little faster. He’d brush past you in the narrow aisles of the greenhouse, his broad shoulders nearly knocking into you, and your breath would catch. Or he’d murmur a low “good work” when you spotted a distant infected before he did, and you’d feel a thrill of pride.

Joel, of course, didn’t seem to notice any of this. He kept his distance, his demeanor as unreadable as ever. If he suspected your feelings, he gave no sign. And so, you kept them to yourself, content to admire him from afar.

But then something changed.

—

Life in Jackson had a way of running you ragged, but you didn’t mind. You were used to hard work—used to the kind of exhaustion that left you sore but satisfied at the end of the day. So, when one of the greenhouse workers got hurt on patrol and Maria asked for volunteers to cover their shifts, you didn’t hesitate to step up. It was extra work, sure, but Jackson had given you so much—a roof over your head, safety, purpose—and you were happy to give back.

The first week was manageable. You spent your mornings in the greenhouse, tending to crops and organizing the harvest. Then, in the evenings, you pulled kitchen shifts, chopping vegetables and scrubbing pots until your arms ached. By the time you got off work, the town was quiet, the streets dimly lit by the warm glow of porch lanterns.

It was on one of those late-night walks home that you first noticed Joel.

His house was a few doors down from yours, the porch light casting a faint golden glow over the weathered wood. You wouldn’t have even glanced that way if it weren’t for the soft, melodic strumming of a guitar drifting through the night air.

You slowed your steps, your curiosity getting the better of you.

There he was, sitting on the porch steps with his guitar resting on his knee. His broad shoulders were hunched slightly as he leaned over the instrument, his fingers moving deftly over the strings. A glass of something dark—whiskey, you assumed—sat on the step beside him.

He looked different like this. Relaxed. Unburdened. The perpetual frown on his face was softened, and though his gaze was fixed on the guitar, there was a peacefulness to him that you’d never seen before.

And the music—it was beautiful. His playing was skilled, confident, but there was an aching quality to it that tugged at something deep inside you. The melody rose and fell, soft and mournful, and for a moment, you felt like you were intruding on something private.

You didn’t stop walking, too nervous to linger for long. But as you passed by, you couldn’t help but glance at him one more time, your chest tightening at the sight of him so lost in the music.

When you got home that night, you couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him.

The next night, it happened again.

You’d just finished scrubbing the last of the pots in the kitchen and were making your way home when you heard it: the faint, familiar strumming of Joel’s guitar. This time, you slowed your steps even more, letting the sound wash over you.

He was sitting in the same spot, his head bowed slightly as his fingers danced over the strings. The melody was different tonight—lighter, almost playful—but it still carried that same sense of longing.

You wanted to say something, to tell him how good he sounded, but the thought of it made your stomach twist. You and Joel weren’t close. Sure, you’d worked together on occasion, but he was still Joel: gruff, intimidating, and so far out of your league it wasn’t even funny.

So you did what you always did. You walked past without a word, letting the music follow you all the way home.

And it became a routine.

Every night, after your extra shifts, you’d pass by Joel’s house, and there he’d be, playing his guitar on the porch. It didn’t matter how late it was—he was always there, his fingers coaxing beautiful, haunting melodies from the instrument. Sometimes he sang, his deep, gravelly voice blending perfectly with the strumming. Other times, it was just the guitar, the notes carrying softly through the still night air.

You found yourself looking forward to it, those few stolen moments of music as you made your way home. It was the only part of your day that felt…quiet. Peaceful. And though you never stopped to talk to him, you started to notice the little things: the way his foot tapped along with the rhythm, the way he’d pause every now and then to take a sip of his drink, the way his brow would furrow in concentration when he played a particularly tricky bit.

And then there was the way it made you feel.

Joel’s playing had a way of reaching inside you, stirring up emotions you hadn’t felt in a long time. It was like the music carried all the things he didn’t say—the things he kept locked away behind that tough exterior. It made you wonder what else he was hiding, what other parts of himself he kept buried beneath that gruff demeanor.

But still, you never stopped. Never said a word.

You told yourself it was because you were tired, that you didn’t want to bother him. But deep down, you knew the truth. You were nervous. Intimidated. The thought of striking up a conversation with him—of breaking that quiet, unspoken understanding between you—was too much to handle.

So you kept walking, night after night, letting the music follow you home like a secret.

—

The morning was still and quiet, the kind of stillness that only came with the early hours before Jackson fully woke. Frost clung to the edges of the grass outside the greenhouse, glinting faintly under the pale sunlight. You tugged your jacket closer around your body, trying to shake off the lingering chill as you pushed open the creaky door.

Joel was already inside. He stood near the back, inspecting a row of tomato plants, his broad shoulders blocking most of the light coming through the windows behind him. His presence was unmistakable—solid and grounding in a way that made the small space feel even smaller.

He didn’t look up right away, but when he did, his dark eyes met yours briefly, and he gave a small nod. “Mornin’,” he said, his voice low and rough, as though the effort of greeting you was almost too much this early.

Your heart skipped, a small traitorous flutter that you tried to stamp down. “Good morning,” you replied, your voice quieter than you intended. You busied yourself with pulling on your gloves, anything to avoid lingering too long under his gaze.

Joel wasn’t much for conversation. Over the past three years, you’d had your fair share of work shifts with him, and they rarely involved more than a few words exchanged here and there. He was polite, sure, but he kept people at a distance—an iron wall of gruffness and silence that was impossible to scale.

That didn’t stop your chest from tightening every time you were near him. It was ridiculous, really. You had no reason to feel this way about him.

He’s not interested, you reminded yourself firmly as you moved to your section of the greenhouse.

The two of you worked in silence for a while, the only sounds being the occasional rustle of leaves and the scrape of tools against soil. You focused on pruning the overgrown vines, inspecting the plants for pests, but your mind refused to stay quiet. Every once in a while, you’d catch a glimpse of Joel from the corner of your eye—his weathered hands moving with practiced precision, his broad shoulders shifting under his flannel shirt.

