#Infinity Display | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cynosdaydream · 2 months ago

Text

LOSER'S GAMBIT! - PART 2

The past is now a memory - acknowledge its beauty, but don't get too caught up in it.

Now playing: Infinity - One direction

Word count: 3.4k Author's note: Hihi! I hope part 2 is to your liking, as i tried to get this out as fast as possible. Hence, it's not quite proofread, so if theres any mistakes or errors, feel free to dm me! Part 1 / Part 2 (you are here)/Part 3 Desc: sylus x f!non-mc!reader, mentions of past zayne x reader, zayne x mc, canon compliant violence, slight descriptions of injury

It had been a few months since you broke up with Zayne. You moved your belongings out of your shared apartment shortly after you split, finding an apartment near your workplace. It was simple, but definitely not constricting. The apartment had enough space for all of your furniture and belongings, and even had some extra space for miscellaneous items. It only took a few weeks for you to personalise your house, turning it into a home with all of your interests and parts of your personality displayed on the walls and floors of the apartment. That was your safe space, the place where you could wind down, relax and collect your thoughts – especially after your breakup.

You spent some time thinking about it for days after the incident. It hurt to leave, it really did. Your relationship with Zayne felt like something out of a slow-burn story sometimes, with fleeting touches and prolonged eye contact before sheepishly looking away. Heated kisses in his office where anybody could walk in, but neither of you could care enough to stop.

But the keyword was sometimes. A large portion of your communication with him consisted of quick texts and calls that were more often than not cut short. And due to both your schedules being packed to the brim for the most part, actual dates that weren’t impromptu and random were few and far between.

However, the thing that hurt the most to think about was MC. You didn’t hold a grudge against her (how could you ever, when Zayne spoke about her with such fondness?) , but you were definitely always walking on eggshells whenever she was brought up by Zayne. Whenever he would cancel plans for MC, when he would work into ungodly hours of the night for MC, when he would come home absolutely drenched like a wet dog because MC dragged him out to dance in the rain – all of this made your heart ache. And on lonelier nights, it stung just the slightest bit more.

Nevertheless, after you took the time to heal and reflect on yourself, the constant stinging slowly numbed into the occasional dull ache. The initial sorrow had slowly subsided, but small remnants of it remained with you for weeks after. You would find yourself subconsciously holding out an apple in the kitchen, patiently waiting for someone to take it out of your hands and peel it for you. However, you slowly put the fruit down in realisation that there was no one there to do it now.

Whatever. I’ll get over it soon enough.

And you really did. The following months, you spent a lot more time going out with your friends, and making many new ones, and you, Tara, and Simone had grown a whole lot closer. Their reactions when you broke the news of your breakup to them were priceless, though.

Tara was in complete shock for a good minute, then flew into a flaming rage, cursing your ex-boyfriend out with exaggerated hand movements. “That – that’s outrageous! I didn’t expect doctor Zayne to be that type of person!” she yelped, making an offensive gesture, as if demonstrating what she would do to him if he were there. Simone seemed to skip the ‘shock’ part, and went straight to bombarding you with questions. “Why didn’t you tell us this earlier?” She spoke, voice laced with anger. “Both Tara and I would have knocked some sense into him. I don’t care who he is or how prestigious his title is, he doesn’t just get to treat you like that.” Tara nodded frantically behind her. You just laughed in spite of it all, not in a mocking way, but you were just overjoyed that your friends cared so much about you. “Everything’s alright now, though. Thank you for worrying about me, but don’t go around trying to attack him!”

You were even spending more time with the stranger you had met at the restaurant on the day you were stood up. Sylus. He was a charming individual, with captivating crimson eyes and an intimidating demeanor. The more you two met up, the closer you got. (was that a slight smirk he had on his face when you told him you broke up with Zayne or were you going crazy?) From barely knowing his favourite colour, by your 5th outing, he told you about his occupation, albeit hesitantly.

