#I WAS ON THE FENCE WITH THAT FOR A LITTLE WHILE NOW

[cameronsbabydoll]

Simon “Ghost” Riley Taking You To The Zoo (because you begged)

"Si, pleaseee? We never do anything fun when you're home."

You're practically climbing into his lap on the couch, arms around his neck, giving him the full big eyes treatment like you're about to pass away from sheer boredom.

Simon — home on leave, hoodie sleeves pushed up, skull tattoo peeking from his wrist — gives you that flat, unimpressed stare.

"The fuck's fun about the zoo, love?" he mutters, deadpan. "Payin' twenty quid to smell animal shite."

"But there's penguins!" you gasp, like that's life changing news. "And meerkats! And those little monkeys that sit on your shoulder sometimes —"

"If any animal climbs on me I'm launchin' it over the fence."

"SIMON."

But he takes you anyway.

At The Zoo...

He's trailing behind you like some big grumpy bodyguard — black hoodie, cargo pants, absolutely looking like he got lost on his way to a tactical op — while you're darting from enclosure to enclosure like you're five years old.

And every time you gasp and grab his hand all excited — "LOOK at the otters!! They're holding hands, Si!" — he just shakes his head with that little scoff under his breath.

"Christ, I married an absolute nutter."

But he stands there anyway. Lets you tug him right up to the glass. Stands so close behind you his hand rests lazy on your lower back — protective without even thinking.

The Petting Zoo Part

You're feeding the goats and he's just leaned on the fence, arms crossed, mask tugged low so you can see the sharp curve of his unimpressed mouth.

"Y'know they're gonna eat your hair next, yeah?"

"They're hungry, Simon!"

"So's half of Manchester, don't see me handin' 'em me dinner."

But then one of the goats does try to nibble your sleeve and you're squealing, hiding behind his stupidly broad back, while he huffs out a rare laugh.

"Told ya, daft thing."

And of course he buys you the little cup of animal feed anyway.

On The Way Out...

You've somehow collected:

1 penguin plushie

1 keychain that says "Zoo Day!!!"

and a ridiculous animal-themed headband you insisted was "so cute."

Simon is holding the bag without complaint.

"'M startin' to feel like a bloody pack mule." he says, dead dry.

But when you link your arm through his and lean your head on his shoulder all happy and sleepy, he glances down at you.

Voice low, rough, but warmer now.

"Had a good day, then?"

"Best day ever."

And there's just the smallest twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth as he grumbles,

"Yeah. Me too, pet."

[simp-for-love]

Where the Fire Breathes Soft

DragonTamer!Mattheo Riddle x Teacher!Reader

You take your class on a field trip to a dragon sanctuary, expecting chaos and maybe a little fire. What you don’t expect is Mattheo Riddle — charming, clever, and surprisingly gentle beneath the smirk. Between sunbathing dragons, wide-eyed students, and a tour that turns unexpectedly sweet, you find yourself falling, just a little, for the dragon tamer with a crooked smile.

Warnings: none, fluff to the bones

Word count: 1,7k

A/N: my very late work for week 1 of @acourtofchaos's au event. Hope to catch up with the rest of them soon ♡

You’re pretty sure this wasn’t in the job description.

Sure, it mentioned field trips, but it didn’t say anything about standing ten feet away from a dragon the size of a cottage while trying to look calm in front of twenty excited eleven-year-olds.

You’ve never seen a dragon up close before — unless you count the fold-out pages in Fantastic Beasts for Little Wizards. Even then, it was hard to believe something so majestic and terrifying could be real.

But here you are, standing at the edge of a wide, green field fenced with enchanted barriers, blinking at a sunbathing Norwegian Ridgeback. It looks like an overgrown lizard lounging in the afternoon sun, its dark, iridescent scales gleaming like opals. Around you, a dozen kids press against the barrier, gasping and arguing over which dragon is the coolest.

“Miss! Miss!” little Clara tugs at your coat, eyes wide with awe. "That one just sneezed fire!"

You give her a smile, even though your heart’s trying to climb into your throat. "Yes, dragons can do that, sweetheart."

"She sneezed!" Clara insists, pointing. "She’s like me when I have a cold!"

A warm chuckle comes from your right, deep and effortlessly amused.

"That would be Marigold. She’s a bit dramatic, but harmless. Unless you're a cabbage,"

You glance sideways and promptly forget how to breathe.

The man standing next to you is tall, dressed in a well-worn leather jacket that’s clearly seen its share of flame. His dark hair is tousled, jaw sharp, and eyes startlingly intelligent with a hint of mischief behind them. There’s a dragon-scale glove tucked into his belt, and something about the way he stands — casual, confident, like the dragons answer to him — makes your knees go a little weak. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, revealing strong forearms dusted with faint burn scars and inked runes. You catch yourself staring for a second too long.

"Oh," you manage. "Hello."

"Hi." He offers you a crooked smile, one that makes your heart do something unprofessional. "Mattheo Riddle. I work here."

You shake the hand he offers, and it’s warm, calloused, grounding. "I’m… You can call me Miss Teacher who is absolutely not terrified of dragons."

Mattheo laughs, low and easy, like sunshine on a cold morning. "Pleasure, Miss Teacher. You’re doing well for someone who looks like they might bolt."

"I’m just trying not to faint in front of the children."

"Good goal." He steps a little closer and lowers his voice. "Don’t worry. The dragons can smell fear, but they respect it. Means you’re smart."

"That’s comforting."

He grins wider, like he’s enjoying this, but not in a cruel way. Like he’s almost charmed by your honesty. “Which class is yours?”

"First-years," you say, glancing at the gaggle of kids giggling by the fence. "They’re obsessed with magical creatures right now. Their current theory is that dragons are just flying puppies with attitude problems."

"Not wrong," he muses with an amused grin. "Except for Blaze. Blaze eats puppies."

You gape at him in shock.

He blinks, then breaks into a laugh. The sound so warm and smooth that it makes your heart skip a beat. "Kidding."

You exhale the sigh of relief immediately. "Thank Merlin."

Mattheo chuckles again and gestures toward the enclosure. "Want a proper tour? I promise no incineration. Well, minimal incineration."

You arch a brow. "Do I get hazard pay?"

"No, but you get to walk next to me. That’s got to count for something," he says with a wink that sends a small stutter through your chest.

You laugh, caught off guard. "Charming, aren’t you?"

He gives you a little playful bow. "It’s in the job description," he said without any shame or second thought, grinning proudly.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

Mattheo turns out to be great with the kids. You watch from the edge as he kneels beside one of them, explaining the difference between ridge-back scales and horned-tail ones like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. He’s patient when they interrupt, gentle when they get overexcited, and firm when one of them tries to climb a fence.

You hadn’t expected that. You thought he’d be cocky, maybe even reckless. Swagger and smirks. But instead, there’s this quiet strength beneath all that charisma. Something solid and steady. And it makes you feel... oddly comfortable and safe.

You try not to stare too much as he gestures animatedly toward a Welsh Green gliding in a distant paddock. The sun catches in his hair, and for a fleeting moment, he looks like he belongs to the dragons. Not as their keeper, but their kin.

He catches your across the enclosure and winks again. You look away quickly, cheeks warm.

"Professor?" Clara tugs your sleeve gently to catch your attention. "Do you like him?"

You nearly choke at her question. "What?"

"You’re looking at him like my mum looks at the telly when the handsome prince comes on," she explained calmly with a child's simplicity.

You blink at her for a moment in silence, feeling the heat on your cheeks intensified. "Clara."

"It’s okay," she says seriously with a nod. "He’s handsome. You have good taste."

You consider for a moment whether it’s possible to sink into the earth and never return.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

Lunch is a picnic under the shade of a charmed willow tree. The kids are still buzzing, mouths full of sandwiches, declaring their dreams of becoming dragon tamers. Some sketch their favorite dragons with crumb-covered fingers. You watch their enthusiasm with tenderness and a hint of amusement in your eyes. Soon Mattheo finds you near the feeding pen.

"Enjoying yourself yet?" he asks, leaning casually on the railing beside you.

"It’s... actually better than expected. No one's on fire, so I’m calling it a win," you say with a smile tugging on your lips.

He unwraps a sandwich and glances at yours, still untouched. "Not eating?"

"I'm too enchanted. I mean—interested. In all this." You laugh awkwardly and a bit flustered. "I’ve never seen anyone so comfortable around fire-breathing monsters."

He raises his brow in amusement. "You’re a teacher. You’re surrounded by tiny monsters daily."

You chuckle softly. "Touche."

He gives you a sideways glance, smirking. "You’re braver than you look."

You hum quietly. "Is that a compliment?"

"It is," he says easily. "You strike me as the soft type. Sweet. But you didn’t flinch when Ember tried to lick your coat."

"I couldn’t. The kids were watching."

"Still, you didn’t run." His voice dips slightly, more thoughtful. "That counts."

You glance at him, studying the way the late sun catches in his hair, the curve of his smile that’s equal parts playful and kind. There’s something magnetic about him, something that makes your chest feel light and your stomach full of fluttering things.

"You’re not what I expected," you say quietly.

He arches a brow. "No? What were you expecting?"

"I don’t know. Arrogance? Recklessness? Someone who rides dragons without a saddle and uses bad pick-up lines."

He chuckles smoothly, eyes shine with amusement. "I do ride without a saddle, but I leave the pick-up lines to the desperate."

"I feel honored."

"You should." He nudges your elbow softly. "Besides, I don’t need pick-up lines. I’ve got dragons."

You laugh again, unable to help it. Something about him makes you feel safe and smile wider. "You really do."

For a moment, the air between you settles into something quiet. Easy and sweet. You don’t even realize you’re smiling until he says, "You should come back sometime. Without twenty tiny chaperones."

"Is that a professional invitation?"

"Only if you’re into professionalism."

You tilt your head slightly, looking at him. "And if I’m into dragons?"

He gives you a look that’s all charm and slow-burning mischief. "Then I’m very interesting."

Your heart does a little leap again. "I’ll think about it."

"You do that," he says softly, gaze lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

The trip ends too quickly. The kids piling back onto the carriages with sticky fingers and loud voices, waving their goodbyes wildly at every dragon in sight.

Mattheo walks you to the gate, hands in his jacket pockets.

"Thanks for not letting us get eaten," you say with a small smile. You want to prolong this moment, to stay in this fairytale with dragons and Prince Charming for a little longer.

"Anytime." He looks at you, something warm flickering in his gaze. "You really were good with them. The kids."

You shrug a little shy, "It’s easy when you love them."

"I think they love you back."

"Probably because I carry sweets in my bag all the time."

He grins. "Might have to start doing that myself."

You look at him, heart fluttering again. "Do you flirt with every teacher who visits?"

He tilts his head as if considering your question. "Only the ones who make dragon farms feel like fairy tales."

You blink, looking at him with wide eyes. "That’s—"

"Too much?" he asked with slightly bashful and boyish smile.

"A little," you admit with a smile. "But I liked it."

He steps a little closer, just enough for you to catch the warmth of him, the faint scent of smoke and leather.

"Come back," he says quietly and softly. "Next week. Or whenever you like. No pressure. Just... I’d like to see you again."

You bite your lip, trying to hide the silly smile his words cause. "Maybe I will."

"Maybe?"

"Okay. Definitely."

He smiles like you’ve just handed him something valuable. And the shine in his eyes is utterly disarming. "Good."

You linger for a second longer, then turn to follow your class, heart full of butterflies and something almost as fiery as the dragons behind you.

As you step onto the carriage, Clara tugs your sleeve again and whispers, "He definitely likes you."

You glance back to where Mattheo stands by the gate, one hand raised in a lazy wave. His eyes locked on you.

You wave back. "Yeah," you whisper with a silly grin on your lips. "I think I like him too."

[thedeadstoryteller1]

𝐿𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐿𝑒𝑡𝘩𝑒 | 𝑉𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑏 𝑥 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑁𝑆𝐹𝑊

Summary: Twelve years ago, you were saved in a meadow by something not quite human—a boy with glowing eyes and blood on his lips who promised to protect you. You never stopped waiting for him. Now twenty and alone on your family farm, strange things stir in your quiet town. And when danger comes knocking, he returns—older, darker, still yours. What follows is a slow-burning reunion of fangs, fever, and forever. This is a story about coming home—to your protector, your monster, your love.

Warnings: NSFW, Blood and mild gore (vampire) minor horror elements/ stalking/ implied past trauma, soft angst, blood play (consensual), emotionally intense intimacy

Pairings: Vampire Caleb x Fem! Reader

Artist: @ raonnni on X

Word Count: ~ 15K +

Deep in a meadow, a gentle breeze sways the tall pine trees.Bees hum lazily between blooming wildflowers. Tiny animals burrow beneath the earth, safe and unseen. It is peaceful. It is calm.

Laughter rings out—a soft, carefree sound—as a little girl runs barefoot through the grass, chasing a rabbit. Wildflowers crown her hair, golden sunlight catching in her smile. She laughs again, basking in the warmth of the fading light as it gently wraps around her like a hug.

But something watches her from the shadows.

A predator. Hidden in the tall, dark wall of trees.

It is hungry. Endlessly, insatiably hungry.

It waits— Patient. Silent. Deadly.

The girl sits, unaware, and begins picking lavender.

And that’s when it strikes.

The silence snaps. Thundering paws tear across the ground. She hears the panting breath, sees the massive shape break from the tree line. A wolf—huge, snarling, its eyes fixed on her.

They lock eyes.

Her heart drums wildly in her chest. Just down the hill, her house—safety—beckons. She could scream. She could run. But she knows it won’t save her.

So she closes her eyes, trembling, and prepares to die.

No pain comes. No claws. No fangs. No death.

Only silence.

When she dares to open her eyes, the wolf is lying still—its body torn and lifeless. Standing over it is something else.

Someone else.

A boy. Tall. Barefoot. His shaggy brown hair falls just over his eyes—eyes that glow with an otherworldly mix of purple and red. Blood stains his chin, his hands, the front of his plain clothes.

And she is afraid again.

He smells it. Feels her fear like a vibration in the air. Hears the frantic thrum of her heart. Smells the sweet pulse of her blood beneath her skin.

But he doesn’t move toward her.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says softly, crouching low. He extends a hand. Smiles. Fangs gleam.

She hesitates… then takes it.

Her tiny hand slips into his. She looks over the slain wolf once more, then back into his strange, beautiful eyes.

“Thank you,” she says, voice gentle, gaze steady. “Thank you for saving me.”

His world shifts.

In over a thousand years, no human has ever looked at him without fear.

“I’m (Y/N),” she adds, her fingers still curled in his.

And something cold and dead in his chest stirs.

It starts to beat again.

“I’m Caleb.”

From that day on, he vowed to be her protector. No harm would ever touch her again. Not while he still breathed.

Your eyes flutter open to the gentle kiss of sunlight on your cheek.You smile softly, the memory already blooming behind your eyes. Caleb. The boy—no, the being—who saved your life twelve years ago.

You never forgot.

After that day, you returned to the meadow again and again. At first, it was every day. Then once a week. Then once a month. Eventually, you stopped going altogether.

But you never stopped looking. Never stopped hoping.

Now, you're twenty. And hope is harder to hold on to.

You swing your legs out of bed, stretch with a quiet yawn, and start your morning the same way you always do. Feeding the chickens. Checking the fence line. Pulling weeds from the edges of the garden. A small slice of land with big sky above it—and nothing but quiet in between.

When your parents passed, the farm passed to you. You were barely eighteen. Still grieving, still learning how to run a house and carry the weight of two legacies on your shoulders. The town helped, at first. But people fade. Grief makes others uncomfortable. And now it’s just you. And this land.

The days bleed together. Chores, meals, tending to animals. The kind of life people call “peaceful.”

But peace is a quiet kind of sorrow when your heart is still waiting for something.

For someone.

You pass the old path that leads to the meadow. You never quite stopped walking by it. You just stopped going in. The wildflowers are probably overgrown now. The lavender patch you used to love has likely been swallowed by weeds.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

Then keep walking.

There’s always tomorrow.

Nothing ever happens in this town. Not anymore. And definitely not to you.

The day drifts by, sun arcing high over the fields, golden and lazy. You work until your muscles ache in that familiar, numbing way. There’s comfort in the repetition, even if it leaves your soul starving.

The town hasn’t changed much—dusty roads, fading storefronts, and folks who still wave when they pass. But lately… something’s shifted. It’s subtle. A glance that lingers too long. A stranger at the market you’ve never seen before.

You noticed him last week. And again yesterday. Tall. Too well-dressed for this town. Eyes like wet stone and a smile that doesn't touch them.

He didn’t speak to you. But he didn’t have to.

You felt it. That prickle on your neck when he turned in your direction. The way your breath caught—not because you recognized him, but because your body recoiled before your mind could understand why.

Today, when you head into town for feed, he’s there again. Leaning against a truck that doesn’t belong to anyone here. Watching. Like he’s waiting.

You duck into the store quickly, try to ignore the way his presence coils in your chest like smoke. The clerk chats with you like normal, oblivious.

But as you leave, arms full, he steps forward. Just enough to make your path narrow.