And then, without even realizing it, you started to hum.

It was a habit you’d picked up long ago, back in the QZ. The tune was soft and familiar, the melody winding its way through the quiet space. You didn’t think much of it at first—it was just something to fill the silence.

But then Joel spoke.

“You know ‘Nothingman?’”

You froze mid-snip, the hum dying in your throat. Turning to face him, you blinked. “Huh?”

Joel arched a brow, his expression unreadable as he gestured vaguely in your direction. “The song. You were hummin’ it.”

“Oh,” you said, caught off guard. “Yeah, I guess I was. Learned it back at the QZ.”

There was a pause, and you hesitated, the memory tugging at the edges of your mind. “A friend of mine used to sing it,” you added softly, the words coming out unbidden.

Joel made a low sound of recognition, his hands stilling briefly before he went back to work. “Good song,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “That was a real big one back in the day. Pearl Jam.”

You smiled faintly, though there was a heaviness to it. “I’ve never actually heard the real version. Just her voice.”

Joel didn’t respond right away, his expression shifting slightly. There was something almost unreadable in his gaze—something that felt a little too heavy, too knowing.

“She must’ve sung it a lot,” he said eventually, his tone softer than usual.

“She did,” you murmured, the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. “It was her favorite. She used to sing it to me when I couldn’t sleep.”

Joel nodded, his gaze dropping back to the plant in front of him. “It’s a damn good one to remember,” he said simply.

The two of you fell silent after that, the unspoken weight of the conversation lingering in the air. For the rest of the shift, the only sounds were the gentle rustling of leaves and the scrape of tools. Despite the quiet, there was an ease between you—a kind of understanding that didn’t need to be voiced.

By the time noon rolled around, you were both covered in dirt, the greenhouse finally back in order. Joel gave a brief grunt of acknowledgment as you gathered your things, his voice as curt as ever, but there was something about the way he lingered just a little longer, the way his gaze flickered toward you as you walked away, that made your heart ache in a way you didn’t entirely understand.

The rest of your day passed in a blur of activity. After finishing your shift in the kitchen, you spent the evening running errands for Maria. By the time you were done, the streets of Jackson were quiet, the windows of the houses glowing faintly in the dark.

As you walked home, your feet dragging with exhaustion, you found yourself instinctively looking toward Joel’s house. His porch light was off, the space empty. For the first time in weeks, there was no sound of his guitar drifting through the night air.

A strange sense of disappointment settled in your chest. You’d grown used to the routine—the soft strumming of his guitar accompanying your walk home. Without it, the night felt emptier, quieter.

When you reached your porch, you stopped short.

There, sitting neatly on the top step, was a record.

You crouched down to pick it up, your fingers brushing over the worn cardboard sleeve. It was a copy of ‘Vs.’ by Pearl Jam. A folded piece of paper was tucked into the sleeve, and you unfolded it carefully.

The note was short, the handwriting rough and uneven.

Figured you should hear the real thing. – Joel

A slow smile spread across your face, warmth blooming in your chest. You glanced toward Joel’s house, but the windows were dark, the porch empty.

Clutching the record and note to your chest, you stepped inside, the smile lingering long after the door clicked shut behind you.

—

The morning after Joel had left the record on your porch, you woke up earlier than usual, excitement buzzing in your chest. You’d skipped breakfast, opting instead to dust off an old record player a neighbour had helped you fix months ago. Carefully, you placed the record on the turntable, lowering the needle with trembling hands.

From the very first note, you were hooked. The music filled your small living space, a rich and raw sound that brought the song you’d hummed in the greenhouse to life in ways you couldn’t have imagined. You listened to the entire album three times that day, each listen sinking the melodies and lyrics deeper into your soul.

Returning the record later that evening, you found yourself nervous as you approached Joel’s porch. He was there, of course, his guitar resting on his lap, a bottle of whiskey sitting at his side.

“Thanks for the record,” you’d said quietly, holding it out to him.

Joel took it without a word, nodding his head in acknowledgment. His fingers brushed yours briefly, and you were sure you imagined the flicker of something softer in his gaze before he went back to tuning his guitar.

That brief exchange set the tone for the month that followed.

—

You found yourself paired with Joel more frequently, whether it was for patrols, greenhouse shifts, or the occasional repair job around the town. The gruff silence that had always defined your interactions began to melt, replaced by casual conversation.

It started small: Joel asking if you’d managed to get the dirt stains out of your jacket after the greenhouse shift, or you mentioning that you’d finally figured out how to fix the leak under your sink. But as the days turned into weeks, the conversations deepened.

Joel talked about Ellie sometimes, in that reluctant-but-proud way parents did. He didn’t share much—just little snippets about how she was adjusting to life in Jackson or how she had a knack for finding trouble. His tone would soften when he mentioned her, a small but noticeable shift that made your chest ache with an unfamiliar longing.

You shared bits of your own story too, though you kept the darker parts to yourself. You told him about the QZ you’d grown up in, the friend who had sung that Pearl Jam song, and how you’d decided to leave it all behind in search of something better. Joel listened without judgment, his quiet presence making it easier to talk than you’d expected.

One particularly cold morning, you were on patrol together, trudging through the snowy outskirts of Jackson. Your bow was slung awkwardly over your shoulder, a weapon you’d never quite mastered.

“I’m useless with this thing,” you muttered, more to yourself than to Joel.

“Show me,” Joel said gruffly, nodding toward a nearby tree.

You hesitated, fumbling with the bow as you lined up a shot. It was sloppy, and the arrow wobbled mid-flight, barely grazing the bark of the tree.

Joel stepped closer, his hands warm and steady as they adjusted your grip. “Your stance is off. Feet apart, shoulders loose.” His voice was low, patient, as he guided you through the motions.

When you finally loosed an arrow that hit the target dead center, Joel’s lips quirked into the smallest hint of a smile. “Atta girl,” he said, stepping back to let you take another shot.