The topic came up when he asked you about your job, and you shot the question right back at him after you told him about your profession as a hunter. You can still remember it as clearly as day, sometimes reminiscing about that memory during work, when you were particularly bored. Today was a slow day, with you stuck at your desk doing paperwork, and you find your mind drifting elsewhere…

“Enough about me, what do you do for a living, Sylus? I don’t imagine the money for those designer clothes comes from thin air.” You had jested, poking him. “Well, you’re a sharp one, aren’t you?” At first, he seemed unwilling to tell you, and even lied about running a business selling various things like fruit and technology. You called him out on it pretty quickly, and he did not seem pleased. “Such intuition. Maybe you should consider switching professions to become a private investigator.” He said, lips quirked up into a grin. But his smile dropped only moments later, and you were afraid you had pushed too far. “Wait! If you really don’t want to tell me, it’s totally fine. I wouldn’t want to be too nosy.” You scrambled for the right words, a little nervous that you had put some distance between you and your new friend.

To your surprise, Sylus merely chuckled, and with a beat of hesitance, said, “Alright, I can tell you’re curious. But I should warn you, what I’m about to tell you isn’t exactly something I can just say out in the open. Promise me that what I’m about to tell you will stay between us, okay?” You nodded your head enthusiastically, waiting patiently for him to spill. “I swear!” Sylus chuckles lightly. “You’re too cute.” He mutters, voice barely audible. Were your ears playing tricks on you? Then, he continues, this time just slightly louder so that only you could hear.

"Alright, if you really must know...I work for a rather unconventional organization. It’s not exactly legal. We deal with… illegal things, like modified protocores and arms trading." You gasped in surprise, not expecting that answer. But your opinion of him didn’t change, and you didn’t feel scared of him just because of his line of work.

“That sounds really dangerous. But take care of yourself, okay? I can’t have my new friend dying on me.” You joke lightheartedly. His reply is immediate. "Don’t worry. I'm used to taking care of myself.” And you don’t know if the wind was blowing too loudly past your ears that day, but you could’ve sworn that you heard a soft and I need to be in my best condition to protect you.

Pulling yourself back into work, you could feel your heart beating faster just because of that memory. What were you thinking? That’s literally your friend! You thought, and your train of thought slowly drifted to Sylus’ striking appearance, the way he carried himself with such confidence, the way he would cover the bill when you went out to eat together no matter how much you protested… What’s wrong with you today?? You pinched yourself, immediately launching back into work to distract yourself from such scandalous thoughts. Even if you found him attractive, and even if you hypothetically (is it really?) liked him, there’s no way he would like you back, right? Besides, he would only be putting you and himself at risk if you were to date due to his dangerous profession. You shivered just thinking about all the enemies he had made coming for you if you were dating.

“___!” You heard your name being called out by one of your captains, and you were pulled to the side with a few of your co-workers to be told that you would be sent on a risky mission in 2 days – to the area where the outskirts of Linkon and the start of the N109 zone met. Apparently, there had been a sudden surge of wanderers in the area for unknown reasons, and your job was to try to find the source of all these wanderers and hopefully take some of them down. “Is that understood?” The captain addresses your group after the sudden briefing, and you all nod in understanding. You were not looking forward to this.

On the day itself, you were geared up to the max, taking numerous precautions in case something went wrong. You had your light armour reinforced the previous day, and had a few different types of medicine to treat wounds. Though you had been on dangerous missions before, the thought of fighting in what was basically uncharted territory still scared you a bit. You pressed your arms firmly against your pants to steel your nerves. “Okay, let’s do this.”

The mission started off relatively tame, with you and your team eliminating a few low-grade wanderers and noting down information about them. You would even describe it as uneventful, as it was basically the same thing you did on a daily basis.

That was until there was an ominous growling coming from behind a large rock pile, and from it emerged a beast of a wanderer. As it rose from the rocks, it stood tall, almost three times an average person's height -- a monstrous mix of a scorpion and a dragon, with glacier blue spikes sticking out if its body, with a menacing icicle-like stinger to match. "Watch out!" You heard your teammates shout, alerting the rest of your group. The wanderer itself was daunting enough, and the fact that it's cries were drawing the attention of smaller wanderers was not helping at all. However, your team was capable, and they quickly launched into action, some of them taking on the main wanderer, and some of them eliminating the smaller threats so they won't hinder the main task at hand.