“Need help with that?” he asks, voice smooth. Too smooth.

You force a polite smile and shake your head. “No, I’ve got it. Thanks.”

“You sure?” he asks again, but there's no concern in his voice—only curiosity, like he’s studying a specimen in a glass jar. His eyes dip into your hands. Your neck. Your house key hanging on the twine around your wrist.

“Positive.” You keep walking.

You don’t look back. But you feel it. Him. Still watching.

By the time you get home, the wind has picked up. Clouds bruise the sky. A storm is coming.

You bolt the door, even though you’ve never had to before. Feed the animals with one ear trained on the stillness behind you. Double-check the windows. Your phone has no service.

It’s nothing, you tell yourself. Just a traveler. Just a coincidence. Just nerves.

But you don’t sleep that night.

And when you finally do… You dream of the meadow. Of blood in the grass. And eyes— Not Caleb’s, but someone else’s. Someone is wrong.

That night, the wind howls through the trees like a warning. The shutters rattle. The sky splits with thunder, but no rain falls—just the electric tension of something waiting to break.

You sit at your kitchen table, trying to read, but you haven’t turned the page in fifteen minutes. The lamps cast long shadows. Every creak of the floorboards sounds louder than it should. Every gust against the windows makes your skin tighten.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That you’re just paranoid. That nothing happens in this town.

But something is happening. You can feel it. You’re being watched.

The power flickers. Once. Twice. Then steadies again. You set your book down. Stand. Walk to the front door to check the lock again—even though you know you already did.

And that’s when you hear it.

The crunch of gravel.

Footsteps on your driveway.

Slow. Unhurried. Like he knows you’re alone. Like he knows you have nowhere else to go.

Your breath freezes in your lungs. You peek through the side curtain, heart hammering.

He’s standing there.

The stranger.

Right in front of your porch steps. Hands in his pockets. Head tilted, like he's amused.

And then—he moves.

He climbs the steps and tries the door.

It’s locked.

Click. He tries again.

Still locked.

And then he knocks. One. Two. Three sharp raps that echo through your bones.

“You forgot to say goodnight,” he calls softly, like it’s a joke.Like you owe him something.

You back away from the door. Stumble toward your phone—no signal. Still. Your stomach drops.

Another knock. Harder.

“Come on,” he says. “You don’t have to play hard to get. It’s just us.”

Something shifts outside—barely audible—but you hear it.

A presence. Low. Still. Like the air itself is holding its breath.

You look toward the window… And you see him.

Caleb.

Standing at the edge of your property.

Barefoot. Soaked from the mist. Eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

His expression is tight with fury—but he doesn’t move forward. His feet are planted like he’s fighting something invisible. His lips are parted, fangs just barely visible. He’s whispering something. You can’t hear it.

And then—

The front door bursts open.

The stranger steps inside like he owns the place. Eyes bright with something wrong.You scream and fall back.

And Caleb?

Caleb roars.He slams his palm against the invisible barrier—your threshold—claws digging into nothing, body trembling with the effort not to tear through it.

“Invite me in!” he yells. Voice hoarse. Unfamiliar. “Say it! Now!”

But you’re frozen.

The stranger smiles down at you, tilting his head like he's deciding how quickly to ruin you.

“I knew someone would come for you,” he sneers. “Didn’t think it’d be a monster.”

Your voice trembles. You turn toward the window, toward Caleb. The man from the meadow.

Your protector.

The words leave your lips like a prayer.

“Come in.”

And the moment they do, the air cracks—like lightning tearing through glass.

The barrier shatters.

Caleb moves.

He doesn’t step inside. He erupts.

A blur of motion, a guttural snarl ripping from his throat as he launches forward with all the force of a beast denied too long. The stranger barely has time to turn before Caleb slams into him, knocking him into the wall so hard the plaster cracks.

The man groans—just once—before Caleb grabs him by the throat and drives him through the entryway, teeth bared, eyes glowing like coals soaked in wine. The air fills with the scent of blood and rage.

“You touched her house,” Caleb growls. “You crossed her door.”

His voice is nothing like the boy you remember. It’s older. Deeper. It carries centuries.

The stranger gasps, clawing at Caleb’s arm. His smug composure is gone now, replaced by fear—true, primal fear.

“She’s mine!” he spits, struggling.

Caleb slams him into the floorboards hard enough to rattle the windows.

“Not anymore.”

And then he bites.

Not delicate. Not hesitant.

Fangs sink deep into the stranger’s neck, and the man screams—a high, wet sound that cuts short as Caleb drinks. You stand frozen, back against the kitchen counter, watching the boy who saved you become something terrifying.

But he’s not just a monster. He’s yours. And no longer a boy, but a man. He was always a man—ancient, bound in silence and blood, hidden behind the softness of memory. You just didn’t see it then.

You see it now.

The stranger writhes, then goes still. Limp. Broken.

Caleb tosses the body aside like it’s made of straw. Blood glistens down his chin, staining his chest, dripping onto the floor. His shoulders rise and fall with rapid breath. He sways slightly, gaze unfocused.

You take a shaky step forward.

“Caleb…”

At the sound of your voice, he flinches. Turns. And his expression crumbles.

Not anger. Not bloodlust. But shame.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. His voice trembles now. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

He kneels in front of you. A monster on his knees.

“I told myself I’d only watch. That I’d stay away if it meant keeping you safe. But I smelled him near your door. I heard your heartbeat change. I—”

He looks up at you.

“I couldn’t let him hurt you.”

You fall to your knees in front of him. And reach out.

His cheek is warm. Too warm. His eyes flutter shut at your touch, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

“You came back,” you whisper. “You came back for me.”

“Always,” he breathes. “I never stopped.”

Outside, the storm breaks. Rain slams against the roof like the world itself is catching its breath.

Inside, you’re shaking. Caleb is soaked in blood. And there’s a dead man in your living room.

But for the first time in years…

You’re not alone.

The house is quiet again.

Too quiet.

Only the storm outside dares to make a sound, and even that feels distant. Muted. Like it knows better than to interrupt what just happened inside these walls.

You stare at the body. At the blood smeared on your floorboards. At the shattered pieces of a night that will never be normal again.

Caleb doesn’t move.

He’s crouched beside you, silent, still trembling. The crimson has dried against his skin—hands, jaw, throat—and it’s not just the stranger’s blood. There’s a cut across his shoulder where he took a hit before you could speak the words that freed him.

His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

You stand. Your knees shake, but you stand.

“I’ll get the bleach,” you say softly.

His eyes widen slightly. “You’re not… scared?”

You pause.

“Of you?” you ask, glancing at him. “Never.”

He bows his head.

You work in silence for the next hour. Gloves on. Windows cracked. You don’t speak about the body—Caleb promises to take care of it when you’re asleep, and you don’t ask how. The blood takes longer. It soaks through the seams in the floor, refusing to leave the corners.

But Caleb scrubs harder than you do. Like he’s trying to erase every trace of what he is. Of what you saw.

When it’s done, you peel off your stained clothes and toss them in a bag to burn later. You grab a towel and turn to him.

“Come on,” you say gently. “You need a bath.”

He looks down at himself, like he just remembered the blood. Like he just remembered he’s a man beneath all that power.

The water runs hot, steam curling like fingers up the bathroom mirror.

You sit on the closed toilet seat, waiting as Caleb stands awkwardly in the doorway. He hasn’t moved. Not since you told him it was okay.

“You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before,” you tease, voice soft.

“It’s not that,” he mutters, looking down. His hair hangs wet over his eyes. “It’s just… it’s been a long time since someone looked at me like I’m not a monster.”

Your heart aches.

You rise, step forward. His shirt is torn, sticky with blood. You press your hands to his chest.

“Then let me remind you.”

You help him undress—slowly. Carefully. Not because he’s fragile, but because this moment is.Each layer peels away like shedding a second skin. The shirt, the undershirt. The pants.

His body is lean, but strong. Covered in old scars. Marks from centuries you’ll never understand. But he doesn’t hide from you.

He lets you look.

When he finally steps into the tub, the water clouds pink. He hisses softly as it stings the wounds on his skin, muscles tensing as he lowers himself.

You kneel beside the tub, dipping a cloth into the water.

“Close your eyes,” you whisper.

And he does.

You run the warm cloth down his chest, over his shoulders, across his neck. Each motion slow, deliberate. His breathing deepens. His hands clutch the edges of the tub. Not because he’s in pain—because he’s trying not to fall apart.

The silence between you hums with something unspoken.

You reach his jaw, gently wiping the blood from his face. When your thumb brushes his lower lip, he opens his eyes.

They’re glowing faintly. Not with hunger. But with something deeper.

Need. Longing. Restraint.

“You’re real,” he whispers.

“So are you.”

You don’t kiss him. Not yet. But your hand lingers on his cheek. And when he leans into it—just slightly—it’s enough.

The bathwater cools, but you don’t move. Neither does he.

Your hand is still on his cheek, his skin now warm beneath your touch—warmer than it should be. Like he’s been holding in heat for centuries, waiting for someone to pull it to the surface.

But even now, he’s tense. Not from pain. From fear.

You finally break the quiet.

“You’re a vampire.”

It’s not a question. Just truth, spoken aloud for the first time.

His jaw flexes. His gaze drops, shame creeping into the corners of his expression.

“Yes.”

You nod slowly. Not in fear. Not in disbelief. But understanding.

“How long?”

A beat passes.

“Too long,” he says. Then softer, like it hurts to speak: “I’ve forgotten the sound of my own heartbeat.”

You swallow. The ache in your throat is tight and unfamiliar.

“It came back when you saw me, didn’t it?”

His eyes flick to yours, startled. And then he nods.

“The moment you said your name.”

You kneel there beside the tub, your knees sore, but your heart louder. The storm has passed, but the house still smells faintly of rain and blood and old earth. You reach for a towel and hand it to him.

“Come on. You’ll catch a cold.”

He chuckles quietly, the sound hoarse and unused.

“That’s not how it works for me.”

“Humor me.”

Later, you find yourself in your room, the sheets fresh, your body finally still. But sleep won’t come.

You feel him before you see him. Leaning against the frame of your door. Barefoot, hair still damp, wearing a simple shirt and a pair of drawstring pants you forgot you even owned. They hang loose on his hips.

“You can come in,” you whisper. A soft echo of earlier words. But this time… it's a welcome.

He steps inside. Sits on the edge of your bed. Looks at your window like he’s expecting dawn to break him apart.

You sit up, blanket draped across your lap.

“Will you disappear again?” you ask quietly. “When morning comes?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he studies his hands—elegant, calloused, blood-stained in ways you can't see. When he finally looks at you, the glow in his eyes has faded, but the weight in them hasn't.

“I should,” he says.

And that hurts. More than you expected. But before the ache can settle in your chest, he adds:

“But I don’t want to.”

The silence swells again.

You reach out—fingers brushing his. You feel the cold there. The hesitation. But then he laces his hand with yours.

“Then don’t,” you whisper. “Stay. Just this once.”

He exhales, as if the very idea is painful. As if choosing to stay means breaking a rule older than time. But then, slowly, he nods.

“I’ll stay.”

He lies down beside you—not touching, but close enough that you feel the cool hum of him, like moonlight on skin.

And somewhere between heartbeat and stillness… You fall asleep. Not with fear.

The storm has passed, but the wind still sighs against the windows.

You thought you’d fallen asleep, but your body never truly relaxed—not with him lying so close. Not with the past twelve years between you, thick and unspoken.

The clock ticks past midnight.

And then you hear it—his voice, barely above a whisper:

“I used to dream about this.”

You open your eyes. He’s staring at the ceiling, hands folded over his chest like he’s afraid to move.

“About what?” you whisper back.

“This.” His gaze doesn’t shift. “A quiet night. A warm bed. You beside me. The sound of your breath. It was always your breath.”

You shift slightly toward him, your fingers curling loosely between the sheets. “Then why did you leave?”

The question has teeth, even in your softest voice. But he doesn’t flinch.

“Because I didn’t trust myself.”His voice cracks. “Because you were just a child. And I was… something else. I am something else.”

You watch him swallow hard. He finally turns his head to look at you.

“You don’t understand what I’ve done. What I’ve become. How easy it would’ve been to stay—to take comfort in your light and let myself pretend. But I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t risk you.”

“But I waited.”Your voice is stronger now. “I waited every day in that meadow. I looked for you. I thought I made you up.”

His eyes shimmer in the dark.

“You didn’t.”He says it like a promise. Like a vow etched in bone.

He sits up then, bare feet on your wooden floor, spine curled with regret.

“I’ve taken lives, (Y/N). Some because I had to. Some because I wanted to.”

The admission hangs in the dark.

“I’ve been a hunter. A guardian. A monster. I’ve been all those things. And every time I was about to disappear for good, I thought of you. And I couldn’t.”

You sit up too, reaching out slowly, your fingers brushing down his spine.

“Why now?”

He breathes in like he hasn’t in years.

“Because when I smelled him near your house… when I heard your heartbeat shift from calm to afraid—I knew I’d waited long enough. I’d rather be damned again than let anyone touch you.”

You don’t answer right away. You just rest your forehead against his back, your arms wrapping around him from behind.

And he shudders—like your touch is holy water poured over a haunted soul.

“Then stay,” you whisper. “Stay until you forget how to be anything but mine.”

His breath catches when you whisper those words

Your forehead is pressed against his back, your arms wrapped around his waist. He holds your hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this world. And then, slowly, he turns.

He kneels in front of you on the bed, eyes searching yours in the low light. There's so much pain there. So much restraint. But it’s cracking.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he whispers. His fingers trace your jaw. “I’m not human. I haven’t been for a long time. I don’t know if I remember how to be gentle.”

You lean into his hand. “Then let me remind you.”

You kiss him.

Soft at first. Testing. But the moment your lips meet, his control shatters. His hands cradle your face, pulling you in deeper, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. His kiss is hungry—but reverent. Like worship. Like he’s waited a lifetime for permission to feel again.

His tongue parts your lips and you open for him, letting him taste you, explore you. The groan that rumbles from his chest is low and raw—it vibrates through your ribs. His hands slide down your back, pulling you flush against him, and you feel the hardness pressed against your thigh.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he growls softly against your mouth. “I’ve dreamed of this—I’ve ached for this.”

You pull your shirt over your head, baring yourself to him. His breath catches.

“Beautiful…” he murmurs, voice thick.

His hands move with restraint, with reverence, brushing over your breasts, your stomach, until he’s laying you back onto the bed. His mouth follows—pressing kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, lingering on your chest.

“Is this okay?” he whispers, voice rough, lips inches from your skin.

“Yes,” you breathe.

He kisses the curve of your breast, then the peak, flicking his tongue over your nipple before sucking gently. You gasp, arching into him. His other hand trails lower, teasing the waistband of your shorts, but he waits—always giving you the choice.

You nod, whispering, “Please…”

He peels them down slowly, and his eyes darken when he sees how wet you already are.

“Fuck…” His voice is pure need now. “Look at you… you’re trembling.”

He spreads your legs, settling between them. His hands hold your thighs open, but his touch is worshipful, not forceful. And then—

He dips his head.

His fangs graze your inner thigh, and then his mouth follows—kissing, nibbling, sucking marks into the soft skin there. You cry out softly, hips twitching.

“I’ve waited so long to taste you,” he growls.

And then his tongue is on you.

He licks slow and deep, savoring you. His mouth works you open, tongue circling your clit before sliding down to tease your entrance. He moans into you, the vibrations shooting pleasure through your spine.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as your thighs close around his head, but he doesn’t stop. He devours you. And when you gasp his name, shaking—

He pulls away, licking his lips like sin.

“You’re close,” he whispers. “But I want you to fall apart around me.”

He crawls back up your body, eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

“Are you sure?” he asks, hovering above you. His voice is low, aching.

You reach down, guiding him to your entrance, your voice trembling but certain.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He slides in slowly. Inch by inch.

Stretching you. Filling you. Claiming you.

Your back arches as your body adjusts, a moan escaping your lips. He groans above you, forehead dropping to yours.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers. “So warm. So tight. Fuck, I’m not going to last if you keep looking at me like that…”

But he does. Because he wants you to feel every stroke, every thrust, every promise.

He moves slowly at first, letting you feel the weight of him, the way your bodies lock together like a secret. But when your nails rake down his back and you whisper, “Harder,” something in him snaps.

He buries himself deeper. Harder. His hips slam into yours, and you cry out—pleasure blooming sharp and sweet. His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit as he fucks you into the mattress.

“Say it,” he groans. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Caleb. God, I’m yours.”

Your orgasm hits like a flood, your body clenching around him as you moan his name. He growls, thrusts once—twice—then follows with a shudder, his release buried deep inside you.

He collapses beside you, arms instantly pulling you to his chest. You feel the hammer of his heart against your cheek—new and real.

“You okay?” he whispers, brushing hair from your face.

“Better than okay.”

He kisses your forehead, your cheek, your lips again.

“I’ll never leave your bed again,” he murmurs.

And for the first time in your life, you believe it.

The morning is soft.

The sun filters in through the curtains, muted and golden. Birds sing somewhere far away. But none of that reaches you.

You wake to him.