The praise echoed in your head for the rest of the day. That night, alone in your room, the memory of his voice—gravelly and soft—sent warmth pooling in your stomach. By the time your hand slipped beneath the waistband of your pants, his words were all you could hear.

Over the weeks, Joel’s compliments became more frequent, though they were always brief and matter-of-fact. “Good shot,” he’d say after you took down an infected with one arrow. Or, “Good girl,” when you managed to find an unspoiled stash of canned goods on patrol.

Each time, the words sent a spark through you, a heady mixture of pride and something far more dangerous.

Joel, for his part, seemed oblivious to the effect he had on you. If he noticed the way your cheeks flushed under his gaze, or how your hands trembled slightly when he stood too close, he never mentioned it.

Your nightly routine of passing his house didn’t change. After your extra shifts, you’d still find him on his porch like clockwork, the soft strumming of his guitar floating through the cool night air. But now, he’d glance up when he saw you, offering a slight nod of acknowledgment before turning back to his playing.

Those moments became the highlight of your days. Even if the conversations were short, even if the nods were subtle, they were enough to keep the flame of your growing feelings alive.

It was late—later than usual—but tonight, you weren’t dragging yourself home like you normally did. The exhaustion that usually weighed you down was replaced with a restless energy, a pent-up buzz you couldn’t quite shake. The cool night air nipped at your skin as you walked the quiet streets of Jackson, the town already settled into its nightly lull.

You turned the corner onto your street, your boots crunching softly against the gravel, and heard it before you saw him: the familiar sound of Joel’s guitar.

His playing had become a nightly staple for you over the past two months, a comforting constant after long days of work. But tonight, something about the music tugged at you differently. The rich, soulful notes wove through the air, wrapping around you and pulling you toward his porch before you could even think twice.

He was sitting there, as always, one foot propped on the porch railing, his guitar resting comfortably in his lap. His head was bowed slightly, his focus entirely on the strings beneath his fingers. A glass of whiskey sat on the small table beside him, half-empty and glinting amber in the dim light spilling from the windows.

You hesitated at the base of his steps, your heart hammering in your chest. You didn’t know where you found the courage, but before you could second-guess yourself, you cleared your throat softly and stepped onto the porch.

“Sounds good,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel’s head snapped up at the sound, his fingers pausing mid-strum. His dark eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, the silence between you was heavy, save for the faint hum of crickets in the background.

“You startled me,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, though not unkind.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Joel shook his head, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Ain’t no interruption.” His eyes flicked toward the empty seat next to him, but he didn’t say anything more.

You took the unspoken invitation, cautiously sitting down. The faint scent of whiskey and woodsmoke lingered in the air around him, mingling with the earthy smell of the guitar’s worn wood.

“Long night?” he asked after a moment, his gaze settling on you with quiet curiosity.

You nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. Been like that the past two months.”

Joel frowned slightly. “Why’s that? You always gettin’ home so late?”

“Extra shifts,” you explained, leaning back in the chair. “One of the guys in the greenhouse got hurt. Maria needed someone to cover his work, so… I volunteered.”

He huffed, shaking his head slightly. “Always takin’ on more than you should.”

The faint scolding in his tone made your cheeks warm. “I don’t mind,” you said quickly. “It’s just part of living here, right? Pitching in when someone needs help.”

Joel studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a small nod, he shifted his attention back to the guitar resting on his lap. His fingers brushed over the strings absently, a soft, aimless melody filling the space between you.

You gestured toward the guitar, curiosity sparking in your chest. “Where’d you learn to play?”

“Picked it up as a kid,” Joel said, his voice quieter now. “My brother taught me the basics. Rest I figured out on my own.”

The thought of a younger Joel sitting with a guitar in his lap, clumsily learning chords with his brother, made you smile. “You’re really good.”

“Got a lotta years of practice,” he said simply, though the faintest hint of pride colored his tone.

“Do you still play much? Besides, you know… this?” You gestured vaguely toward the porch, where his late-night performances had become routine.

Joel shrugged. “Sometimes. Not as much as I used to.” His eyes flicked toward you briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “What about you? Ever play?”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “No. Always wanted to, though.”

Joel’s fingers stilled on the strings, his gaze sharpening slightly. “You wanna learn now?”

Your heart jumped into your throat, his question catching you completely off guard. “I-uh—I mean…” You faltered, suddenly hyper-aware of the warmth in his gaze and the weight of his presence. “Yes. Yes, I’d like that.”

Joel nodded once, his expression as steady and calm as ever, though something flickered in his eyes that you couldn’t quite place. He shifted slightly in his seat, setting the guitar down beside him.

“Alright,” he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. “C’mere.”

Joel’s eyes flicked toward you briefly before his hand moved, gesturing vaguely toward his lap. “C’mere,” he repeated, the words gruff yet casual, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

You tilted your head slightly, confusion knitting your brows. “You mean…?”

He didn’t answer—didn’t need to. Instead, he reached out and grabbed your wrist lightly, his rough, calloused fingers brushing against your skin as he tugged you forward. The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through you, and you swore your heart skipped a beat.

Your cheeks burned as the implication sank in, heat rushing to your face and spreading through your entire body. “Oh,” you breathed softly, your voice barely audible over the faint hum of crickets in the background.

Still, you didn’t resist. You stepped closer, your legs brushing against his knees, and then, as though your body was moving on autopilot, you settled onto his lap.

The moment your weight sank onto him, you felt it: the solid warmth of his thighs beneath you, the strength of his frame grounding you in place. His hand released your wrist, but the phantom imprint of his grip lingered, setting your skin alight.

You were tense—so tense. Every muscle in your body felt coiled, strung tight like the very strings of the guitar you were about to learn. Your hands fidgeted nervously in your lap, and you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze, even though you could feel his eyes on you.