You were one of the ones battling the scorpion-dragon hybrid of a wanderer. In the first 10 minutes or so, the few of you managed to damage it quite a good bit, managing to somehow slice off its stinger with carefully coordinated attacks. A few injuries were sustained by your teammates, but the remedies you stored on you came in handy.

In the end, you couldn't keep up with the wanderer forever. For some reason, this one had insane regenerative abilities. Besides its stinger, whatever damage that your team had done to it was covered up and healed by shiny blue crystals within an instant. Its attacks were relentless as well, shooting sharp spine-like crystals at all of you endlessly, and wildly swinging its limbs around. After realising that there was no way you guys could defeat this abomination of nature without more ammunition and manpower, you and your teammates tried to flee the site. You had gotten a decent amount of information on the wanderers in the area anyway.

However, the wanderer wouldn't let up, letting out seething hisses as it chased after your team with its powerful wings. You could see your teammates' stamina slowly depleting, and you felt helpless.

So, you came up with the most ridiculous plan you've ever thought of.

"The rest of you just run! I'll try my best to hold it off." You yell to your teammates, drawing your weapon once again. This was met with exclamations of protest from them, but you quickly shut them down. "Just hurry and run! Go and report back to headquarters and try to get help as soon as possible!" With a look of concern on their face, one of them nodded and assured you, "We'll do our best. Stay alive, ___!" And with that, they picked up their pace significantly and got into the vehicle back to the hunter's association.

Fuck. You were stupid as hell. Maybe you should've asked one of your teammates to stay with you to take care of this thing, but it was too late now. You narrowly dodged the wanderer's crystals, trying to land hits on it at the same time. However, it was too agile, and every hit you tried to land was a gamble. The feeling of dread was overwhelming as you grew more and more fatigued, and your arms felt like lead as you tried to steady them to get an accurate hit.

Ouch. What was that feeling in your chest? Your breathing was so laboured that it was hard to focus on any other feeling other than your lungs compressing and your arms sagging down. Borderline hyperventilating, you look down for a moment, only to see a pale blue icicle lodged into your abdomen, slowly being stained crimson by your blood. Shit. Now you could feel the pain. You cried out, too disoriented to even notice the tall figure in the distance hopping off a motorcycle and rushing towards your direction.

Your vision blurred, and you found yourself collapsing to the ground. But you weren't unconscious, not yet. This is where I die. You thought. You were already accepting fate as you awaited one last sharp icicle through your heart to end it all, but it never came. Instead, from what you could make out from the shapes and colours in your vision, the wanderer seemed to have dropped to the floor as well. How ironic.

The last thing you remember was a strangely familiar voice calling out your name repeatedly, shaking you awake. "___! ___! Can you hear me?" The voice called out worriedly. You felt compelled to respond, to assure them that you were alive and breathing, but the abyss consuming your thoughts seemed to beckon you in warmly, and you couldn't help but shut your eyes and give in...

Blinking a few times in rapid succession, the first thing you recognised was the smell of medicine, and the feeling of being carried in someone's arms. Then your vision began to come back, and soon enough, the lights of a hospital seared across your corneas, blinding you momentarily. When you could finally see clearly, you craned your head only to realise you were being rushed into... Akso hospital? Impossible. Weren't you just in the N109 zone?

You looked up to question your teammates about it, but as you drifted your gaze upwards to your carrier, you saw... Sylus?! Your face heated up at the sight of your friend (crush..ahem...) carrying you bridal style. His ruby red eyes snapped to yours, and you noticed his pupils dilating as he saw that you were awake. "__, you're awake." He heaved a sigh of relief, but his pace never faltered. Even though your throat was parched, you still managed to cough out a few sentences. "Sylus... why are we at Akso hospital? How did you find me?" You coughed out.