Caleb is already watching you—propped on one elbow, hair tousled, shirtless, the sheet barely clinging to his hips. His skin is smooth and pale, his eyes darker now, rimmed in red like he hasn’t slept. But there's something new in them.

Peace. And hunger.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his fingers so gentle, it almost makes you ache.

“You didn’t run,” he says softly.

You smile sleepily, voice rough with morning.

“Neither did you.”

He leans in and kisses you—slow, deep. His tongue slides against yours and the kiss turns molten in seconds. You feel him harden against your thigh, and your body wakes with a familiar heat.

He groans into your mouth.

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispers. “But I’m going to take it. Every fucking second you’ll give me.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him on top of you. “Then take it.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

His mouth moves to your throat, lips brushing your pulse. But he doesn’t bite. Not yet. He trails down instead, kissing your collarbone, your chest, sucking gently at your nipple until you gasp and arch into him.

His hand slides between your thighs—finding you already wet, already ready.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs. “I’ve barely touched you and you’re soaked for me.”

“I want you,” you breathe. “I want all of you.”

He growls low in his throat and pushes inside—deeper, faster than the first time. There’s no hesitation now. Only raw, carnal need.

You gasp as he stretches you, hips slamming into yours. He sets a rhythm that leaves you breathless—deep and punishing, but full of control. His hands hold your wrists above your head, his teeth grazing your throat again.

The heat between you builds quickly. Every thrust drives you closer, every whisper from his lips making your stomach tighten.

“Tell me,” he growls, “tell me if I hurt you—”

“You won’t,” you pant. “I trust you.”

He falters.

Just for a second.

Then his voice lowers—dark, reverent.

“Then let me have you.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, your nails dig into his back, and when you whisper, “Bite me,” everything stops.

He lifts his head, eyes glowing.

“You don’t know what you’re offering.”

“I do.”

You guide his face back to your neck.

“Take it. Take me.”

He moans—shattered—and then sinks his fangs into your throat.

The pain is sharp—but it flares into something else. Something addictive. Pleasure blooms from the wound, flooding you, binding you.

You cry out, clinging to him as he drinks. His hips never stop moving, thrusting deeper, faster. Your blood on his tongue—your name on his lips. You’ve never felt more claimed. More alive.

He pulls back only when your pulse stutters. His mouth is red, his eyes wild, and you swear the marks on your neck throb with desire.

“Mine,” he growls, his voice breaking. “You’re mine now. I can feel you in me.”

You come with a cry—your body clenching around him, shaking from the inside out. He follows, hips jerking as he releases inside you again, your blood still warm on his lips.

He collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms, his mouth pressing over the bite like a vow.

“Are you okay?”

“Better,” you breathe. “I feel… full. Yours.”

He smiles, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then the corner of your mouth.

“You’ll never have to feel empty again.”

The room is still wrapped in the warmth of what just happened. The sheets are tangled. The air smells like skin and sweat and something older—something sacred.

Caleb lies beside you, half-propped on one elbow, fingers tracing idle shapes across your stomach. His other hand rests lightly over the mark he left on your neck, thumb brushing the swollen skin like he can’t believe you let him do it.

You tilt your head toward him.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur.

He swallows, eyes flicking to your lips, then away.

“I’m… trying to find the right words.”

You smile, heart already fluttering at his tone.

“About the biting?”

He nods. Then hesitates.

“It’s more than just… feeding,” he says finally, voice soft. “Especially not like that.”

You reach up, tucking a piece of his hair behind his ear. He still won’t look at you fully.

“What does it mean?”

He breathes in slowly, thumb still caressing your skin.

“When vampires feed out of hunger, it’s survival. It’s sharp. Quick. Detached. It doesn’t mean anything.” He pauses.“But when it’s… tied to closeness. To—” He falters. “To when we’re… together like that.”

“You mean sex?”

He visibly flinches. “I mean—yes. That.”You laugh softly, and his smile breaks through, sheepish and boyish.

“When it happens during… that,” he says, more careful now, “and it’s with someone we… love, it becomes a kind of bond. It’s intimate. Permanent. It’s the closest thing to a soul-mark we have. It’s not just taking. It’s giving too.”

You blink, lips parting slightly. Your pulse flutters under his fingers.

“So now you have a part of me?”

He nods. “And you have a part of me. My blood was in my mouth when I kissed you. It’s… done.”

The weight of that settles over you like something holy.

“Have you ever done that with anyone else?”

His gaze finally meets yours—steady, unwavering.

“No.”A soft exhale. “I’ve fed before, when I had to. Never like that. Never with someone I wanted to keep. Never with love.”

You feel heat rise in your cheeks. Your chest aches in the best way.

He leans closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. Gentle, claiming.

“You’re part of me now,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice raw.“I’ll never leave unless you command me to do so.”

You pull him into your arms, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

And he holds you like the vow he made isn't just for this morning—but for forever.

The sun is higher now—casting golden light through your windows, warming the floors and chasing away the last of the night.

You’re still wrapped in the same blanket you dragged out of bed with you, legs bare, hair messy. The vampire who made you come apart more than once last night?

He's standing at your stove barefoot, holding a spatula like it might attack him at any moment.

“What are you doing?” you ask, amused, as you walk in and lean against the doorway.

Caleb turns around, eyes wide like you caught him trying to steal something.

“Attempting breakfast,” he mutters. “Possibly creating a fire hazard.”

You stifle a laugh as you catch sight of slightly charred eggs in the pan.

“Wow,” you tease. “Centuries of existence and you still haven’t mastered scrambled eggs?”

He glares playfully. “In my defense, I don’t usually eat human food. Or cook it.”

“You don’t say.”

He narrows his eyes and smirks. “Careful. I did bite you last night.”

You grin and walk over, slipping behind him to wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his bare back.

“Speaking of which…” you pause, voice sweet and innocent. “Am I a vampire now?”

He snorts so hard he nearly drops the pan.

“What?” He turns, grinning, incredulous. “No. That’s not how it works.”

“Well how does it work?” you challenge, poking his chest. “You bit me, you drank my blood, and then—boom—soul-bond sex. Feels pretty vampire-y to me.”

He laughs—an honest, warm sound—and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“Turning someone is… different.” His voice softens. “It has to be mutual. Intentional. It’s a painful, drawn-out process. And it has to happen during death. It’s not romantic. It’s… violent.”

You blink. “Okay, yeah. Not exactly what I signed up for.”

“Exactly,” he says, brushing your cheek with his knuckles. “You're alive, (Y/N). Gloriously, stubbornly, sun-kissed alive.” He grins. “And I wouldn’t change that for anything.”

You kiss him—just a soft brush of lips—and then turn back to the eggs.

“You might want to take those off the heat.”

After breakfast—mostly edible thanks to your intervention—you both head out to the farm. The grass is damp beneath your boots, the scent of wet earth clinging to the breeze.

The chickens scatter as you step into the coop, feathers flying in a chaotic burst. Caleb watches from a distance, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“They hate me,” he deadpans.

“They hate everyone at first,” you reply, tossing feed with a practiced flick of your wrist. “They just sense your... undead aura or whatever.”

“Charming.”

You turn and grin at him. “Want to try collecting the eggs?”

He eyes the hens. They eye him back, like a showdown at high noon.

“They’re tiny dinosaurs, (Y/N).”

“You’re a vampire. What could they possibly do to you?”

“Peck my pride.”

You chuckle, wiping your hands on your jeans before glancing at him again. The sunlight catches on his face—and that’s when you really notice it.

“How can you walk in the sun?” you ask, brow furrowed.

He steps closer, the golden light wrapping around him like a halo. “That whole ‘bound to the shadows’ thing? Just a myth. Designed to scare kids. We’ve always been able to walk in the sun.”Then he gestures to his skin, tilting his head. “But if you look closely… I kind of glow. Brighter than you.”

You do look. And he’s right.

There’s a faint shimmer to him—subtle, but undeniably there. A golden sheen across pale, cool skin. It’s ethereal. Almost otherworldly.

“It reminds me of honey,” you murmur, awe in your voice. “The way it glows in the sun.”

He lets out a warm laugh—rich and unguarded.

But it’s cut short by the sudden flap of wings and a charging hen.

Caleb stumbles back with a startled noise.

“She’s feral!” he shouts.

You double over laughing, barely able to breathe as he backs away, hands raised like he’s facing a wild beast.

You finish the morning chores with giggles and bickering and a few startled yelps from Caleb when one particularly bold hen does try to assert dominance.

Back in the kitchen, sweaty and dirty, you lean against the counter as Caleb hands you a glass of water, his expression a little more serious now.

“You were happy today,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Because you were here.”

He reaches for your hand, threads your fingers together.

“Then I’ll keep being here. Until the chickens learn to love me. Or you get tired of me… whichever comes first.”

You smirk.

“Might be waiting centuries for either.”

You wash up together, this time without the fire of lust—just soft touches, shared smiles, and fingers tracing soap bubbles along skin. Caleb stands behind you at the sink, helping rinse the dirt from your arms after chores, and he murmurs things like:

“You have hay in your hair.”

And—

“You smell like sunshine and chicken feed. It’s weirdly perfect.”

You flick water at him. He bares his fangs in mock offense. You’re not sure you’ve ever felt this kind of lightness before—not with anyone.

Later, you throw on your favorite sundress—simple, soft, something that flutters when you walk. Caleb watches you with a quiet intensity as you fasten the last button.

“What?” you ask.

He shakes his head, smiling.

“You make it hard to remember I don’t have a heartbeat.”

You walk the path through the woods, the trees parting slowly as the sun dips low. The air smells like wildflowers and pine, and the silence between you is comfortable now—no longer filled with longing, but contentment.

When the meadow comes into view, your breath catches.

The lavender has grown wild again, and golden light spills across the clearing like honey. You walk out ahead of him, your fingers brushing over petals, heart full.

“This is where you saved me,” you say quietly.

Caleb steps beside you, his eyes softer now. “No,” he murmurs. “This is where you saved me.”

You turn to him, and he reaches for your hand—lifting it to press a kiss to your knuckles. The sun paints him in gold, highlighting the quiet reverence in his features.

“I spent centuries numb,” he says, voice low, vulnerable. “But that day… you looked at me like I wasn’t a monster. I’ve carried that look with me ever since.”

You squeeze his hand, your throat tight.

“I never stopped hoping you’d come back.”

He leans forward, his forehead resting gently against yours.

“And I never stopped watching. You never had to be alone, even when you thought you were.”

The wind dances through the flowers, and you stand there, pressed heart-to-heart, surrounded by the place where past and present collide.

“Do you still think this place is safe?” you ask quietly.

He looks around—at the trees, the sky, the wild lavender.

“No,” he says. “It’s sacred now. Not safe. It holds too much of you in it.”

You lie back in the grass, the wild lavender curling softly around you. The sunlight is fading, casting everything in hues of amber and rose. The breeze smells like earth and dusk and memory.

Caleb hovers above you, eyes glowing faintly in the golden light. One hand cradles your face. The other presses gently into the grass beside your head.

He doesn’t rush.

He studies you—soaking in every detail. The curve of your lips, the flutter of your lashes, the way your chest rises and falls like you’re waiting for him to breathe first.

“You’re sure?” he whispers, even now.

You smile, reaching up to brush his cheek.

“This is where you first touched my life,” you murmur. “It only feels right to let you touch all of me here.”

That’s all he needs.

He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that starts soft, but quickly deepens. His mouth parts yours, tongue slow and reverent as he kisses you like he’s afraid the moment will vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

His hands roam—one sliding down your side, gripping your thigh as he nestles himself between your legs. You can feel him, hard and warm even through his clothes, pressing against you with restrained need.

You reach for the hem of his shirt. He pulls back just enough to let you tug it over his head, baring his chest—pale, scarred, perfect. You trace the faint marks with your fingers, each one a story you haven’t heard yet.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper.

He chuckles softly, eyes dark with want. “No one’s ever said that to me and meant it.”

“Then let me be the first of many.”

Your dress is next—his hands work the buttons slowly, eyes on yours the entire time. When the fabric falls away, he pauses, just looking at you. His gaze drinks you in like he’s seeing sunlight for the first time in centuries.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he breathes. “How much I’ve imagined this—you—but nothing ever compared to this.”

He leans down, kissing between your breasts, trailing his mouth lower, lower still until his lips find your stomach. Your breath catches as he kisses just above your pelvis, then gently nudges your thighs apart with reverent fingers.

And then—

His mouth is on you again.

Hot. Wet. Perfect.

His tongue traces every inch, curling against your clit, sliding deep to taste the wetness he drew from you so easily. His hands pin your thighs open like he never wants to let go. You cry out, your hips rising to meet his mouth, his name tumbling from your lips in broken pleas.

“You’re everything,” he murmurs against your heat. “I’ll never have enough of you.”

When he finally pulls away, your body is trembling—needing more.

He kisses his way back up your body, lips tasting skin and sweat and lavender.

“I need you inside me,” you whisper, pulling him closer.

He groans softly, voice almost reverent.

“I want to make love to you in this field until the stars come out.”

You reach between you, guiding him in—your bodies finding each other again, but this time surrounded by nature, sky, and all the years you waited for this moment.

He pushes in slowly, stretching you, filling you until you gasp, until your hands claw into the grass for something to hold onto.

“You fit me,” he growls, lips brushing your ear. “Like you were made for me.”

He moves with a rhythm that’s both deep and unhurried. He wants you to feel this—every inch, every breath, every trembling second. The grass cradles your back, his body cradles your soul, and you rock together under the falling sky.

His hands tangle in yours above your head. His mouth finds yours again—wet, open, gasping between thrusts. His forehead presses to yours.

“Say it,” he whispers.

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“I love you, Caleb.”

And he falls apart inside you, just as you break beneath him—your bodies trembling, slick with sweat and starlight as the world goes silent but for the sounds of your pleasure.

When it’s over, he doesn’t pull away.

He stays buried deep, one hand stroking your hair, the other tracing circles on your bare thigh.

You lie there, tangled in each other, watching the stars begin to bloom in the sky.

“I’d live a thousand more lifetimes,” he says softly, “if it meant coming back to this moment with you.”

Ferrymen !

How we doing loves ? Who should be the next vampire ? Vote down below !

I’m cooking up Pt. 2 for my Death and Rebirth how it should have ended. Its called One More Goodbye. For Pt1 click here -> ❄

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~ The DeadStory Teller ~

@cordidy @fire-lizard-ro @carnallydepravedsanctum @laenafireheart

[pandapetals]

When The Leaves Turn: Part Two

Part One - August to February

Summary: In the safety of Jackson, seasons change, and so does whatever unnamed thing has been quietly growing between you and Joel. What begins as small, thoughtful gestures and clumsy, reluctant moments of closeness slowly blooms into something neither of you has the nerve to name.

Pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!teacher reader

Word count: 11k

Content warnings: slight reader description, y/n used once or twice, fluff, slight angst?, idiots in love, teasing, banter, mutual pining, ellie being a menace, no smut

A/N: Part 2 since some of y'all asked for it. I love writing fluff so much. I did that mainly with Logan, so it's nice to return to my roots, lol.

March

Spring had quietly claimed Jackson.

The snow had melted away into muddy roads, and soft green shoots poked stubbornly through thawed earth. Buds clung to the branches of trees like tiny promises, and the flowers the kids had planted behind the schoolhouse began to stretch lazily toward the sun.

And whatever was happening between you and Joel… well, it was blooming too.

Slowly.

You hadn’t expected that kiss back in February to mean anything more than a moment, one of those impulsive, heat-of-the-moment things people don’t talk about afterwards. But Joel hadn’t let it slip away.

He was still Joel — complicated, guarded, a man stitched together by old grief and the quiet stubbornness only years of surviving could carve into a person. He didn’t offer his heart freely.

And you weren’t foolish enough to expect him to.

It was careful, like the flowers you tended outside the schoolhouse windows. Quiet glances, conversations that lingered a little too long. His hand brushed yours when you passed him a tool while fixing a fence post. His eyes softened when you laughed, even if his mouth barely cracked a smile.

You were patient because you understood. You were guarded, too. There were things buried deep inside you, like losses you didn’t name, fears that curled around your ribs on quiet nights. And though you liked Joel, liked him in a way that made your chest ache sometimes, you couldn’t help but hesitate.

It was easier to love things at a distance.

But then he'd do something small, such as show up early with fresh coffee for you before the kids arrived, or fix a broken latch on the schoolhouse door without being asked. Or mumble something like “be careful” when you head out alone, and the distance shrank.

Bit by bit, these pieces were creating something tangible. Like spring, it wasn’t a sudden bloom, but a slow unfurling. 

As you stepped outside the schoolhouse this morning, the scent of fresh soil and woodsmoke lingered in the breeze, and you pulled your cardigan a little tighter around your shoulders. The kids wouldn’t be here for another half hour, but you liked the quiet moments before the day began — the hush before small voices filled the room or scuffed boots tramped muddy footprints across the floorboards.

Across the street, you caught sight of Joel.

He was leaning against the post, arms crossed, his jacket slung over one shoulder. His hair was still damp from a quick wash. It made your chest do that stupid little stutter it always did now.