“Relax,” Joel said after a moment, his voice soft yet commanding. He reached for the glass of whiskey resting on the small table beside him, lifting it to his lips for a slow sip. The movement was unhurried, deliberate, and when he lowered the glass, he glanced down at you with a faint smirk. “If you’re gonna play guitar, you gotta loosen up. Can’t be all tense like that.”

“I’m not tense,” you said quickly, though the waver in your voice betrayed you.

Joel huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Sure, you’re not.” He took another sip, the ice clinking softly against the glass, then held it out toward you. “Here. You wanna sip?”

You blinked, glancing at the glass in his hand, then back up at him. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out. His offer caught you off guard, and the warmth pooling in your stomach—the same heat you’d felt since the moment you stepped onto the porch—flared even hotter.

“Uh…” You hesitated, feeling the weight of his gaze on you. “Sure,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel didn’t hand you the glass. Instead, he raised it toward your lips himself, holding it steady as the cool rim pressed against your mouth. The gesture was strangely intimate, and as you tilted your head slightly to sip, your cheeks burned hotter than ever.

The whiskey was smooth but strong, the burn sliding down your throat and settling like liquid fire in your chest. Joel’s eyes never left yours, watching you intently as you swallowed.

“Good?” he asked, his voice low and gruff.

You nodded, though your heart was racing too fast for you to form a proper response.

Joel set the glass back on the table, his movements calm and methodical, and then shifted slightly beneath you. His arms moved around you, brushing against your sides as he reached for the guitar resting nearby.

“Alright,” he muttered, lifting the instrument and settling it over your lap. The weight of it pressed against your thighs, the smooth, worn wood cool against your skin. Joel’s hands moved to the neck of the guitar, his fingers curling around it with practiced ease.

“You ever held one of these before?” he asked, glancing down at you.

You shook your head quickly, your fingers hovering uncertainly near the strings. “No. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Joel chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest and into your back. “That’s alright. We’ll start simple.”

The warmth of his presence was all around you now—his solid chest pressed against your back, his arms framing yours as he guided the guitar into place. You could feel his breath against the side of your neck, warm and steady, and it sent a shiver down your spine despite the heat already coursing through you.

And when his hands moved, guiding yours gently but firmly toward the strings, you could barely focus on anything other than the sensation of him all around you.

Joel shifted slightly beneath you, adjusting both himself and the guitar so it rested more comfortably against your lap. His arms moved around you, caging you in without ever truly holding you captive, and you could feel the heat of him at your back—his chest firm and steady against your spine.

“Alright,” he muttered, his deep voice soft yet commanding. “You’re gonna focus on strumming. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Your breath caught for a moment at how close he was, his words rumbling through his chest and into your body. You nodded, unable to form a proper response as his hands moved over yours, his rough fingers gently but firmly guiding your grip.

“This hand here,” he murmured, lifting your dominant hand to the strings. His calloused palm pressed against yours as he positioned your fingers, his touch deliberate but not rough. “You’re gonna hold the pick like this.”

You tried to focus on the task, on the feel of the guitar and the weight of the pick between your fingers, but Joel’s proximity made it nearly impossible. His breath fanned over the side of your neck as he leaned closer, the faint scent of whiskey and the earthy smell of him filling your senses.

“Don’t grip it too tight,” he said, his voice low in your ear. “Just enough to keep it steady. There you go. Good.”

Your heart fluttered at the praise, a warmth pooling low in your stomach that had nothing to do with the whiskey you’d sipped earlier. You shifted slightly in his lap, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the movement only made you more aware of how intimately you were seated—his thighs solid beneath you, the heat of him seeping through your clothes.

“This hand here,” Joel continued, reaching for your other hand and placing it gently on the body of the guitar. His fingers lingered for a moment, brushing lightly against yours before he moved to the neck of the instrument. “That’s for support. You don’t gotta do much with it right now.”

You swallowed hard, nodding again as he began to play a simple chord progression. The rich, warm notes resonated through the guitar, vibrating faintly against your body, and you couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the ease with which his fingers moved along the strings.

“Now, you’re gonna strum down, like this.” He demonstrated once, his hand guiding yours in a slow, deliberate motion. The sound was clear and steady, and you felt a small surge of pride when you mimicked the movement under his guidance.

“That’s it,” Joel murmured, his voice softening slightly. “Now again. Down. Good. Try up now.”

You followed his instructions, your movements tentative at first but growing more confident with each stroke of the pick against the strings. The guitar hummed beneath your hands, and with Joel’s steady guidance, the notes began to take shape, forming the beginnings of a melody.

“You’re a quick learner,” he said after a while, and you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips.

“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice quieter than you intended.

Joel’s hands stayed steady on the neck of the guitar, his fingers pressing down on the strings with practiced precision. He leaned in slightly, his chest pressing more firmly against your back, and you felt the faintest brush of his chin near your temple.

“Relax your wrist a little,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “You’re too stiff. Let it move naturally.”

You adjusted your grip, doing your best to follow his advice, but every time his hands moved or his voice rumbled in your ear, a fresh wave of heat surged through you. You could feel the wetness pooling between your thighs, a slow, insistent ache building that you tried desperately to ignore.

Joel seemed oblivious—or maybe he wasn’t. His hands moved over yours with an ease that belied his gruff exterior, his touch steady and sure. And yet, there was something in the way his fingers lingered just a moment too long, in the way his breath hitched almost imperceptibly when you shifted in his lap.

“Better,” he murmured as you finally found a rhythm, your strumming falling in sync with his playing. “See? You’re gettin’ it.”

You felt a rush of pride at his praise, but it was quickly overshadowed by the way his voice seemed to wrap around you, low and rough and entirely too intimate.

“Joel,” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the sound of the guitar.

“Hmm?”

You didn’t have an answer. You weren’t even sure why you’d said his name—only that it felt right in the moment, like you needed to hear it aloud.

He didn’t press you for an explanation. Instead, he shifted slightly again, his legs spreading just a fraction wider to support you better, and the movement sent a jolt of awareness through your body. You felt the heat of him, the solidness of his thighs beneath you, and the ache between your legs grew almost unbearable.