He wasn’t looking at you, not exactly — watching the road beyond the gates, eyes narrowed like he was already thinking about the day’s patrol.

But you knew better. He always seemed to end up in your line of sight this time of morning.

Maybe you were imagining it, but his gaze followed you when you stepped off the schoolhouse porch and walked toward the garden beds along the fence.

You knelt by the small row of marigolds the kids had planted a week ago, their bright orange petals curling open toward the sun. They were tiny, delicate things. The ground was still cold, but they were holding on.

“Early for gardening,” a familiar voice rumbled behind you.

You didn’t jump. Joel never made much noise when he walked, but you’d gotten good at knowing when he was there.

You glanced up, shielding your eyes against the light. “Somebody’s gotta make this place look halfway decent.”

A faint tug at the corner of his mouth. He crouched beside you, careful of the damp earth, and you caught the scent of cedar and old leather clinging to his jacket. Close enough that your shoulders brushed when you both leaned forward to inspect the same crooked little flower.

“Could’ve waited,” he murmured, fingers brushing the edge of a stubborn weed. “I was gonna stop by.”

“Oh?” you teased, keeping your eyes on the marigolds. “And what were you bringing this time? More books? Another half-rusted horseshoe, you swear is good luck?”

His shoulder bumped yours, a soft huff of laughter escaping him.

“Coffee,” he said. “Was gonna bring you coffee.”

You bit your lip, warmth curling in your chest. “Guess I owe you one, then,” you murmured.

Another quiet beat passed, the wind stirring the hair strands loose around your face. His gaze lingered there for too long, and you felt it. A subtle, unspoken thing settled between you like it always did.

“You know,” you said, voice quieter than you meant it to be, “you don’t have to waste your coffee on me.”

Your eyes lingered on his face, tracing the way the morning light caught in the lines around his eyes, how the faintest ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Joel cleared his throat, standing, brushing his hands on his jeans. “Ain’t a big deal.”

With a soft sigh, you rose to your feet, dusting dirt from your palms. “It’s not easy to come by,” you said, trying for lightness, but there was a weight to the words you didn’t quite manage to hide.

Joel glanced at you, and the world felt momentarily unnaturally still. The hum of distant voices in town, the rustle of wind through budding trees, and the sharp scent of earth in the thaw faded.

Something unspoken flickered in his gaze. A kind of careful tenderness, like you were a thing he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want, but wanted all the same.

“Ain’t a big deal, darlin’.”

You smiled, small and helpless. “Still,” you murmured. “Means more than you think.”

He shifted, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the look you gave him. His hand twitched at his side, like he thought about reaching for you and stopped himself at the last second.

You took a small step back, the distance both too much and not enough. “Have a safe patrol.”

His gaze held yours a beat longer than it needed to.

“Always.”

Then he turned, boots crunching along the dirt path, leaving behind the scent of cedar, fresh earth, and your heart fluttering like a fool. You stayed there a moment longer than you should’ve, watching the line of his shoulders as he disappeared down the road.

The kids caught on quickly.

You had expected them to. Little grins passed between them whenever Joel showed up outside the schoolhouse with a new stack of books or fixed something without being asked.

“Miss (L/N), Joel brought you coffee again,” Lucy would sing-song, barely suppressing a smirk.

You’d roll your eyes, pretend it wasn’t a big deal, but your stomach would knot up how it always did when he was near.

They didn’t mean anything by it. It was the harmless teasing of kids who saw more than the adults around them were willing to admit. Still, it was a reminder that you and Joel kept dancing around something neither of you knew how to name.

Jackson was a small town. People noticed things.

Maria’s knowing glances didn’t help either. The way she’d catch your eye across the dining hall, lift one brow, and offer the kind of sly smile that said about damn time.

Ellie was relentless.

You’d find yourself sitting across from Joel some nights in the dining hall, Ellie wedged between you two like some smug little goblin, eyes flicking between you both like she was waiting for the world’s slowest, most awkward love confession.

“So, you two gonna admit you’re in love yet, or should I start takin’ bets?” she’d say around a mouthful of cornbread.

Joel would grunt, face flushing in a way only you noticed. The faint pink creeping up his neck, settling in the tips of his ears. “Ellie,” he’d grumble, scowling into his plate.

You’d laugh, brushing it off with a shake of your head, pretending your cheeks weren’t warm, that your heart wasn’t hammering in your chest.

But it lingered.

Every teasing remark, every sidelong glance, every innocent brush of his hand against yours when neither of you moved away fast enough.

It wasn’t nothing. No matter how much you both tried to act like it was. It was something.

Especially when Joel kept showing up.

He should’ve been on patrol — at least, you were pretty sure he was supposed to be. But there he was again, striding toward the schoolyard with that familiar steady gait, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, like he just happened to be passing through.

Lucy elbowed Daniel with a grin as Joel came into view. Daniel barely suppressed a snicker, pretending to focus very hard on the tiny garden plot you’d been working to turn from cold, stubborn earth into something hopeful.

“Didn’t think you’d be around today,” you called, wiping dirt-streaked hands on your skirt.

Joel shrugged, stopping a few feet away, his gaze flicking over the scattered seed packets and half-dug rows. “Patrol got pushed to tomorrow.”

Which didn’t explain why he was here. Middle of the day.

You raised a brow. “Uh-huh.”

He ignored you, crouching beside Ellie, who was elbow-deep in mud, and reached for a rusted trowel. “You’re doin’ that wrong,” he grumbled, taking it from her and demonstrating the proper angle like it was second nature.

Ellie shot you a look. See?

You just bit back a smile and went back to planting, pretending you didn’t feel his presence settle into the space beside you like it belonged there.

The kids kept sneaking glances, not trying to hide their smirks anymore.

“You know,” you teased after a while, kneeling next to him as he worked a stubborn root loose from the soil, “if someone didn’t know better, they’d think you like hanging around here.”

Joel huffed, not looking up. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You grinned. “Right, ‘cause you always volunteer to dig around in the dirt with a bunch of kids and a pain-in-the-ass schoolteacher.”

He glanced sideways at you at that, a flicker of something softer in his eyes. His hand brushed yours in the dirt, a rough-knuckled, calloused touch that lingered for a heartbeat too long before he pulled it back.

You both pretended it didn’t happen.

Then Joel cleared his throat, scooping up a handful of seeds. “You tellin’ folks we’re… y’know,” he gestured vaguely between you, “together?”

You blinked, caught off guard by its bluntness. “Well,” you said slowly, “depends on who you ask. Ellie’s apparently been taking bets.”

Joel groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Goddamn kid.”

You laughed, warmth blooming in your chest despite yourself. “I haven’t told anybody anything. But… if I did… would you mind?”

Joel hesitated. Long enough for you to hear your own heartbeat in your ears. Then he sighed, and that rare, reluctant ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Guess not.”

“Well then,” you murmured, nudging his shoulder with yours, “guess we better give ‘em somethin’ to talk about.”

Joel grunted, but his hand brushed yours again in the soil, this time on purpose.

By late afternoon, the garden was more mud than plot, seeds buried in crooked rows, tiny markers made from broken twigs, and scraps of paper fluttering in the breeze. The kids were flushed and muddy, proud of their work and eager to bolt off to whatever trouble waited for them around the corner.

“All right,” you called, brushing dirt off your hands. “Good work, everyone. Same time next week.”

Lucy tugged at your sleeve, glancing past you toward Joel. “Bye, Mr. Miller,” she said sweetly, her grin betraying the innocence of her voice.

Daniel snickered behind his hand.

Joel crossed his arms, raising a brow at them. “Y’all better get movin’ before I put you to work patchin’ fences instead.”

A round of laughter erupted, Ellie included, as they scattered down the road like a flock of mischievous birds.

“Tell your girlfriend I said hi!” Ellie shouted over her shoulder.

Joel groaned, muttering under his breath. “One day, I swear…”

You tried to hide your smile as you gathered the empty seed packets and tools, feeling his warmth still beside you. When you finally glanced up, expecting him to have followed the kids back toward town, you found Joel still standing there, hands in his pockets, boots scuffing the dirt.

Not looking at you, but not leaving either.

You arched a brow. “You sticking around to supervise my cleanup now?”

His lips quirked. “Somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t screw it up.”

You chuckled, dropping the last tools into the old wooden box by the fence. “Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know… anywhere else?”

Joel shrugged. “Could be.” His gaze flicked toward the crooked little garden plot. “Ain’t bad,” he admitted gruffly. “Could’ve used straighter lines.”

You smirked. “Oh, so now you’re an expert gardener?”

He shot you a look, one corner of his mouth lifting. “I know a thing or two.”

You leaned your hip against the fence, crossing your arms. “And yet here you are, still hanging around.”

Joel huffed, kicking at a patch of loose soil with the toe of his boot. “Maybe I like the company.”

Your heart raced, but you didn’t say a word. Just smiled. Then you gently bumped your shoulder against his, a light nudge like it wasn’t a big deal, like you weren’t holding your breath for what might come next.

Joel’s hand brushed yours again — a rough, fleeting touch, calloused fingers grazing your knuckles. It could’ve been another accident. 

But this time, you didn’t let it pass.

You reached down and caught his hand in yours.

He stiffened for a split second, and then you felt his fingers twitch, curling around yours like the easiest, most natural thing in the world.

You both stared straight ahead, like you were just two people standing there, watching the wind stir the garden you’d planted, the last bit of sun clinging to the tops of the trees.

But your hands stayed tangled, his thumb brushing lightly along the side of your hand in a way that made your stomach flip.

After a long, comfortable stretch of quiet, Joel let out a soft huff of a laugh, almost sheepish. “Took you long enough,” he murmured, his voice low and warm.

You grinned, turning to meet his gaze finally. “Could say the same about you.”

And for a moment, the rest of the world faded, leaving only the steady warmth of his hand in yours and the hush of spring settling over Jackson.

April

“April showers bring May flowers,” Ellie sang-songed, hopping over a puddle as you both made your way down Jackson’s muddy main road.

You laughed, the sound catching on the cool spring air. “Where’d you hear that one?”

Ellie shot you a grin. “You said it once. Last spring.”

You blinked, surprised. “I did?”

“Yup.” She nudged you with her elbow, smug. “We were planting those dumb flowers behind the schoolhouse. You don’t remember?”

You shook your head, smiling. “Guess not. Must’ve been one of those things my grandma used to say. It just meant that even when stuff feels kinda miserable, something good’s probably waiting on the other side.”

Ellie wrinkled her nose, pretending to gag. “Ugh, sappy.”

You smirked. “Hey, you’re the one quoting me.”

“Yeah, well… you say a lotta stuff. Some of it sticks.”

That made your heart pinch in the best way because Ellie didn’t hand out sentiment easily, and when she did, it was usually disguised with sarcasm and eye-rolls.

The two of you kept walking, boots squelching through mud and puddles, the air thick with the scent of damp earth.

Ellie glanced sideways at you, tucking her hands into her jacket pockets. “You and Joel… you good?”

The question came out casual, but her tone was careful.

You raised a brow. “We’re fine.”

She nodded, kicking a small rock down the road. “Good. He’s… better when you’re around.”

Your chest tightened, warmth creeping in despite the chill. “He says the same about you, y’know.”

Ellie huffed, but her ears turned a little pink.

You let the moment settle, a comfortable quiet stretching between you as you reached the edge of town where the trees began to bud and the river ran high.

“You two are gross, though,” Ellie added after a beat, a grin tugging at her lips.

You laughed, nudging her. “Yeah, yeah. You’ll understand someday.”

Ellie smirked. “Doubt it.”

But she didn’t pull away when you threw an arm around her shoulders, and you didn’t miss how she leaned into it just a little. A small thing, but it meant everything.

“’Bout time,” Joel grumbled, glancing up from where he crouched by the riverbank, setting a battered tackle box down in the grass.

Ellie rolled her eyes, smirking. “Don’t start, old man,” she shot back, jogging the rest of the way to him.

You followed behind, the late afternoon sun warm against your back as you reached the clearing by the river. Joel had somehow scavenged three mismatched lawn chairs, their faded fabric sagging in the middle, and staked three fishing poles into the soft earth at the water’s edge.

It was the quiet, simple scene you didn’t get much of these days.

“I can’t believe I’m learning to fish,” Ellie declared, hands on her hips, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her excitement.

Joel gave her a look, one brow lifted. “Survival skill. One of the first things my old man taught me.”

You smiled, dropping down onto one of the sagging chairs. It let out a creak in protest, but held. “Let me guess — you were a natural.”

Joel snorted, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Nah. Damn near fell in my first time out.”

Ellie barked a laugh, plopping down into the chair beside you. “Now that’s a story I wanna hear.”

“Mm,” Joel hummed, fiddling with the line on one of the poles. “Maybe if you catch somethin’ first.”

The easy teasing passed between them like second nature now, and you couldn’t help but watch the way Joel’s expression softened in these moments, how the weight he carried seemed to ease when it was just the three of you, the steady sound of the river and the scent of damp earth filling the air.

He glanced over, catching your gaze, and for a beat, neither of you looked away. No words, just that quiet, familiar pull — like an invisible thread tugging at something deep inside your chest.

Then Joel cleared his throat, looking back at the pole in his hands. “You know what you’re doin’?”

You grinned. “Not a clue.”

“Good,” he grunted, the faintest flicker of a smile still ghosting his lips. “Means you’ll listen.”

Ellie rolled her eyes again but smiled as Joel began explaining how to hold the rod, watch the line, and be patient. Fishing was about waiting as much as catching.

You settled into the sagging lawn chair, the sun warm against your face. A lazy breeze stirred the grass at your feet. Beside you, Joel sat hunched over his fishing rod, hands steady as always, his shoulders relaxed.

Ellie’s laughter echoed somewhere behind you, her boots thudding against the riverbank as she darted around, trying to decide which patch of water might somehow be luckier than the last.

The silence between you and Joel was easy. Familiar.

You could feel him watching you, though. Not in a way that made your skin prickle, but in a way that felt like a warm hand pressed gently against your back. Steady. Quiet.

You cracked an eye open, lips tugging up. “Am I not holding it right?” you teased, flicking your gaze down at the fishing pole lazily balanced in your right hand.

Joel startled, a small huff of a breath leaving him as he looked away toward the water. “No — I mean, it’s alright.”

You smiled faintly, more to yourself than him, and pushed the pole into the soft earth beside your chair. The line made a lazy ripple across the water’s surface.

“Something on my face?” you asked softly, turning toward him now.

Joel shook his head, not quite meeting your eyes. “No.” His voice was quieter then. It trailed off at the end, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to keep going.

“I just—” he started, scratching the back of his neck, watching the water like it might give him the words he was missing. “Heard it’s supposed to storm tonight.”

Your brow creased, something in your chest tightening — not because of the storm, but because he remembered. That throwaway comment you’d made months ago in passing, the one about how you hated storms. How they used to scare you as a kid. How you never quite grew out of it.

You doubted anyone else even remembered you’d said it.

“Oh,” you murmured, surprised warmth curling under your ribs. “Yeah… I thought so, too. Clouds’ve been building up all day.”

Joel’s jaw shifted, still not quite looking at you. “If it gets bad… if you don’t wanna be alone or whatever, uh… you can come by. If you want.”

You bit your bottom lip to keep your smile from getting too obvious. “I wouldn’t want to be a bother,” you murmured. Your fingers brushed against his on the weathered armrest between your chairs, barely there, a question without asking.

Joel didn’t pull away.

His pinky hooked around yours, casual enough that it might’ve looked like nothing to anyone else. But you felt the way his hand settled there. Not pulling back, not rushing forward either.

“Wouldn’t be a bother,” he said quietly, voice low and rough like it always was, but gentler somehow. The kind of softness he rarely showed, except in moments like this, when it was just you, him, and the hush of river water lapping at the shore.

Ellie’s voice cut through the moment, shrill and triumphant.

“I swear to God I had one! It was huge!”

You laughed softly, glancing over your shoulder to where she stood on the riverbank, half-covered in mud, holding up an empty line like it was some trophy.

“She’s something else,” you said, warmth creeping into your voice.

Joel’s gaze followed yours, and you caught the way his expression softened in that quiet, familiar way he saved for Ellie when she wasn’t paying attention. The kind of look that settled deep in your chest whenever you saw it.

“Yeah,” Joel murmured, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She is.”

You watched Ellie for another beat, feeling the weight of Joel’s pinky still hooked around yours. The sun was dipping lower behind the trees, painting the water in soft streaks of gold.

It wasn’t a big moment.

But it was one of those moments.

The kind you’d remember.

Lightning cracked across the dark room, the sudden flash searing against your closed eyelids. A heartbeat later, thunder rolled overhead that felt like it shook the walls.

You jolted upright, breath catching in your throat, hands fisting the edge of the blanket so tightly your knuckles ached. The room was warm, the air thick and heavy with rain, but a cold sweat clung to your skin. Your pulse thudded in your ears, too loud, drowning out the steady drum of water against the roof.

For a moment, you sat there, forcing yourself to breathe, to ground yourself in the familiar shapes of your room: the wooden dresser, the worn boots by the door, and the pile of books on the nightstand.

It didn’t help much.

You slipped out of bed, bare feet hitting the cool floorboards, and crossed to the window. Rain streaked down the glass in relentless sheets, the occasional flash of lightning turning the world outside into a flickering silhouette of trees and rooftops.

Another jagged bolt cut through the sky, illuminating the empty road beyond your fence.

The thunder came a second later, closer, louder as it rattled the windowpane.

You flinched, stumbling back a step before you could stop yourself. Your stomach twisted, a bitter, familiar knot you hadn’t felt in a long time.

You hated storms since you were a kid, ever since that one night — power out, house shaking, your mother nowhere to be found, and you left curled beneath a bed, counting the seconds between lightning and thunder, pretending it was a game.

Though you shoved it down like you always did, your chest ached with the memory, and you pressed a palm flat against the wall to steady yourself.

It was just a storm. Just a storm.

But you knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep like this.

You paced the room in restless circles, rubbing your palms against your arms as if you could settle the gnawing unease beneath your skin. Reading may help. Maybe you should try making tea, or counting seconds between lightning and thunder like you used to when you were little, tucked under a blanket, pretending you weren’t afraid.

Or maybe… maybe you should go to Joel’s.

He’d offered. His rough, awkward voice lingered in your head — “If it gets bad… you can come by.”

But that felt ridiculous now. You were a grown woman, for god’s sake, scared of a damn storm like a child. You shook your head, sighing, dragging a hand over your face.

Another crack of thunder split the sky, rattling the window, and your stomach flipped.

You glanced out at the downpour streaking the glass. Even if you wanted to go to Joel’s, you’d be drenched before reaching the street's end. So you turned away, padding barefoot into the kitchen. If you busied your hands, you could fool your mind into thinking everything was fine.

You opened a cabinet, pulled down a cup, and reached for the kettle. The steady drum of rain filled the house, mingling with the occasional grumble of thunder.

Then a sharp, firm knock.

You froze, the hairs at the back of your neck standing on end.

There it was again—another knock — a little louder and more urgent.

It wasn’t thunder.

You hesitated momentarily, then went to the door, your heart hammering against your ribs as you pulled it open. The wind hit first, cold and sharp, carrying the rain sideways, and Joel stood on your porch.

Soaked through and breathless.

His hair was plastered to his forehead, droplets were running down his jawline, and his clothes were heavy with rain. His chest rose and fell like he’d run the whole way, and maybe he had.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Joel?” you gasped, stepping back to let him inside without a second thought.

He didn’t hesitate, ducking past you into the warmth of the house, water pooling at his feet as he shoved the door shut behind him.

Just stood there, the storm roaring outside, your kitchen dim and quiet around you.

Joel’s eyes found yours, and in them, you saw it. The worry. The something else he didn’t have words for. The same thing that made him show up here, drenched and winded, when he could’ve just stayed dry in his own damn house.

You swallowed hard, voice softer now. “What are you doing here?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, rainwater flicking to the floor. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.”

“I’m fine,” you whispered, though your hands were still trembling faintly at your sides.

“You don’t gotta be.”

The words hung there, thick in the quiet, as the storm rattled the windows.

You stared at him briefly, your throat tight, then blinked and turned on your heel without a word. Your feet padded quickly across the floor as you disappeared down the hallway, heart thudding for entirely different reasons.

By the time you returned with a stack of towels, Joel had already knelt, swiping at the rainwater pooling by the door with the sleeve of his already-soaked jacket.

You held out a towel. “Here.”

Joel looked up, water dripping from his hair, his expression doing that sheepish, caught-off-guard thing that happened so rarely it almost felt like a reward when it did.

“Thanks,” he grunted, standing and snatching the towel from your hand, scrubbing it roughly over the floor.

You tried not to laugh, but it slipped out anyway.

“You’re supposed to dry yourself, not the floor.”

He shot you a look. “Floor was gettin’ wetter than me.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping closer. “Here, let me—”

But Joel shook his head, tugging the towel around his neck. “I’ll be fine, darlin’.”

He said it in that soft, stubborn way, but you could see how his clothes clung to him, the cold settling into his skin.

“I don’t really have any clothes that’d fit you,” you murmured, voice quieter now. “And… I didn’t think you wanted to stay anyway.”

Joel rubbed the back of his neck, his hand rough and calloused against its curve. He shifted his weight like he was about to make for the door, then stilled.

“I’m stayin’,” he muttered, not quite looking at you.

You blinked. “You are?”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, gesturing vaguely toward the living room as if it settled the whole thing. “I’ll just… dry off, strip down to my underwear, and sleep on the couch or somethin’.”

It came out gruff, awkward, and entirely too honest.

You bit your lip to keep from smiling, warmth spreading through your chest despite the storm still raging outside. “Well,” you said, your voice teasing and soft. “I guess it’s good that the couch isn’t picky.”

Joel huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he finally met your eyes.

“Guess not,” he murmured.

After the two of you had mopped up the puddle by the door in mostly companionable silence, you gave Joel a quiet, “I’ll give you a minute,” and slipped down the hall to your room. The steady beat of rain against the windows filled the house, the occasional low rumble of thunder still rolling overhead.

When you returned, his clothes were draped over the drying rack in the bathroom, boots left by the hearth. You tossed him a clean blanket from the linen closet — one of your softer ones, though you’d never admit it was intentional — and your chest gave a foolish little flutter at the sight when you came back into the room.

Joel stood in front of the fireplace, the flicker of the flames casting soft, golden light across the planes of his face. His hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends, and the blanket hung loose over his shoulders, leaving most of his chest bare, the rest of him in nothing but his worn boxers and that quiet, steady presence you’d gotten so used to.

You lingered by the doorway, biting the inside of your cheek as you watched him. He wasn’t looking at you; instead, he was fussing with the fire poker like it gave him something to do.

You cleared your throat, voice softer than you meant it to be. “Y’know… you could share my bed.”

He glanced over, eyes catching yours in the flickering light. You saw how his jaw tensed and his fingers flexed on the fire poker.

“I won’t bite,” you added, teasing, a small smile tugging at your lips even though your heart was thudding like a drum in your chest.

Joel huffed a quiet laugh, setting the poker down and straightening. “That’s what they all say,” he muttered, but there was a warmth in his voice now, something gentler beneath the roughness.

You shrugged, trying to play it off, though you felt your face heat. “Offer still stands.”

He studied you for a long beat, something unreadable flickering in his eyes, before he gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”

Joel followed you down the hall, the soft glow from the bedroom lamp spilling into the quiet, storm-darkened house. Your heart thudded in your chest, not because you were scared now—not of the storm, at least—but because this wasn’t like all the other times he’d dropped by.

He’d never been in here before.

Your room was small and simple, but it carried pieces of you in every corner—the worn book spines stacked unevenly on the nightstand, the faded quilt you insisted on keeping through every season, the old photograph tucked against the mirror. 

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to sound casual. “Umm… make yourself comfortable.”

Joel stood awkwardly by the doorway, blanket hanging loose over his shoulders. You tried not to look, but the way the firelight from the other room caught the sharp lines of his face made it a losing battle.

“I could maybe… find you something else to wear,” you offered, already moving toward the dresser like that might give your hands something to do.

But Joel raised a hand, shaking his head. “I’m alright.”

You didn’t know why you sometimes felt like a fumbling teenager around him. Maybe it was because you didn't want to break this fragile, slow thing between you. Perhaps it was fear of pushing too hard, too soon, of him pulling back into himself like he had a hundred times before.

You swallowed the nerves, crossed the room, and slipped beneath the covers. The sheets were cool against your skin, the soft flicker of lightning briefly illuminating the room before thunder cracked again, rumbling low and long enough to make your chest tighten.

You’d almost forgotten about the storm.

Your shoulders stiffened, your breath catching, and you hated how easy it was for old fears to crawl back in. It still made your pulse race like you were ten years old again, counting seconds between flashes of light.

Joel didn’t say anything, but you felt him move around the foot of the bed, his steps slow, heavy with the kind of carefulness you recognized by now. He draped the blanket he’d carried over the corner of the bed, then slipped under the covers beside you.

Your eyes flicked toward him once, meeting his in the dim room. His face was unreadable in the half-light, but his gaze lingered on yours a beat longer than it should’ve. Long enough that you had to look away, heart skipping.

The rain battered the windows, thunder rolling again in the distance.

Then Joel’s voice, low and rough, broke the quiet.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, though it wasn’t entirely true.

Joel shifted slightly, the bed dipping under his weight. Then his hand reached across the narrow space, settling carefully over yours on top of the blanket. His fingers were rough and cold from the rain.

“C’mere.”

The word was simple, rough around the edges, but it settled into the room like a lifeline.

Your heart gave a sharp, uneven thud as you hesitated momentarily, then slowly scooted across the bed. The sheets shifted, your shoulder brushing his arm, and the closeness made your pulse stutter in a way you were too tired to fight.

Joel’s arm lifted tentatively before it settled around you.  “This okay?” he murmured, his voice quieter now.

You pressed your cheek against his chest, felt his heart's steady, reassuring thud beneath your palm, and let your eyes flutter shut.

“Yeah,” you whispered, the word catching slightly in your throat.

He exhaled, his hand smoothing gently over your back, his chin resting against your head. 

The storm kept on outside — rain lashing at the windows, distant thunder grumbling like some restless thing — but it felt farther away now, muffled by Joel’s warmth, by the steady rise and fall of his breathing, by the safety of a space you hadn’t known you needed until he gave it.

Joel’s hand stayed on your back, his thumb moving in a slow, absent pattern against your shoulder.

Neither of you spoke the things you both felt, but in the dark, with the storm raging on, it didn’t need to be said.

It was enough.

May

“Easy, easy now,” Tommy muttered, one arm slung around Joel’s shoulders as he half-carried, half-dragged him through Jackson’s gates.

“I’ve got it,” Joel grumbled, teeth clenched against the pain shooting through his leg. He tried to plant his foot and stand alone, but his knee buckled with a sharp, traitorous jolt. Both men stumbled, and Tommy barely managed to keep them upright.

“Jesus,” Tommy huffed, tightening his grip. “For fuck’s sake, Joel — for once, would you just let someone help you?”

Joel exhaled sharply, the fight draining out of him like air from a punctured tire. His jaw worked, something sour and frustrated in his eyes, but he didn’t argue again. He let Tommy guide him toward the stables, every step a grinding ache in his knee, the joint already swelling beneath the torn fabric of his jeans.

This was just goddamn perfect.

A pair of raiders — desperate, half-starved bastards — had come out of nowhere near the old highway. A scuffle, a bad landing, and now his knee was shot to hell.

He could still feel the moment it’d given out, the sickening twist and sharp crack. A pain he knew too well, old and familiar like an old enemy come back for a rematch.

Tommy carefully but not gently lowered Joel onto a crate near the stable doors. Joel bit back a hiss of pain, his face tight as he settled, sweat cooling on his brow in the chilly spring air.

“You good?” Tommy asked, crouching down to check the leg.

Joel shot him a look. “Peachy.”

Tommy snorted. “You’re a goddamn idiot.”

“Never claimed otherwise,” Joel muttered, wiping a hand over his face.

The quiet hum of Jackson’s evening bustle carried in on the breeze, the scent of horses and woodsmoke thick in the air as Tommy wandered off to find a first aid kit.

Joel’s knee throbbed in time with his pulse, but the worst part wasn’t the pain. It was the fact that he’d have to stay off it for a while, and worse, deal with people fussing over him. People he couldn’t quite push away anymore.

One person in particular.

And sure enough, just as the thought crossed his mind, he saw you coming before you even spoke. A determined set to your shoulders, eyes narrowed, worry written all over your face like a goddamn beacon.

He swore under his breath, bracing for it.

“What happened?” you demanded, already crouching down in front of him before he could get a word out.

Joel opened his mouth, ready to brush it off, to grunt some half-assed lie about slipping on wet ground or bumping it on patrol. But then your hand was on his knee, gentle and careful, fingertips brushing against the torn denim, the blood sticky beneath it.

The words stuck in his throat.

His usual gruff deflections — ‘I’m fine,’ ‘it’s nothin’, ‘don’t fuss’ — felt ridiculous with how you looked at him like he wasn’t just some stubborn old bastard who kept limping back from the worst of it.

“Uh…” Joel cleared his throat, his voice rougher than it needed to be. “Couple’a raiders. Caught us out near the old highway. One of ‘em got lucky.”

Your fingers ghosted over the swollen skin around the tear in his jeans, and Joel had to clench his jaw to keep from flinching. Not from the pain, but from how goddamn careful you were being.

It made something flutter in his chest, sharp and stupid and unfamiliar.

He hated being taken care of. Hated feeling like he needed it. But hell, if he could get himself to tell you to stop.

“Doesn’t look clean,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, already assessing the damage. “You’ll need it cleaned up, maybe stitched.”

Joel grunted, shifting like he might stand. “Ain’t that bad.”

“Sit down, Joel,” you said, firm and low, not even looking up at him.

And against all his better instincts, he did. He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, the fight going out of him like it always did around you.

“I’m fine,” Joel tried again, though it sounded thin and worn down even to his ears.

You looked up at him then, and the weight of your gaze made his chest feel tight in a way he didn’t have a name for. He opened his mouth, ready to deflect, when the familiar scuff of boots across the dirt cut through the moment.

Tommy reappeared, a beat-up first aid kit in hand.

“Thank God,” Tommy muttered, thrusting the kit toward you. “You can deal with his grumpy ass.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you took it. “Gee, thanks for the honor.”

“Just sayin’—” Tommy gave Joel a pointed look. “He ain’t exactly a ray of sunshine when he’s banged up.” He clapped a hand on Joel’s shoulder, making him grunt. “Good luck,” he added, before heading off with a smug grin.

Joel watched him go, jaw tight. “Asshole,” he muttered under his breath, though there was no heat behind it.

You knelt before him again, the first aid kit settling with a soft thud against the stable floor. Joel’s stomach twisted as you opened it, pulling out gauze and antiseptic like you’d done this a hundred times before. Maybe you had.

“Alright,” you murmured, more to yourself than him, reaching for his knee.

Joel’s instinct was to pull back, some old, stubborn thing in him screaming against the idea of anyone fussing over him. But he stayed when your hand brushed his, fingers cool and steady.

The touch wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t clinical. It was careful — a palm resting briefly against his leg like you were waiting to see if he’d bolt.

“This might sting,” you warned softly.

He huffed. “I’ve had worse.”

And yet, when the antiseptic hit the torn skin, he hissed through his teeth.

Your hand was there again, light pressure against his knee. Joel caught himself staring at your wrist, the way the tendons flexed beneath your skin as you worked. The way your brow furrowed in concentration, the small crease between your eyes.

He let his gaze linger a second too long, something unfamiliar and aching pressing against his ribs. You looked up then, catching him, and for a moment neither of you moved.

“All patched up,” you said softly, though your voice sounded different now—warmer, something unspoken tucked in the edges of it.

Joel cleared his throat, trying and failing to find something gruff to say. “Thanks,” he muttered, the word rough but honest.

You smiled, and it wasn’t one of those polite things people gave each other in town. It was soft, crooked, just for him.

“Anytime.” 

You stood, brushing dirt from your palms, then held your hand without hesitation. “I can walk you home?” you offered, a small smile playing at the corners of your mouth like you already expected him to grumble about it.

Joel glanced at your hand, then at your face, and something in his chest twisted up tight. He wanted to take it. Hell, part of him wanted it more than he cared to admit, but his gaze drifted down to his knee — the bruised, swollen mess beneath the torn denim. He shifted, testing his weight, and pain shot through his leg sharp enough to make his jaw clench.

Obviously, he wasn’t walking anywhere without leaning on something… or someone. The thought of leaning on you, of you carrying even a fraction of his weight, of you hurting yourself because of him, made his stomach knot.

He shook his head softly. “Reckon Tommy should,” he muttered, the words low, like saying them out loud cost him something.

You just gave a small, knowing huff and crouched beside him again. “I’m tougher than I look, Joel,” you said quietly, your eyes holding his like you weren’t asking—you were telling.

He swallowed, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Ain’t about that,” he murmured, not meeting your gaze this time. “Just… don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you whispered.

And without thinking too hard about it, Joel took your hand. It wasn’t a perfect grip — awkward and a little unsteady as he shifted to his feet, but your fingers closed around his, and he leaned into you.

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon, when you’d planned to do absolutely nothing except maybe read or nap. Maybe ignore the world for a while.

Then came the pounding at your front door.

Not a knock. A bang.

You sighed, setting your book aside, already having a good guess who it was.

Before you could even open the door, Ellie burst inside like she owned the place, hair windblown, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with dramatic exasperation.

“Please, (Y/N), you gotta take him,” she blurted, not even pausing to catch her breath. “I’m about five seconds away from smothering Joel with a pillow.”

You blinked, leaning against the doorframe, fighting a grin. “Good afternoon to you, too, Ellie. Lovely weather we’re having.”

She waved a hand as if your greeting was offensive. “Not the point. I’m serious. He’s driving me nuts.”

You raised a brow. “What’d he do this time?”