“You alright?” Joel asked after a moment, his tone softening as his hands stilled on the guitar.

“Yeah,” you managed, though your voice came out breathier than you intended. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t respond immediately, his head tilting slightly as though he were studying you. Then, with a faint smirk, he said, “Good. ’Cause we’re not done yet.”

You swallowed hard, nodding as he resumed his guidance, his hands moving yours effortlessly over the strings. The melody began to take shape again, and you tried to focus on the music, on the rhythm, but all you could think about was the man surrounding you—the warmth of him, the roughness of his voice, the way he seemed to seep into every part of you.

And as the night wore on, you couldn’t help but wonder if he felt it too.

The music had faded into the background, now nothing more than a hum of steady rhythm as you and Joel played together, your hands moving with more confidence, the guitar’s chords sounding smoother under your fingertips. Joel’s fingers moved lightly over yours, guiding, pressing, giving just enough instruction while his body stayed close, solid against your back. His breath ghosted over the side of your face, the faintest brush of air as he leaned in to correct your grip once again, but his voice was softer this time, quieter, almost as if he were holding something back.

You’d been playing for hours, neither of you caring about the late hour anymore. The world outside had long fallen silent, and the moon hung heavy in the sky, casting soft, pale light over the two of you on the porch. The house was still, save for the occasional creak of old wood beneath your feet or the faint rustle of leaves in the night breeze.

And then, finally, you hit the note just right. The chord sounded perfectly, ringing through the air, clear and strong. You stopped, your heart pounding in your chest as the tension between you both stretched taut. You looked up at Joel, surprised at how natural it had become, how your fingers were finally doing what they were meant to. His gaze softened, and a small, approving smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, the words a low rumble that seemed to settle deep in your chest.

You froze at the praise, a warmth flushing across your cheeks. You weren’t sure what it was about his tone—something about it, the roughness mixed with that hint of approval, sent a shiver down your spine. Your heart fluttered in your chest, but it wasn’t just the music. It was the way his gaze lingered on you, the way his eyes seemed to take you in—more than just your hands on the guitar, but you, all of you, with a hunger that was unmistakable.

You shifted in his lap, a subtle movement, trying to adjust your position. But as you did, you found yourself facing him more fully now. The change in angle made it impossible to avoid the intensity of his stare. His hands were still resting on the neck of the guitar, but they were close to you, and his fingers seemed to almost graze your body as they hovered over the strings. You could feel the weight of his presence, the tension, thick and electric between you both.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, and the only sound in the night was the faint whisper of the guitar strings vibrating under your hands. Your breath hitched as you met his gaze, your chest rising and falling with the pulse of your heart. There was no more playing—it was just the two of you, sitting together in the quiet of the night, words unspoken but understood.

Joel didn’t move at first. His gaze dropped slightly, focusing on your lips, and you could feel his breath coming in shallow bursts, the way his chest seemed to rise more quickly now. He was just as aware of the proximity, of the way your bodies were aligned, so close, as if the space between you didn’t matter anymore.

And then, just as quietly, just as slowly, he leaned in. His lips brushed against yours in a fleeting touch, barely there—almost testing, like he was waiting for something. You inhaled sharply, your hand trembling slightly where it rested on the guitar, but you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t.

That single touch lit a fire in your chest, and before you could even think, your hands moved—one to his shoulder, the other to the back of his neck. You pulled him closer, and this time, his lips crushed against yours, firm and urgent. The kiss was hungry, like something long denied, and it swept through you with an intensity you hadn’t expected. It was deeper than anything you’d felt before, the connection electric as his hands slid down your sides, pulling you even closer, his body pressing fully against yours.

Your lips parted, and the kiss deepened, the world falling away until there was nothing but the taste of him—whiskey and something more, something raw. You shifted again, your body instinctively aligning with his, the friction between you making your pulse race. Every inch of your body was alive, your skin tingling under the heat of his touch. You could feel his hands exploring, tracing the curve of your waist, the back of your neck. The rhythm of the guitar, the music you’d been playing together, was a distant memory now.

There was no more playing for you—it was just Joel, just the way he kissed you with a desperation you didn’t know he had, the way he held you as if he were afraid you might slip away. And you didn’t want to slip away. You didn’t want anything but him, here, now, with your bodies tangled together and the kiss stretching into something deeper, something that left you breathless, wanting more.

The night stretched on, the world outside falling further into silence, but inside, in the space between your mouths, everything had changed. You couldn’t stop now. Neither of you could.

You pulled away from the kiss, breathless, but neither of you seemed willing to let go just yet. Joel’s hands were still on your thighs, caressing the fabric of your clothes in a way that made your skin tingle, each brush of his fingers sending a shiver up your spine. The guitar, once the soundtrack of your evening, now lay forgotten on the ground beside you, a casualty of the heated moment. Everything between you was electrified, charged with the weight of what had just passed.

Joel’s gaze never left yours, eyes dark and searching, and for a split second, you both just stood there, trying to catch your breath, the space between you thick with desire. His hands slid up and down your legs, the touch firm, almost possessive, and yet there was a tenderness to it that made your pulse race faster. His lips were slightly parted, and his breath came in shallow, uneven breaths as he took you in. The moment felt like it stretched on forever, a delicate tension hanging in the air, thick and undeniable.

Finally, Joel broke the silence, his voice low and rough, almost hesitant. “You wanna come inside? It’s getting cold,” he asked, and even though the words were innocent enough, you knew what he meant. You couldn’t help the small, knowing smile that tugged at your lips at the excuse. The cold was the furthest thing from his mind, and you both knew it.

You bit your lip, trying to keep your composure, but you could feel the heat rising in your cheeks. You leaned in for another quick, teasing kiss, pressing your lips softly against his before pulling away just enough to murmur, “Yes.”