Ellie groaned, flopping dramatically onto your couch like she’d trekked miles through a blizzard. “He won’t stay off that stupid knee. Keeps hobbling around the house trying to fix stuff that isn’t broken. Won’t let me help with anything, won’t rest, and keeps making that grumpy old man face at me like it’s my fault he fell on it.”

You snorted, crossing your arms. “And let me guess — you antagonized him.”

“Obviously,” she said, completely unapologetic. “But still! I need backup. Or like… a babysitter. You’re his weakness,” she added with a grin, pointing a finger at you. “He actually listens to you.”

You scoffed. “Since when?”

“Since forever,” Ellie shot back. “C’mon, (Y/N). Do it for me. I’ll owe you one.”

You sighed in mock reluctance, shaking your head. “I don’t know… sounds dangerous.”

Ellie sat up, eyes gleaming with triumph. “You love danger.”

“Yeah, well—only the Joel Miller kind,” you teased under your breath, earning a smug, knowing smirk from her.

“Exactly,” Ellie said, heading for the door like the deal was done. “He’s your problem now. Later, sucker!”

With that, she was gone. The door slamming shut behind her, leaving you laughing to yourself and shaking your head.

“Little menace,” you muttered fondly, grabbing your jacket from the hook by the door.

A few minutes later, you walked through Jackson’s quiet streets. The spring air was cool and bright, the scent of woodsmoke lingering from morning fires. You didn’t bother knocking when you reached Joel’s house. 

The place was quiet—no grumbling or creaking of footsteps on the floorboards. You stepped inside, shutting the door behind you and calling out softly, “Joel?”

Nothing.

Typical.

You knew exactly where he’d be.

Making your way up the narrow stairs, you followed the faint sound of something scraping wood. Sure enough, you found him there when you reached the small room at the end of the hall — the one he’d half-heartedly claimed as a ‘workspace’.

Sitting at his workbench, bad leg stretched stiffly out in front of him, a hunk of wood braced in one hand, a carving knife in the other. His brow furrowed in concentration, face set in that stubborn, determined way you knew too well.

“Joel Miller,” you scolded, leaning against the doorframe.

He jolted, the knife slipping slightly, and let out a low curse.

“Christ, woman,” he muttered, pressing a hand to his chest. “Sneakin’ around like that’s gonna get you shot one of these days.”

You smirked. “Yeah, yeah. Save it. Ellie sent me.”

His expression soured instantly, like he knew exactly what you would say but didn’t have the energy to argue.

“I’m fine,” he grunted, gesturing to the unfinished carving like it was proof. “Can’t just sit around doin’ nothin’.”

“Pretty sure that’s exactly what the doctor ordered.” You crossed the room, plucking the knife from his hand before he could stop you. “And Ellie. And Tommy. And probably Maria too.”

Joel glared half-heartedly but made no move to take it back.

You held up the carving—a small, rough shape you couldn’t quite make out yet, but the edges were smoothed and carefully worked. “What is it?”

He rubbed a hand over his beard, shrugging. “Dunno yet.”

You smiled despite yourself, setting it down and crouching to be eye-level with him. “You’re supposed to be resting, Joel.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m sittin’.”

“Not the same thing.”

He let out a quiet, reluctant chuckle, the edge of his mouth twitching, and just like that, the fight drained out of him. You could see how his shoulders eased, the tension around his mouth softening.

“I worry about you, y’know,” you murmured, not quite meeting his gaze.

Joel was quiet for a long moment, then sighed, leaning back in the chair, eyes on you. “I know,” he said softly.

Your heart stuttered at that, but you didn’t press it.

“Good,” you whispered, offering him a small, crooked smile. “Now, let’s get you to bed.”

He grumbled something about not being an invalid, but he didn’t argue when you helped him. Didn’t push your hand away when you steadied him, either.

The rest of the afternoon slipped by in quiet, easy moments. You made him something simple to eat — half convinced he wouldn’t touch it, only to catch him finishing the whole plate while pretending he wasn’t. You helped him hobble from the workbench to the couch, fussed over his knee enough to make him scowl, but he let you. And when you offered to read aloud from one of the worn paperbacks stacked on his table, he grunted a vague “if you want” and leaned his head back against the cushions.

You read until his breathing evened out, the lines around his eyes softening as sleep pulled him under.

By late evening, the house had gone still, the only sound the soft shifts of the house and the steady hush of wind against the windows. You stayed curled in the chair beside him, your book resting open in your lap more for something to do than anything else.

Then he stirred.

At first, it was small — a shift of his hand, a twitch of his brow. Then a sharp breath, a low mutter, words you couldn’t catch.

You straightened in your chair, setting the book aside.

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen it, the way old memories still clung to him in sleep. But it never got easier, watching him fight ghosts you couldn’t see.

His face tightened, breath coming faster now, another word, a name, slipping out rough and broken.

Without thinking, you reached out, your hand settling lightly on his forearm.

“Joel,” you murmured, soft enough not to startle, firm enough to pull him back. “Hey… you’re alright. You’re home.”

His eyes snapped open, wild and unfocused for a second, and his chest heaved. His gaze found yours in the dim light, and there was something raw there—not fear, but something close enough to make your throat tighten.

You expected him to wave you off, to mutter a gruff ‘m fine and bury it like he always did, but instead, he just let out a long, shaky breath and scrubbed a hand down his face.

“Sorry,” he said, voice rough, almost hoarse.

You shook your head, your fingers brushing against his wrist, careful, steady. “You don’t have to be.”

“I don’t… sleep easily. Not for a while now.” The words came out awkward, reluctant, like they’d been pried loose from somewhere deep, but he didn’t look away.

You gave him a small, tired smile. “I kind of figured.”

That earned the faintest huff of a laugh, his mouth tugging at the corner.

“I won’t leave,” you said softly, leaning back in your chair but keeping your hand where it was. “Unless you tell me to.”

Joel was quiet for a long time, shadows catching in the tired lines beneath his eyes. You could see the tug-of-war behind his gaze, the instinct to shut you out, warring with something softer, which he hadn’t yet figured out how to hold onto.

His jaw worked, his hand flexing against his thigh like he was about to wave you off.

Then, with a small shake of his head, barely more than a breath, he whispered, “Stay.”

His hand reached out, fingers finding yours. The grip was hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure you’d take it, but when you did, when your fingers curled around his, his hand tightened, steady and sure.

You didn’t say anything. You just squeezed his hand, a small, warm smile tugging at your lips.

Without a word, you moved, slipping beside him on the couch. The cushions dipped under your weight, and you were careful to avoid his bad knee, settling in close enough to feel the heat of him, your shoulder brushing his arm.

Joel let out a slow breath, the tension bleeding from his frame like he hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding himself together.

You rested your head lightly against his shoulder, your fingers still tangled with his, and felt his thumb drag slowly and steadily over the back of your hand in a quiet, absent gesture.

Joel turned his head, just enough for his chin to brush your hair. “Thanks, darlin’,” he said, the words low, rough, before pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

You smiled against him. “Anytime.”

July

“This is gonna be so much fun!” Ellie shouted, already half a block ahead, weaving through groups of people as she sprinted toward the square.

You smiled, watching her disappear into the crowd gathered in front of the town hall. String lights hung between the buildings, glowing soft and golden in the early evening light. The air smelled like something sweet, and summer-damp grass, the kind of warmth that settled in your chest and made the rest of the world feel a little less sharp.

Beside you, Joel walked with his usual steady, measured steps, his hand loosely tucked in yours. His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, a slight, unconscious movement, but one that made your stomach flutter all the same.

As you neared the edge of the crowd, voices rising around you in a happy, easy buzz, your fingers tightened around his. A quiet plea: don’t let go.

Joel wasn’t one for crowds. And he sure as hell wasn’t one for public affection. You’d figured that out early — how his touches were saved for dark porches and quiet kitchens, for nights when no one else was looking.

You half expected him to drop your hand.

But he didn’t. His grip tightened, firm and sure, the corners of his mouth pulling into the faintest, crooked half-smile as if to say I got you.

The knot in your chest loosened.

Whatever this was between you—whatever name neither of you was brave enough to give it, it had bloomed the way the seasons did. Slow and stubborn, impossible to stop once it began.

You stayed at his place more often than not now. He left his spare jacket on your chair. You’d made coffee in his kitchen enough times that Ellie complained about how you were hogging her mug.

But still, the word hung in the air between you like a thing neither of you dared touch.

Together.

You felt the absence of it sometimes in moments like this. When the town gathered, couples moved easily through the crowd, hands on waists, heads on shoulders, laughter shared out loud.

And here you were, fingers laced with Joel Miller’s, feeling everything and saying nothing. The soft tug of his hand brought you out of it.

“C’mon,” he murmured, voice low enough only you could hear. “You’re thinkin’ too hard.”

You blinked up at him, a breath of a smile tugging at your lips. “You know me too well.”

Joel shrugged, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Yeah, well. Someone’s gotta.”

You followed him into the crowd; the square was alive with music. Someone strumming a guitar, a group of folks clapping along, the hum of voices rising and falling like a warm tide. Lanterns swung from overhead lines, their glow catching on glass jars filled with wildflowers, and the occasional mason jar of moonshine passed between hands.

Joel didn’t let go of your hand.

Even when you stopped at one of the tables so Ellie could shove a piece of berry pie at you with a smug, knowing grin.

“For your nerves,” she said, winking. “You’re looking twitchy.”

You rolled your eyes, taking a bite just to shut her up, though the tart sweetness did help. Joel gave her a warning look, but she only grinned wider, nudging his elbow.

“Y’know, you two are basically married at this point,” Ellie quipped, popping a grape into her mouth. “Should just get it over with.”

Joel nearly choked on his drink.

You stifled a laugh, reaching to thump his back, even as your face burned.

“Jesus, kid,” Joel coughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You ever think about keepin’ your mouth shut?”

“Not once,” she shot back, grinning ear to ear, clearly proud of herself.

You shook your head fondly. “Ignore her. She’s just trying to stir up trouble.”

“Yeah, well,” Joel muttered, glaring half-heartedly at Ellie before his gaze slid to you, softening. “She’s not wrong, though.”

The words hung there, unexpected and quiet. Your stomach did that stupid little flutter again, but before you could answer, a familiar voice called out.

“Hey now — ain’t you two gonna dance?”

It was Tommy, grinning like the devil himself, Maria at his side, both of them clearly having seen more than enough to know what was going on.

Joel scowled. “Not a chance.”

“Aw, come on,” Maria teased, elbowing Tommy. “Give the folks what they wanna see.”

Ellie hollered her approval, hands cupped around her mouth.

“Joel and (Y/N)! Joel and (Y/N)!”

You groaned, covering your face, laughing despite yourself. Joel cursed under his breath, clearly torn between fleeing the scene and giving in.

Then, with a heavy sigh, he reached for you. “C’mere,” he muttered, his ears visibly pink in the glow of the lanterns.

You blinked. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“Before they burn the damn town down,” he grumbled, tugging you gently toward the small space cleared for dancing.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you followed, feeling the weight of every eye on you, though the crowd had already moved on to teasing someone else by the time Joel pulled you close.

His hand settled at your waist, a little stiff, a little unsure, but there. The other found yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that made the rest of the world go quiet for a beat.

“Didn’t figure you for a dancer,” you teased, voice soft, meant only for him.

“I ain’t,” he muttered, a small, crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “But for you…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t need to. It hung there in the space between you, quiet and heavy, carried in the way his thumb kept brushing against your hand.

You swallowed, your nerves twisting up tight. The warmth in your chest, the weight of the moment, the steady way he looked at you like you were the only thing tethering him to the ground. It was too much and not enough all at once.

“Joel…” you started, voice catching as you looked away, focusing on the lanterns strung overhead, the way they swayed in the breeze. Your stomach knotted, old fears clawing up before you could stop them. The things unsaid. The things you weren’t sure he was ready to hear.

Then his fingers curled under your chin, gentle but firm, coaxing your gaze back to his.

“Hey,” he said softly, rough and low. “Look at me.”

You did, heart thudding painfully against your ribs.

His eyes searched yours, something raw and earnest flickering there in the firelit dark. The kind of look Joel didn’t hand out easily. The sort of thing he kept locked up, hidden behind gruff words and stubborn silences.

“Ain’t good at this,” he muttered, his thumb sweeping once, clumsy and careful, against your jaw. “But… you mean somethin’ to me.”

You felt your breath hitch, throat tightening as you covered his hand with yours, pressing his palm against your cheek.

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

September 

“This is stupid,” Joel grunted, shifting the blanket under one arm, an old lantern dangling from his other hand, a battered thermos clunking against his hip as he followed you out into the yard.

You smiled, glancing back over your shoulder. “Uh-huh. And yet, here you are — hauling everything like some grumpy pack mule.” You gestured toward him with a teasing grin. “Look at you. Carrying it all.”

He shot you a flat, unimpressed look, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Only ‘cause you’d probably trip over your own feet carryin’ all this.”

“Sure,” you said lightly, dropping the blanket down on the patch of grass beneath the wide old tree in his backyard. The night was cool, the last of summer clinging to the air in the way it always did in early September — that quiet stretch of time where you could feel fall creeping in at the edges, but it hadn’t fully taken hold yet.

You knelt, spreading the blanket out as Joel set down the lantern, muttering under his breath about getting talked into dumb ideas.

It had been a throwaway comment, months ago. Something about missing nights under open skies, wishing you could see the stars without the constant hum of worry, the need to stay moving.

You settled onto the blanket, leaning back on your elbows to look up at the sky. The stars were already pricking through the navy-blue stretch above, the moon a lazy sliver.

“You gonna sit, or just stand there grumbling all night?” you asked softly.

Joel huffed a breath, lowering himself down beside you with a faint wince, his knee still not what it used to be. He stretched his legs out, leaning back on his hands, eyes on the sky.

“It’s cold,” he grumbled.

You nudged his arm. “That’s what the blanket’s for, genius.”

He grunted again but didn’t move away when you tugged part of the blanket over his lap, settling yourself a little closer.

The silence stretched between you. The stars were scattered thick above Jackson, brighter than you ever remembered them being before the world fell apart.

Joel let out a long breath, one you might’ve missed if you weren’t sitting so close. He shifted, his voice quieter now. “Don’t do this much. Not since… a long time.”

You turned your head, catching the way his gaze stayed fixed on the stars, his face caught somewhere between memory and the present.

“I’m glad you did,” you said softly.

“I used to do this with Sarah,” he murmured. “She used to drag me out into the yard when she was little. Said it was important to wish on the first star you saw. Claimed it worked every time.”

He gave a quiet, humorless huff, shaking his head like the memory hurt and healed in equal measure.

“I never told her I couldn’t tell one star from the other,” he said, a hint of a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “So I just… pointed at whichever one she saw first.”

You smiled softly, your fingers brushing against his under the blanket, your pinky curling around his.

Joel went quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the sky, the lines in his face gentler in the flicker of lantern light.

“She’d’a liked you,” he said, and the words were so soft you almost missed them.

Your throat tightened. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He glanced over at you then, meeting your eyes. “You would’ve made her laugh. She was stubborn, too.”

You bit your lip against the rush of emotion in your chest and leaned your head lightly against his shoulder, giving him the choice to pull away. But he didn’t. His shoulder pressed a little closer to yours.

“Thanks for… sharin’ that,” you murmured.

Joel grunted softly, not quite a response, but you understood what it meant.

The two of you sat like that for a while longer, under a sky Sarah would’ve loved, your hands half-entwined beneath the blanket, with all the words you didn’t need to say hanging somewhere between the stars.

And when Joel finally spoke again, his voice was a little rough, but steady. “Glad you dragged me out here, too.”

You smiled against his shoulder. “Told you it wasn’t a stupid idea.”

He chuckled, low and warm in his chest. “Yeah, yeah.”

You must’ve drifted a little, lulled by the steady warmth of Joel beside you, the soft hum of crickets, and the lingering scent of woodsmoke from a neighbor’s chimney.

The back door creaked open.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Ellie called out, her voice cutting through the night, laced with that familiar grin you didn’t have to see to hear. “I swear to God, if you’re both dead out here, I’m not cleaning it up.”

Joel groaned. “Jesus, kid, scare a man to death why don’t you.”

You laughed softly, straightening up as Ellie padded across the yard toward you both, a blanket half-draped around her shoulders, her hair a mess from sleep.

“What’re you even doin’ awake?” Joel asked, though there wasn’t an ounce of bite to it.

Ellie plopped down uninvited on Joel’s other side, tugging the edge of his blanket over her legs like it was her birthright. “You think I can sleep with you two sneakin’ off like some teen drama? Had to come see what all the starry-eyed nonsense was about.”

You snorted. “We weren’t sneaking.”

“Sure you weren’t,” she smirked. “And you definitely didn’t steal my thermos either.”

Joel grunted. “It’s mine.”

“Was yours,” Ellie shot back, but she was already leaning comfortably into his side.

Joel let out a long-suffering sigh, but his arm instinctively settled around her shoulders, pulling her in, and you felt something warm and content settle in your chest at the sight of them — this patchwork family you’d somehow fallen into.

Ellie tipped her head back, squinting up at the stars. “It’s nice out here,” she admitted, a little softer than before.