There it was—just one word, and it felt like everything had shifted. The air felt even heavier now, charged with something that was no longer just the playful banter or tentative flirting. This was different. This was you both giving in to something undeniable, something that had been simmering under the surface for far too long. Your heart hammered in your chest as you stood up, your legs a little shaky, the adrenaline of the moment making everything feel heightened.

Joel’s hands found your waist as you bent down in front of him, his fingers brushing against your skin, sending another shiver down your spine. You could feel the heat radiating off him, his body so close, so solid, and it made your pulse race faster. You leaned in again, kissing him hungrily this time, your lips meeting his in a rush, like you both couldn’t get enough. His hands slid to your back, pulling you closer, urging you to kiss him harder, deeper. His tongue traced the line of your lips before slipping inside your mouth, and you reciprocated eagerly, matching his intensity. It was desperate, all-consuming, as if you both knew there was no going back from here.

Joel pulled away just long enough to stand, his movements swift and purposeful, as though he were determined to take you inside without hesitation. Before you knew it, you were pressed against the door, the cool wood against your back, but it didn’t matter—everything around you was on fire. His hands were on you again, running over your body with a sense of urgency, and it felt like every inch of you was alive, alive with the weight of the kiss, the tension, the need that was so palpable between you both.

With a swift movement, Joel pushed the door open, and without breaking the kiss, he guided you inside, his hands firm but gentle on your body as he led you further into the house. You stumbled slightly, barely noticing as you both made your way to the couch, hands everywhere, lips never parting for more than a second. The world outside had completely disappeared. There was only Joel. There was only this moment.

When you reached the couch, he stopped for a brief moment, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. His hands found your face, cupping it gently as his thumb brushed over your lips, a quiet, intimate gesture that made your heart skip a beat. Then, without a word, he kissed you again, deeper this time, and as his body pressed into yours, you could feel the heat of him, the tension between you both winding tighter and tighter. You could feel his hands on your waist, pulling you closer, his fingers sliding under your shirt, exploring the soft skin of your back. The kiss deepened, became more frantic, more desperate, as if you both knew that this moment had been building for so long that there was no turning back now.

He was on you, in every sense of the word, his hands caressing your body with a hunger that matched your own. The kiss was everything—sweet, passionate, urgent—and you could feel yourself losing yourself in it, in him. Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging him closer as you kissed him with everything you had, as though this was the only thing that mattered in the world. Joel’s hands roamed lower, pulling at your clothes, and you could feel the heat between you both intensify. The room was spinning, and you didn’t care. All that mattered was him, and the way he made you feel like you were the only thing in the world.

In that moment, there was nothing else. No past. No future. Just you and Joel, lost in the taste of each other’s lips, in the heat of the kiss, in the way your bodies responded to one another. It was raw, it was real, and it was everything you both had been craving. You had no idea where it would lead, but for now, all that mattered was the here and now. The rest of the world could wait.

And as you pressed closer to him, feeling his hands slide to your hips, pulling you even tighter against him, you knew that there was no turning back.

Joel’s weight pressed you into the couch, the firm muscle of his thighs bracketing yours as his mouth moved against yours with deliberate hunger. The scrape of his beard sent a sharp tingle down your spine, rough and warm, the contrast making you ache for more. His hands, large and calloused, slid under your shirt, fingers skimming over the bare skin of your stomach, tracing the curve of your waist before settling at your ribs. The heat of his palms felt scorching, even through the thin fabric of your bra.

He exhaled against your mouth, a low, needy sound that sent heat pooling between your thighs. His hips shifted, pressing against you, and the thick press of him through his jeans had your breath hitching. You barely had time to process the delicious friction before he was moving again, his lips dragging along your jaw, down the side of your throat. He sucked at the skin there, slow and deliberate, just enough to make your head tip back with a sharp inhale.

“Fuck,” you breathed, your fingers threading into his hair, gripping tightly.

Joel groaned, his mouth pulling away just enough for you to feel his smirk against your skin. “Yeah?” His voice was thick, rough like gravel, but his hands were gentle when he pushed your shirt higher, bunching it just beneath your ribs.

His mouth followed the path his hands had taken, hot kisses pressing lower, his breath ghosting over your skin. You felt the way his jaw tensed when your nails scraped against his scalp, the way his fingers flexed at your waist like he was restraining himself. He wanted this just as badly as you did.

His lips hovered just above the swell of your chest, and when he looked up at you, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, you felt your whole body tighten with anticipation. “Tell me what you want, baby,” he murmured. “I wanna hear you say it.”

You swallowed hard, already dizzy from the way he had you pinned beneath him, from the heat of his mouth on your skin. Your hands trembled as they slid down to his shoulders, pressing against the firm muscle there.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice raw with need, “need–need you to fuck me.”

He smirked again, hands squeezing your hips, his fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp. “That’s my girl.”

Then he dipped his head lower, and all coherent thought vanished.

Joel’s lips dragged over the swell of your chest, breath hot and teasing against your skin. His hands, rough from years of hard labor, traced firm lines down your sides, settling at your hips like he needed to anchor himself. His thumbs rubbed slow, deliberate circles just above the waistband of your jeans, not quite pushing beneath the denim but making you crave it all the same.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick with amusement but gentler than before. He kissed the center of your sternum, the tip of his nose brushing you as he did. “That for me, baby?”

You bit back a whimper, fingers tightening in his hair, tugging. Joel groaned at that, the sound low and guttural, vibrating against you. His teeth scraped lightly over the sensitive skin just above your bra, followed by the wet heat of his tongue.

“Fuck, Joel.”

Your name left his lips in response, a quiet rasp against your skin, like he was tasting the sound of it. His fingers finally dipped below your waistband, just enough to tease, enough to make you shift beneath him, searching for more. He chuckled at the movement, but there was a strain in his breath, like he was just as affected as you.

“You want somethin’, sweetheart?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “More.”

Joel groaned, the sound rough and desperate. Then his fingers popped the button of your jeans, slow but sure, and the drag of the zipper lowering was deafening in the quiet space between you. His eyes flicked up to yours, dark and heavy-lidded, waiting for any sign of hesitation.