“Yeah,” Joel murmured, his thumb absently brushing your knuckles beneath the blanket. “Ain’t bad.”

The three of you sat like that, a messy tangle of quiet affection under the stars. No words needed, no labels spoken. Just a man, a girl, and you.

A small piece of peace in a world that didn’t offer much of it.

taglist: @starmurdock

[vinylmango]

Time Gone By

Remmick  x Reader (envisioned black!fem!reader while writing) Warnings: historical inaccuracies, mentions of minor (oc) character deaths, not beta’d Description: Remmick wasn’t always filled with a sense of bitter longing for a time and people forgotten, driven by the unwavering urge to belong to something, to have someone belong to him. He used to belong to the old country. He used to belong to the sunlight and the rolling green hills.  He used to be yours. Word count: 3k

Notes: - Although I wrote this with a black female reader in mind, I tried to keep physical descriptions as generic as possible so anyone can read it if they want to. - Also I think I'm planning to write a few parts to this so stay tuned lol. - Feel free to send in a request or just say hi, my inbox is open and the list of who I write for is on my pinned nav post.

masterlist

PARTS: ONE

He could remember the first time he had seen you like it was just yesterday and not years and years ago. It had been a normal day, rather unremarkable in his mind when he had woken up that morning before the sun had begun to peak over the horizon signaling a new day.

That day the stars still faintly lit the pale purple sky as oranges began to take over, pushing the stars away. Remmick picked up his tools, slinging the few large pieces of wood over his shoulder with his free hand. He hummed an old song to himself, one that his mother had hummed to him as he grew up and one that her mother had hummed to her. His goal for the day was to finish mending the fence, then head into town to go get some ingredients for the stew he had wanted to make, then he’d go and bring some to Mrs. O’Neill who had recently been ill and was getting older. 

He had spent four hours fixing the fence, getting sidetracked a couple of times throughout to stop and say hello to the cows that liked to wander to the edge of his property, sticking their large heads over the fence to say hello. They lowered their heads, moving closer into his touch, as he’d brush the hair from their large dark eyes.

“Goodbye.” Remmick said to the remaining cow who had stayed the whole time, watching him. His voice was soft and deep, the first time he had spoken since waking up. “I’ve got to be going to town now. I’ve got to get some food.” He explained as the cow blinked at him. “I’m sure you’ve already eaten though, haven’t you?” Remmick gathered his tools, before giving her head one last pat and heading back over the hill towards his small stone home, the cow wandering back to her friends when he left. Setting his tools down just outside of the entrance, Remmick grabbed a light coat, throwing it on as he walked the dirt road into town, a small smile growing on his face when he heard the sound of music playing as he got closer towards the center of town. 

People danced and sang in the city center, little markets stalls and shops set up all around as people ventured into town to get what they needed for the day. “Hello Remmick, Darling.” An older woman’s voice caught his attention. Remmick glanced over, seeing Mrs. Sullivan’s wave back at him from where she sat selling wool. 

“How’s it Mrs. Sullivan?” Remmick addressed her, stopping in front of her shop, sticking his hands in his pants pockets. 

“Everything’s well now.” She told him. “John’s back in good health.” John, her husband, had been ill as of late, running fevers off and on. 

“I’m happy to hear that.” Remmick smiled at her, squeezing the hand she had laid on his arm gently before bidding her goodbye and continuing on to find the ingredients he was looking for.

He stopped at the vegetable cart, stuck as he tried to decide between two vegetables, both of which he hadn’t planted in his own garden that sat on his property only a little ways from his home. He was weighing out his options, holding one in each hand, when he froze hearing a gentle humming as the sound of a string instrument was strummed softly in the background. That’s when his breath caught and he almost dropped the vegetables in his hands. 

He had never heard anything like that before. It wasn’t like any folk song he had heard people singing or any of the ones he knew. He had never seen someone like you before either, someone so beautiful, so different. It was as if you had conspired with the sun as it came from behind the clouds, shining down on you in that moment. Its warm rays kissed your skin in just a way that made the dark brown of your eyes warm to a rich chocolate. 

You caught his gaze then, your full lips pulling into a whisper of a smile before you looked back down at the instrument in your hands. “Have we met?” You stopped playing, setting the instrument to the side as you stood from your seat, stepping towards him. 

“Uh…no.” He hesitated, his eyes still busy drinking in your appearance when he spoke. You glanced up at him through your eyelashes, eyebrows furrowed just slightly but smile still there. 

“You’re looking at me like you know me.” Your voice was soft like the long grass that covered the hills in the summertime. 

“I’d like to.” He spoke, his eyes darting away from you and his cheeks dusting pink and then red. His dark eyebrows furrowed as he slid a hand over his face. Your smile widened when he cleared his throat, his eyes cutting to you only to notice you standing closer than before. “I mean…I’d like to, that is know more about you…or know you if you’d like that…too.” He tripped over his words, hands wringing at his sides as a light laugh bubbled from your lips and he felt himself grow hotter.

“(Y/n).” You introduced yourself, holding a hand out to him in greeting. He took your hand in his, shaking it as a slow smile began to appear on his face. Maybe all hope wasn’t lost yet? 

“Remmick.” He told you. Your hand was soft in his grasp. Not soft in a way that he could tell you had never used them to work, just soft in a way that they were well taken care of and warm. Your hand lingered in his, though neither of you released the others. “You’re not from here.” He said though it wasn’t a question. You nodded once, eyebrow raising as you finally let go of his hand, letting yours drop to your sides. 

“What’d you mean by that?” You questioned. He could practically see the walls being constructed in your mind, eyes no longer as bright as they had been a minute ago. It looked as though you had been in this very situation before and it hadn’t gone well for you.

Remmick shook his head. “Just…I come here almost every day and I never saw you until now.” He tried to explain slowly. “I might’ve talked to you sooner if you had.” 

Your mouth opened just slightly as if there were words waiting on your lips to be said before you decided against it and closed them again. You nodded at his explanation slowly. “I’m sorry.” Your voice was the softest he had heard it, only just above a hushed whisper as you looked down at your boots, hands pulling at the hem of your shirt. “Not many people have been…” You trailed off, but understood what you had left unsaid. “Have you lived here long?” You changed the subject, your mood rising as you put a smile back on your face. 

“Grew up back that way. Still live there.” He pointed in the direction he had come from. “Just me though now.” He added, not really sure why he needed you to know that no one else lived with him. 

“I live that way by the cliffs.” You pointed in the same direction as he nodded, knowing the area you were referring to. “Used to be an old fisherman’s place, but I’m not too good at fishing.” He cracked a smile at your words, his hands now comfortably in his pockets as he listened to you intently. 

Remmick sucked in a breath, trying to work up the courage to do something before releasing it and looking back at you. “Would you…” He paused trying to think of the words that were threatening to die on his tongue the more he held eye contact with you and the heat of your gaze consumed him from the inside out.

“Would you stop by sometime?” He asked as you paused, waiting to see if he had more to say. “I was planning to cook but I always have a lot for just one person even after taking some to my neighbors.” He trailed off, his eyes glancing around him before he looked back at you trying to gauge your reaction. 

You stood in front of him, impossible to read what you were thinking, as your dark eyes narrowed for a moment before you tilted your head to the side. “Should I bring anything?” Your question broke the mounting silence between you as he breathed out and a flash of relief crossed his face. 

“No, no that’s all right.” He shook his head as you nodded with a smile. You were going to disregard what he had said as your mind began to think through what you should bring. “I should get going…I’ll see you tonight.” He bid you goodbye with a wave of his hand before you watched him walk off towards other shops in search of ingredients. 

• • •

Your mind raced through different scenarios as you did your best to calm yourself down. Clutching the basket to your chest, you looked down at the ground, glaring at the rock that had tripped you and threatened to ruin your evening as his home came into view and the sun began to set behind you. 

It was a charming stone home that sat picturesquely on a hill, rolling green hills and farmland surrounding it. Faint smoke rose from the chimney, dissipating into the now darkening sky. You breathed out, standing in front of his door, smoothing the dark blue dress you had made hoping to make a good impression on the kind man from the market who had tripped over his words when he spoke to you.

You knocked, three short taps on the heavy wood as you waited only a moment before the door opened to reveal a slightly more relaxed version of the man you had seen earlier. 

His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows showing off the strong muscles of his forearms. The top two buttons were left unbuttoned and a cloth was thrown over his shoulder. “(Y/n), come in.” He smiled at you as you walked past him and he closed the door behind you. He took your coat, hanging it by the door as you took your boots off and followed him towards the kitchen. 

“Oh I brought this.” You held the basket up, placing it on the table as he raised an eyebrow, a slightly surprised look in his blue eyes. “It’s not much…just bread…I didn’t know what to bring, so…” You trailed off, taking the cloth from over it to reveal a large freshly baked loaf, steam rising from it letting him know just how fresh it was. 

“You didn’t have to bring anything.” He said softly as you shook your head. 

“That’s not the way it works in my culture, Remmick.” You explained to him, your voice light. “You never arrive to a home empty handed.” You pushed the bread forward as he smiled at you and you couldn’t help but smile back. 

“This is really nice.” You told him after he had handed you a bowl and sat across from you at the wooden table. You had cut a few slices from the bread as you both took one and began eating. 

“Hm?” He looked up at you from his bowl. 

“This is really nice.” You repeated. “And your food is good.” You added, smiling again when you saw the faint rosiness appear on his cheeks in the fire light. 

“Thanks.” He said simply. “You know I’ve never really cooked for anyone before…well other than Mrs. Sullivan.” It was your turn for heat to rise to your cheeks as you dropped his eye contact. 

“So I’m special then?” You teased as he nodded with a crooked smirk. “Why?”

“You just are.” He replied bashfully after a pause, chuckling at your teasing. “Tell me about what you did before coming here?” He asked as you nodded, finishing chewing before opening your mouth to begin. 

“There’s not much to say really, Remmick.” You thought for a moment as he tried to stay present in the moment and fight the overwhelmingly warm feeling that flowed through him at the way you said his name.“My mother, she died when I was young, she had a fever for a few days and then just didn’t wake up. My father was devastated. I was his only child and so he took me with him when he decided we would leave home. We never stayed in one place long, it’s like a blur. Then he took to drinking and it caught up with him eventually in the end. I was an adult by then. When he was dying he asked me to go see the cliffs. It was something he wanted to do and never got to see…so here I am.” You breathed out. “Quite a sad story.” You laughed awkwardly, feeling like you had changed the mood of dinner.

“That’s alright.” He said, picking up on your feelings as his hand had automatically reached for yours, his thumb smoothing over your knuckles as you froze at the touch before relaxing again and letting out a breath. 

“Tell me yours?” You asked, trying not to get lost in the little touches and the warmth of his strong hand. He nodded, his posture straightening as you watched him think about what he wanted to say. 

“Mine’s quite similar.” He offered you that lopsided grin again. “My mother and father raised me here. My father died first, it was an accident. He’d fallen off of the roof of the neighbor’s house when he was helping to repair it. He was gone in an instant, before anyone could say anything to him really. My mom stayed for some time before she remarried some farmer from a few towns over. He didn’t want another man’s son so I stayed here.” He shrugged, but you could see the pain just beneath the surface as he spoke about it. You squeezed his hand gently, looking him in the eyes. 

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head at your words, brushing it off. 

“Don’t be.” His voice was lower now. “She’s happy there with him and I’m just fine here.” He told you. “It’s quiet.” He hummed as you nodded. 

He took your bowl when you were done, washing them and you dried them before you both sat in a chair by his fireplace. You glanced around at the decorations. They were simple and although you were still learning him, they felt like they fit him. 

A herding dog stretched out asleep in front of the bed on a small worn rug. A similar rug covering the floor in front of the fireplace where you sat. Remmick’s bed was simple and covered by a large quilt that looked like it had been made with love and passed down, the squares beginning to fade from their once vibrant reds and blues. “Do you read here?” You asked him as your hands rubbed against the soft fabric of the chair you sat in. 

“Sometimes.” He nodded, glancing to the small table under the window by the fireplace, a small stack of books sitting there. “Do you enjoy reading?”

“Yes, but I still have yet to find a favorite book or author.” He smiled at that as your eyes locked on the instrument that sat in the corner. It looked similar to one you had seen played in the marketplace. “Will you play?” You asked as he hesitated momentarily before nodding, standing to retrieve the instrument before sitting back down in the chair he had occupied. 

He started to strum the strings with his thumb, clearing his throat before starting to sing. His voice and the notes were played hesitantly at first, as if he hadn’t played in front of someone in a long time and was afraid to play a note wrong or get judged for his singing abilities. He looked up seeing you listening along, your head and body swaying back and forth slightly in the chair along to the notes. Your eyes were closed and a grin pulled at your lips. 

He took the time to look over your features as he grew more confident in his playing and singing and you smiled wider.

He had never seen someone as beautiful. He stopped singing then, the song over as you opened your eyes again, clapping as you laughed at his embarrassment. You could tell that he had never been used to being the center of attention, preferring the quiet anonymity that the outskirts of society granted him. Maybe that was why he chose to stay in the stone house that was a ways from the town, but not that far from your home. “You have a gift, Remmick.” 

“No.” He shook his head quickly, only believing you were trying to inflate his ego because you hopefully liked him in the same way he was starting to fall for you. “There’s far better music in town.”

You shook your head, your hand reaching out and settling on his forearm as he stilled at your touch. “People play in town but nobody sounds like that.” You reaffirmed. “My grandmother knew things…things beyond this life. She lived a long way away from here, back home on the island.” You stated, sitting in front of him, your hand still touching his arm. He leaned into your touch as you continued. “She said that music like that is powerful. It’s a gift that only some can possess.”

“I’m just a farmer, (Y/n).” His voice was soft, the last of his protests quieting as you gave him a look. “I doubt someone like me would get a gift like that. You’d have to be lucky and I don’t think anyone in my family has ever been lucky.” He laughed humorlessly as he set the instrument down. 

“Well, maybe you are.” A genuine smile grew on your lips again as you gravitated towards him. He leaned towards you as he too smiled, his fingers hesitantly touching your hand before you took his hand fully in yours, interlacing the fingers. 

tags:

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Come Home

pairing: post apocalyptic joel Miller X Wife reader

It started small.

Little things. Short answers. Long silences. Joel snapping at you over nothing leaving early for patrol without a kiss, eating dinner without a word. You told yourself he was just tired. That he had a lot on his plate. That the stress of keeping Jackson safe was pulling him thin.

But it didn’t explain why he only looked at you when he was angry. Or why he hadn’t touched your belly in weeks.

It all came to a head on a Tuesday night, when you asked him if he could pick up more prenatal vitamins while out with Tommy.

“What, I don’t do enough already?” he bit out, slamming his jacket down on the table.

You blinked. “It was just a question.”

He muttered something under his breath and you had enough.

“Do you even love me anymore?”

“What?”

“You heard me, Joel. Do you love me?”

There was a long pause.

“Yes,” he said gruffly.

Your voice broke. “Then show it. Because you’ve been acting like you don’t.”

He didn’t follow when you grabbed your bag. He didn’t stop you when Sarah packed Ellie’s overnight things. He didn’t say a word when you slammed the door behind you.

One and a Half Weeks Later

Joel’s world had been loud. Now it was silent.

He still made coffee for two out of habit. Still reached across the bed, forgetting it was cold and empty. The house was too quiet without Ellie’s music blaring or Sarah’s pencil scratching her sketchbook. The silence was screaming at him.

He hadn’t even kissed your belly goodbye.

Tommy tried talking to him. Maria did, too. He brushed them off. He didn’t know what to say because the truth was worse than anything they could guess:

He missed you so goddamn much it physically hurt.

On the eighth night, he sat down on the bed you made together and finally broke.

The house had never felt like a home without you in it.

Joel went one week and four days without the sound of your voice, without the girls’ laughter bouncing off the walls, without the warmth of your hand reaching for his in the dark. And in that silence, he finally heard everything he hadn’t let himself listen to.

How he’d picked fights. How he’d looked right through you when you were desperate for him to just see you. How he’d been cruel when you were carrying his child and raising two daughters who called him Daddy.

So he went to your parents’ place hat in hand, flowers in the other.

He stood at their front door like a man with nothing left, knuckles scraped from a fence he’d helped rebuild that morning just to keep busy, his voice already trembling before he even spoke.

Your mama opened the door, arms crossed, no smile. “Joel Miller,” she said flatly. “You better have something real good to say.”

“Ma’am,” he rasped. “I know I don’t deserve a damn second of her time. But I..I’m askin’. Please. Just five minutes. I need to see my girls.”

Your dad said nothing from behind her, but he opened the door and motioned silently toward the living room.

You were sitting on the couch in an oversized sweater, Ellie curled against your side, Sarah drawing at the coffee table. Your bump was more visible now, cradled by your hand protectively.

Joel’s breath caught in his throat when he saw you. “Darlin’…” he whispered.

You didn’t get up. You didn’t say his name. But your eyes filled with tears the moment you looked at him.

He knelt.

Right there in the doorway, he dropped to one knee like he’d done years ago when he first asked you to marry him, except this time, his voice was soaked in guilt and love.