You didn’t give him one. You just arched into his touch, breathless, needy.

“Christ,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

Then his hands were on you again, pushing your jeans down, his lips following—hot, possessive kisses trailing over your stomach, dipping lower. His beard scratched at your skin in the best way, a contrast to the warmth of his mouth, the softness of his lips.

And when he finally settled between your thighs, eyes flicking up to meet yours, the look he gave you—devouring, reverent—made your stomach tighten.

“Hold on tight, baby,” he rasped. “Gonna make you feel real good.”

Then his mouth was on you, and everything else melted away.

Joel worked you over with a slow, aching precision, like he had all the time in the world to unravel you. His tongue traced along your most sensitive places, hot and deliberate, dragging moans from your lips that you couldn’t even think to stifle. Every stroke, every flick sent another wave of heat pooling low in your belly, tightening, coiling.

His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open for him, thumbs pressing just enough to keep you exactly where he wanted. The roughness of his calloused fingers against your skin sent another shiver up your spine, a contrast to the wet heat of his mouth.

“Fuck, Joel—” You gasped when he sucked harder, your fingers tightening in his hair. He groaned at the pull, the sound vibrating through you, deep and filthy.

He pulled back just enough to murmur against your skin. “Yeah? That feel good, baby?”

You couldn’t even form words, just a desperate whimper, hips shifting against his grip. But he didn’t let you move—just pressed you back down, held you still, forcing you to take every bit of pleasure he gave.

“Stay right there,” he murmured, voice thick and rough with hunger. “Let me take care of you.”

Then he was back on you, more insistent, more determined. His beard scratched against your inner thighs as he worked, the contrast of soft and rough, hot and teasing, making your head spin. He licked, sucked, dragged you higher and higher until you were trembling beneath him, panting, gasping his name like a prayer.

One of his hands slid up your stomach, over your ribs, fingers hooking under the lace of your bra and tugging, exposing your breasts so he could rub slow, teasing circles over your nipple. The extra sensation made you jolt, your back arching off the bed, a strangled moan escaping your throat.

Joel groaned, voice low and appreciative against you. “That’s it, baby. Let go for me.”

The coil inside you tightened, burning hot, unbearably close. And when he sucked just right, pressed his fingers just so, it snapped—white-hot pleasure flooding through you, shaking you apart in his hands.

Joel didn’t stop, didn’t let up until he’d wrung every last tremor from your body, until you were boneless and gasping beneath him. Only then did he pull back, pressing slow, lingering kisses along the inside of your thigh, savoring the taste of you on his lips.

When he finally moved up to kiss you, his mouth was hot, wet, and shamelessly filthy against yours. “Told you I’d take care of you,” he murmured, voice all gravel and satisfaction. “Ain’t done yet, either.”

His fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face up to his. The look in his eyes made your breath hitch—dark, hungry, insatiable.

“Think you can handle a little more, sweetheart?”

Your chest heaved as you struggled to catch your breath, body still trembling from the intensity of it all. Every nerve felt raw, overstimulated, like you were still caught in the aftershocks of what he’d just done to you.

“Holy fuck,” you breathed, barely able to get the words out.

Joel chuckled low in his throat, the sound rich and self-satisfied. His lips ghosted over yours, not quite kissing you, just teasing. “Yeah,” he murmured, his smirk downright sinful. “I think you can take more, baby.”

His fingers trailed down your stomach, light and teasing, making you jolt at the oversensitivity. But he didn’t stop—just pressed his palm against your heat, feeling how soaked you still were.

“Jesus,” he muttered, dragging his fingers through your slickness. “Still so wet for me.”

Your hips twitched into his touch, needy despite the overstimulation, and he groaned like he fucking loved it.

“Just a little more,” he murmured, voice thick with intent. He pressed a finger into you, slow and steady, just enough to feel the way you clenched around him. His thumb brushed teasingly over your clit, making you gasp, legs threatening to snap shut around his hand.

“Nuh-uh, sweetheart,” he tutted, using his free hand to grip your thigh and spread you wider. “Let me work you open.”

A second finger joined the first, stretching you just enough to burn, but his movements were patient, controlled. Every push, every curl of his fingers sent more heat coiling low in your belly, building you right back up.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, watching the way you took him, his voice rough with want. “Look at you, baby. So fuckin’ perfect.”

You whimpered his name, barely coherent, too lost in the slow, intoxicating drag of his fingers.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Joel praised, his thumb circling just right, making your breath catch. “Already close again, ain’t ya?”

You were. He could tell. But before you could tumble over that edge again, he pulled his fingers from you, making you whine at the loss.

“Shh,” he soothed, dragging his soaked fingers up your thigh, leaving a teasing trail. “Gonna give you what you need.”

He shifted back just enough to unbuckle his belt, the sound of the metal clinking making your breath hitch. Then the low rasp of his zipper, the anticipation making your pulse hammer.

Joel shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself, and— holy shit.

Your breath catches in your throat, eyes going wide as you take him in. He’s big. Thick and heavy, standing proud against his stomach, the tip flushed and glistening with precum. Your mouth actually waters at the sight, a needy pulse between your legs making you clench around nothing.

There’s no way. No fucking way.

You won’t be able to walk after this. He’s going to wreck you—absolutely destroy you. But the thought doesn’t scare you. If anything, it just makes the heat in your belly burn hotter. You want it. You want to take it, want to be good for him, want to feel every inch stretching you to your limits.

Joel notices the way you’re staring, the way your thighs squeeze together, and he chuckles darkly.

“Mm, that’s a look I like,” he muses, wrapping a fist around himself and giving a slow stroke, teasing you with the sight. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Think I’m gonna break you?”

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and his eyes track the movement hungrily.

You swallow hard, voice coming out softer than you intend. “Maybe.”

Joel groans, his grip tightening. “Fuck, baby.”

He leans over you, pressing his weight against you, his length dragging against your slick folds, making you jolt. His mouth finds your ear, his voice a low rasp.

“Don’t worry, darlin’,” he murmurs, teasing your entrance with the blunt tip. “You’re gonna take it like a good girl.”

And then, slowly—deliberately—he starts to push in.

The stretch is like nothing you've ever felt before. It clouds your senses, making your eyes roll to the back of your head and your jaw drop open in a silent scream. Just when you think he's bottomed out, he slowly pushes more of himself in.

“Joel,” you whine, nails clawing at his shoulders at how he's spearing you with his cock. “You’re gonna take it,” he murmurs, leaning over you, his lips ghosting over your ear. “Gonna take all of it, nice and slow, ‘cause I know you can. Know you wanna be my good girl.”

You nod frantically, too gone to do anything else, too overwhelmed by the way he’s pressing into you, stretching you open inch by inch. He groans at the feeling, at the way you squeeze around him, and he’s not even all the way in when your legs tremble around his waist, a choked moan spilling from your lips.

When he finally bottoms out, your voice is barely there when you manage to whisper, “Y-you’re so–”

But the words don’t come. You can’t even think straight, your mind hazy with pleasure, body still trembling from everything he’s already done to you. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth, your thoughts a mess of heat and need.

Joel’s smirk deepens, his grip tightening just slightly around himself as he strokes lazily, watching you struggle. “Yeah?” His voice is deep, teasing, full of dark amusement. He leans in closer, his free hand smoothing up your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh. “You goin’ dumb on an old man’s cock already, baby?”

A broken whimper leaves your lips, your cheeks burning at his words, at the way he’s looking at you—like he already knows the answer. Like he knows you can’t form a proper sentence right now, can’t do anything but stare at him with wide, desperate eyes.

Joel groans, his patience wearing thin. “Fuckin’ adorable.”

Shit—so tight, baby,” Joel grits out, his forehead dropping to yours as he stills for a moment, letting you adjust. His breathing is ragged, his jaw clenched as he fights for control. “Doin’ so good for me. Takin’ me so goddamn well.”

You can’t respond. Can’t do anything but feel, the stretch of him deliciously overwhelming, pushing against every sensitive spot inside you. Your lips part, a broken, breathless sound slipping out as he sinks in deeper.

Joel chuckles, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your jaw. “Still can’t talk, huh?” He rolls his hips experimentally, and your body jolts as a sharp cry escapes you. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you still as you tremble beneath him. “That’s alright, sweetheart. Don’t need words. Just need you to take what I give you.”

And then he starts to move.

His pace is slow at first, deliberate, like he wants you to feel every inch of him dragging against your walls, making you fall apart all over again. Your fingers dig into his back, helpless, desperate, your mouth forming incoherent sounds that don’t even resemble words.

Joel growls, his hips snapping forward a little rougher, the rhythm making your breath stutter. “Fuck, listen to you,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your cheek before gripping your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You that cock-drunk already, baby? Just lettin’ me fuck you stupid?”

You sob his name, back arching, and he grins like the devil himself.

“Yeah,” he groans, picking up his pace, his thrusts harder, deeper, sending shockwaves of pleasure through you. “That’s what I thought.”

The rest is a blur—a haze of heat and friction, the feeling of Joel inside you, around you, consuming you completely. He fucks you like he owns you, like he wants to ruin you for anyone else, and you let him, meeting every thrust with a needy, helpless whimper.

And when you finally come again, the pleasure crashing over you so hard it leaves you shaking, Joel follows right after, groaning your name as he spills inside you, his grip on you tight like he never wants to let go.

The two of you collapse together, breathing heavy, skin damp with sweat, bodies tangled in the aftermath. Joel presses a slow, lazy kiss to your temple, his voice rough but satisfied when he murmurs, “Knew you could take it, baby.”

You just hum in response, too spent to even form a sentence, and he chuckles, his hand stroking down your back, grounding you.

“Rest up,” he mutters against your hair, voice dripping with promise. “Next time, I ain’t gonna be so gentle.”

—

You’re barely conscious when you feel strong arms slide beneath you, lifting you effortlessly from the couch. You make a quiet noise in protest, too exhausted to form words, but Joel just hushes you softly.

“Got you,” he murmurs.

You don’t fight it. Can’t, really. Your body is too spent, your limbs heavy and useless as he carries you through the dark. The warmth of his chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing, lulls you even deeper into the haze of sleep. By the time he lays you down on his bed, tucking the blankets around you, you’ve already slipped under completely.

—

A few hours later, you wake with a soft inhale, the early morning light creeping through the window. Your body aches in a way that makes heat creep up your neck, last night’s memories flooding back in vivid detail. You glance over at Joel—still asleep, his face relaxed, breaths deep and even.

You don’t want to leave. But duty calls.

Carefully, you slide out of bed, wincing slightly as you stand. Your legs are not happy with you. Not one bit. You gather your clothes, pulling them on as quietly as possible, then grab a scrap of paper and scribble a quick note:

Had to go back to mine. See you in a bit.

You leave it on the nightstand, then steal one last glance at Joel before slipping out the door.

—

By the time you make it to the greenhouse, the morning chill has worn off, the sun rising higher in the sky. You step inside, already feeling the warmth of the enclosed space, the scent of damp earth filling your lungs.

And then you hear a familiar voice.

Joel’s already there, arms crossed over his chest, leaning casually against a worktable. His eyes meet yours, dark and knowing, and then he smirks.

You realize, a second too late, what he’s smirking at.

Because you’re limping.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement.

Your face heats instantly. You scowl, shoving past him toward the seedlings you’re supposed to be tending, ignoring the way his chuckle rumbles low in his chest.

You should’ve known he’d notice.

You huff, pretending to focus on your work, but you can still feel his eyes on you—watching, amused, entirely too pleased with himself. You shake your head at him, biting back a smile as you turn to your work, but deep down, you know—you’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

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