“I’ve been an ass. A stubborn, angry, blind man who didn’t see the one thing that’s ever truly mattered to me.

I pushed you away when all you were doing was lovin’ me and this family.

You asked me if I loved you. I said yes, but I didn’t show it and I hate myself for that.

I just… things get loud in my head sometimes. And instead of lettin’ you in, I shut the door and act like you’re the enemy. You’re not. You’re never the enemy.

You’re my girl. You always have been.

And Sarah and Ellie… I miss ‘em. I miss their laughter. I miss your humming in the kitchen. I miss you yellin’ at me for leavin’ my boots by the door.

I miss touchin’ your belly at night, feelin’ our baby kick. God, darlin’, I’m so sorry I let myself get so far away from all of it. From you.

This whole week I’ve been sleepin’ in a house that feels like a stranger’s place, because my home ,my home is wherever you are. Wherever our girls are.

And I know I don’t deserve it, but I’m askin’… please, sweetheart. Let me try to fix this. Let me earn my way back to you.”

He placed the flowers on the coffee table like an offering.

“I miss you. I miss Sarah rollin’ her eyes at me. I miss Ellie yellin’ when I steal her toast. I miss talkin’ to our baby even if she can’t hear me yet.

I miss my wife.”

Tears ran down his cheeks, and your girls went quiet Ellie’s jaw clenched and Sarah’s eyes were wide.

You looked at him Joel Miller, your stubborn, complicated husband. You saw the cracks in his armor, the ones you’d been begging him to let show. And for the first time in weeks, he let you in.

You didn’t rush into his arms. You didn’t melt into him like in some dream. You simply looked down and said softly, “You can stay. For dinner.”

It was a start.

You were sitting on the back porch of your parents’ house, a blanket wrapped around your belly, cradling a warm cup of tea while the morning sun lit your face. Joel sat beside you in silence, like he’d done every day that week, content just to be near.

You finally looked at him and said softly, “I think we’re ready to come home.”

Joel didn’t say a word at first. He blinked once. Twice.

Then his hand reached for yours worn and calloused and trembling and he held it against his lips.

“You sure, baby?” he rasped.

You nodded. “I miss our home. I miss our bed. I miss… you.”

Joel closed his eyes. “I’ll go get your things.”

Joel hadn’t moved that fast since his patrol days. He borrowed your parents’ wagon and hitched it to one of the horses, riding into town with a strange mix of nervous energy and reverence.

The house was still exactly how you left it.

He walked through slowly, fingers brushing over the backs of chairs, the edge of the couch, the framed photo of the five of you at the community festival last spring.

“We’re gettin’ our girls back,” he whispered to the empty room.

Upstairs, he stepped into Ellie’s room. The bed was still unmade. Her jacket was thrown over the desk chair, and her favorite book was flipped open on the nightstand.

Joel folded each item carefully her comic books, her flashlight, the patched-up hoodie you had sewn for her all packed neatly into her backpack.

Then Sarah’s room. Her sketchbook was left open on a half-finished portrait of you. He smiled, ran a thumb over the corner, and packed it gently in her bag along with her favorite sweater and the green barrettes she always lost in the couch cushions.

He paused at the door to the nursery.

Your half-decorated baby room.

He stepped inside, picked up the tiny onesie that read “Little Miller” and swallowed hard. He placed it on the dresser and whispered, “We’re waitin’ on you, little one”

The girls squealed when they saw him.

“Dad!” Ellie grinned, jumping onto the porch. “You got my comics?”

“Every single one,” Joel said, chucking her under the chin. “Even the ones you think I don’t know you stole from the market.”

“You don’t know anything,” she teased, hugging him tighter.

“I know I missed ya, baby girl .”

Sarah came next, hugging him longer, wordlessly. He cupped the back of her head.

Then you stepped out, wrapped in that same porch blanket, tears in your eyes.

Joel came to you slowly, held out his hand like it was your first dance all over again. “Ready to come home, darlin’?”

You nodded and smiled. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

Joel helped you into the wagon like you were made of glass, one hand on your lower back, the other braced for any stumble. You settled between Sarah and Ellie while he drove the horse slowly back toward town.

As you pulled up to your house, Ellie gasped. “Did you clean the place?”

“Of course I did,” Joel said. “Even scrubbed the toilets. That’s how serious I was about gettin’ my girls home.”

That week, he helped your dad fix the barn doors. He drove your mama to the market. He sat with Sarah while she read aloud and played cards with Ellie, losing every round on purpose just to hear her laugh.

He didn’t ask for anything. He just showed up.

He ran you a bath one night after your back started hurting and waited outside the door just in case you needed help. He kissed your forehead as you fell asleep on the couch a barely-there press of lips, reverent and apologetic.

And slowly, your walls softened.

You came home together.

The house was warm again. Lived in. Ellie decorated the nursery wall with sketches of dinosaurs and fireflies. Sarah played music in the kitchen while Joel slow danced with you to a song on the old record player, one hand on your waist, the other resting over your belly.

“You feel that?” you whispered one night, guiding his hand as the baby kicked.

Joel smiled, eyes glassy. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “My little fighter. Just like her mama.”

Later, when you were curled up in bed, he kissed the stretch marks on your hips, your shoulder, your hand.

Joel started rubbing your feet, you looked at him through sleepy eyes.

“You did good, Joel.”

He pressed a kiss to your ankle, then your belly.

“I’ll never make you doubt it again,” he whispered into your skin. “Not ever. You’re mine, and I’ll love you every damn day ‘til my last breath.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed it.

[twowaywardorphansjournal]

Poison

Summary: You drink to try to ignore your inner demons

Content: Dean x Female Reader. Angst, drinking, inner demons, anger, self deprecation, depression, dark dark stuff, swearing, a little violence......fluff at the end?

Note: This tumbled out of me this morning. Don't know where it came from, but writing angst seems to help me process my emotions. Also saw Thunderbolts last weekend and was inspired without realizing it until halfway through. I hope it helps, and if any of the content concerns you, please don't push yourself to read. You're not alone.

****************************************************************

You hadn’t meant for this to happen.

Okay, maybe you were just lying to yourself.

It started with a shot of Southern Comfort. The bartender had asked what your poison was, and it spilled out before you could stop yourself. You didn’t drink it often because, well, things never ended well. Time had proved that you and Southern Comfort were frenemies. Which was ironic, given the name. But you had that feeling clawing at your insides and you just wanted to stuff it down, shut it up, make it go away.

The man next to you saw how smoothly you took your shot. Muttered an appreciation for a woman who could drink. Offered to share another round with you. You told him you really shouldn’t, you needed to be getting home. But the little devil on your shoulder talked you into it. His blue eyes glinted like diamonds when you agreed.

Who were you kidding.

You’d had every intention of ending up here.

Now, as you looked into your purse for your motel key, the world tilted sideways. You tried to right yourself and overcompensated, falling into the door with a soft thud. Shit. If Dean wasn’t already awake, that would have alerted him. Leaning against the splintered paint, you continued digging through your bag, finally coming up with the key. Then came the hand eye coordination needed to get it just right inside the lock. It took what felt like minutes, scratching at the gold plating, before the door finally swung open.

You stumbled through the entry, the alcohol tightening its grip on you, and realized that there was a light on. Through the decorative trellis paneling you saw Dean sitting at the table. His arms were crossed over his chest, his biceps barely contained inside his black t-shirt. Green eyes pierced you like a laser.

“You sat there and watched me struggle with the door?” You questioned, moving towards the bed.

“Didn’t know you needed help.” Dean stated, his voice husky.  

Sensing the hidden meaning, you paused and looked over your shoulder. Dean worked his jaw when he saw your eyes fall on the bottle of whiskey next to him. Oh, two could play at this game.

“Takes one to know one,” You muttered back icily. Dropping your bag next to the bed, you sat down to remove your boots. The air conditioner kicked on and filled the silence. Dean took a pull from the bottle.

“You didn’t answer my text.”

“I’m sensing a hint of concern there, Winchester.” You mocked. Leaning back on your hands, you let your legs casually fall to the side, stopping when they hit the confines of the skintight dress. He still had something to look at by the way his eyes narrowed.

“Meet anyone interesting while you were out?” Dean asked with a sigh, shifting in his seat.

“Oh, just Chad.” You shot back with a smile. “Lawyer, on the fence about leaving his wife, definitely has a touch of alcoholism. He gives great head.”

Dean exploded out of his seat, the chair crashing to the floor behind him. You couldn’t help but startle slightly as he stepped towards you, almost as if he wanted to grab you, before he restrained himself. Instead, he just stood there, fists clenched at his sides, his face bright red.

“Jeez, I’m just joking,” You chuckled dryly.

“It’s not funny.” Dean snarled back. “I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?”

“Trying to prove you’re the worst of the worst. Letting yourself be the bad girl.” He swallowed, his throat bobbing. “Because it’s easier than facing the pain.”

You weren’t sure if it was the whiskey or the declaration, but something twisted inside you. Silently you stood, your head ducked low to avoid Dean’s gaze, and scuttled to the bathroom. The overhead lights clicked on at your touch, their whiteness overpowering. Seeing the mirror the full length of the room, you wished you hadn’t come in here, because there was nowhere to hide. There she was, the poisonous bitch. Light flecks of mascara settled in the circles under her eyes, hair tousled from the wind, cheeks flushed with warmth. An angel wrapped in a nightmare.

Slowly the feeling came back, working its way up from where you had shoved it down. Something dank, dark, and slightly moldy. The one loading the pistol of your sarcasm and sparking the fire of your rage. The thing that made you feel helpless. It had long been a part of you, enrobed in the fiber of your being, impossible to shed.

A sob worked its way out of your chest before you could hold it in. Your gasp echoed through the bathroom. Gripping the edge of the counter, you bowed. This was Dean’s genius idea, face the pain?

“Damn you, Winchester.” You whispered. Tears slipped off your cheeks onto the tiled floor. Your chest burned; your shoulders shook. This wasn’t freeing, this was torture.

Then go tell him that.

If it was the devil on your shoulder of the monster inside of you, you didn’t care.

It was right.

Screw him.

Throwing open the door, you marched back out into the open room. Dean raised himself off the bed where he had been waiting for you. Without a word you cracked him across the face. Caught off guard, Dean’s head jerked to the side. His hand twitched when you came back for a second round, but the only movement came from his jaw tightening under your hand. Not satisfied, you shoved his shoulder. Punched his arm. Smacked his chest. Dean became your personal punching bag, standing as still as a statue.

You screamed into his face, egging him on, but he didn’t budge. He watched your passively, infuriating you more. Fisting his shirt in both of your hands you shrieked, deep and guttural. Something released inside of you and your head dropped into Dean’s chest, the only sound in the room your heavy breathing. His arms came around you like a cage, pinning you against him. Warmth spread through you intermixed with guilt. You had just wailed on him and here he was hugging you.

Snaking your arms around his waist, you leaned into your life preserver as the tide swelled. Sobs racked through you, the cry of your open mouth swallowed by Dean’s chest. Dean ran his hand over your back, whispering different incantations in your ear.

It’s okay.

I’ve got you.

I’m here.

You weren’t sure how long you stood there before your tears dried up. Dean never wavered, riding the storm out with you. Your chest felt hollow. When you lifted a hand to wipe the snot off the edge of your nose, he pulled away just enough to look down at you, his eyes shimmering. You offered him a smile.

“There’s my girl,” He muttered. He dropped his forehead onto yours.

“Thank you.” You croaked after a beat, closing your eyes in exhaustion. Dean pressed his lips to your temple.

“Let’s get you into bed.”

Abandoning your own duffle, you rifled through Dean’s for one of his shirts and padded to the bathroom to change and wash your face. Looking in the mirror, it took a moment to notice how subdued the monster was, momentarily pacified. Maybe Dean did know a thing or two.

Dean was already laying on his back when you returned, eyes lidded and red with his arm tucked behind him. He glanced up when you approached, smirking at your choice of clothing. You laid down next to him, draping your leg over his, and curled into this chest. His arm slid around you, grounding and familiar. You hummed contentedly.

[ambitions-of-an-eccedentesiast]

and off he goes!

Next->

<-Previous

[ndostairlyrium]

it's missing my beloved advisors hours

[marquezism]

sometimes i just say stuff and then you guys are like “yeah!!!” and im like. pause. we fuck with this? we fuck with marc/ago 70s shenanigans??? for real?

[buddiebitch]

9-1-1 tiktok does not seem very fond of Lone Star so i just wondering how everyone else feels about it

[mitamicah]

Guess what; Now I am going to Gothenborg too :'D

[kindacreepy-kindaugly]

haven't been sad like this in a long time

[tarragonthedragon]

ghost stories are alarmingly easy to spread tbh

when I was like ten I was walking back from the chip shop near my gran's house with a neighbour and we took a short cut down an alley which was enclosed by garages except for one part which was wire fenced and led to the electricity shack

and while I was walking I chucked a chip over the fence. the girl walking with me, C, reasonably asks why I did that

"oh, don't you know?" I say, as if I'm not equally out of my own loop

she shakes her head. the enclosed alleyway has no streetlights. it's after dark. the shack is isolated in the distance.

"a little girl who lived up on the court climbed the fence once on a dare. she went up to the shack and touched it, but there was a wire sticking out, and when she touched it, she got electrocuted and died, right there. if you come back in the daylight, you can still see the black mark."

[editor's note: the court was the smaller road off the side of the crescent, which was the one C's family and my gran lived on. the houses there were slightly more expensive and newer, almost all occupied by wealthy commuters to the city, where most of the crescent houses were occupied by retirees and locals who worked on the trading estate. naturally, crescent kids hated the court. houses there got bricked about once a month.]

"no she didn't," C says

I made up this story for absolutely no reason and with no plan, but I'm not gonna back down now. "sure she did. and if you go past on your way back from the shops and you don't leave her an offering, she'll follow you home through the streetlights. one flickers behind you, then the next, then the next, until you get home. and then the lights start to flicker inside the house. even if you turn out all the electrics before bed, it'll be too late. she's inside. and you'll wake up on the night and see her, and she'll be so awful to see it'll stop your heart."

[editor's note: the streetlights always flickered. this was because our neighbour monkey george kept setting the junction boxes on fire]

"I never did before and she never followed me home!"

"do you come down the alley after dark? or do you take the main road with the streetlights?" I knew she didn't use the shortcut, because I'd been the one to talk her into it that night. she was three years younger than me and scared of the dark.

C claims not to believe me, but she throws a chip over the fence too, and walks the rest of the way looking over her shoulder. I get to pride myself for the night on being good at scary stories, and don't think much more about it.

fast forward six or seven years. I'm back in town. I'm on my way back from the chip shop, taking the same shortcut home. ahead of me on the road are a couple of kids I vaguely recognise as old playmates' younger siblings.

they stop, and I watch one fish out three sweeties from the pack they're sharing. they take one each and throw them over the fence. they carry on walking.

I realise that this is probably my fault, as are any resulting pest control issues around the old electricity shack.

when I get to the fence, I throw a chip over.

[defilerwyrm]

There’s this guy in town who owns this little house, and a while back he rescued a street dog that was going to get put down. Turned out she was pregnant.

Problem is, he has mental health & drug issues and couldn’t afford to get them all spayed & neutered, so now there are 6 grown bitches with 15 puppies total, and they’ve dug under his fence in multiple places but he can’t afford to fix it so they go roaming all around town. (When I say can’t afford it, I mean his house is currently running on a generator because he can’t afford his electric bill.) He’s also a day laborer so he cannot take multiple full days off work to take them to the vet an hour away. He’s in a really rough spot.

He’s not a bad person. He’s just overwhelmed.

And this little conservative town with 6 churches for 300 people, have they tried to help their neighbor? Have they adopted the puppies he’s been trying to give away? Have they offered resources?

NOPE! All they wanna do is talk shit about him and complain about the dogs but never lift a finger of their own. And they come to his house to yell at him and cuss him out about the dogs, which does not exactly engender in him a cooperative attitude, as you might imagine.

So after a while of this going on, my mom gets fed up with all the NIMBY bullshit and starts talking to the guy, because she’s done animal rescue for 20-odd years and has Connections. He’s resistant at first, but when he realizes she’s not being an asshole to him on account of his addiction or the dogs, he decides to let her help.

She gets to work organizing and networking. Finds a non-profit that will cover vaccinations, spay/neuter, and flea treatments for all the dogs. Talks the next-door neighbor into paying for materials to fix the fence, since this guy can do the work of it himself. Gets him in touch with another non-profit that will adopt out the adult dogs.

Less than 2 weeks after she decided to do something, all puppies have been to the vet, 10 puppies and 4 adult dogs have been adopted out, and the second non-profit is coming by next week to pick up the remaining 7 dogs to ship them out for adoption.

I’ve learned a lot of things from my mom—some good, some bad—but I think the most important positive message she lives as an example of is this: sometimes, when something needs done and no one else is willing, you gotta stand up and say “I’ll do it.”

[grimmjowjaegerjaquez]

i want to keep playing swtor as my other toons but i dont want to go through the arduous process of getting through it all just to get to the story beats that i half-remember damn it!!!!!!