He went silent for a moment. "I happened to be in the area when I saw what happened. And it was very fortunate I was. But there's no readily available medical services near the outskirts of the N109 zone, so my first instinct was to bring you to the city." Sylus explained softly. "Please save your voice, __. Your condition sounds terrible."

Soon enough, he stopped in front of a room. It looked... weirdly familiar. Wasting no time, Sylus didn't bother to knock but wordlessly entered the room and laid you down on the treatment bed while explaining to the doctor what happened, scarily calm.

"...what? This is..." you heard the doctor mutter, and his voice sounded breathless, and it was followed by frantic scribbling of pen on paper. You gently turned your head to the left, trying to identify the doctor in the room. That's when you locked eyes with Zayne. His eyes widened, and he quickly looked away, as if your gaze had scorched him. You could see Sylus' eyebrow raise in the corner of your eye and the look on his face when he realised who Zayne was. And then you spotted a mischievous smirk growing on his face.

However, Zayne wasted no time in making his way to you, applying various ointments and creams to injuries on your skin, and bandaging where you had gotten injured by the icicle through your chest. You could feel his usually steady hands tremble as he tightened the bandage, his breathing ever so slightly uneven. After he was done, he gave you a cup of water, and the pain had definitely been alleviated by a significant amount.

After a thorough (and very awkward) check-up under Sylus' watchful eye, you were ordered to visit the hospital once for a check-up for 3 days, and if your condition improved, you could stop coming back. "One last thing. May I know what your relationship with the patient is? We need to know this for documentation purposes." Zayne addresses Sylus, pen in hand. Sylus glances at you, then glances back at Zayne.

"I'm her boyfriend." Sylus states proudly, smirking at you.

Zayne looked taken aback, a frown barely visible on his face as he wrote it down, his pen hitting the clipboard harder than usual. Then, he simply nodded, and gestured for Sylus to leave the room, but for you to remain. "I need to speak to the patient privately." Zayne said. Sylus shot him a curious look, then turned to you. "Will you be alright by yourself, dear?" He quips endearingly.

You only laugh, replying, "It'll be quick, don't worry. Right, doctor Zayne?" To which the dark-haired man nodded stiffly. Sylus huffs playfully, and winks at you before exiting the room.

Once the door clicks shut, Zayne turns to face you. "It's been a while." He begins, treading carefully. "It has. What exactly do you have to speak to me about privately?" You ask coldly, a stark contrast to your warm tone with your supposed boyfriend just now.

A beat of silence ensues. "Who's that?" Zayne finally asks. You were getting annoyed now. This was less than professional of him. "Didn't you hear him? Sylus is my boyfriend." You enunciate your last sentence word by word. The doctor looked displeased; his lips pressed into a thin line and his grip on the table tightening before he said, "I didn't know you found another boyfriend fast. Is that why you ended things between us?"

You sigh. This conversation was exhilarating. "Look, Zayne. You don't have a place in my life to care about what I do anymore and who I'm with. And I didn't end things with you because I had feelings for another person - hell, I didn't even know him when we were dating!" You spat; venom interjected into your voice. For a second, he tried to retaliate, but just ended up looking like a fool as no words came out of his mouth in his defense.

"Stop trying to victimize yourself, and stop trying to paint me as the villain by insinuating that I ended things because I had feelings for someone else. We broke up because you clearly didn't have enough time for me, end of story."

A knock at the door prevented you from going even further, from making sure your words left a dent in that dense head of his. A cheerful voice called from outside, "Zayne! I have your lunch with me, open up~!" Ah.

You took that as your cue to leave, leaving behind a stunned Zayne as you curtly bowed your head at MC while going out the door.

"__." You heard your name being called. Turning to the side, you were met with Sylus, grinning like the Chesire cat. "Sylus." You smirk at him. "Soo... my boyfriend, huh?" You question flippantly. "Yes. Although, you must give me another chance to properly confess my feelings to you. That just now... forget it ever happened. Someone like you deserves an extravagant confession, so wait patiently, alright?"

Hearing this, your eyes widened as you stared blankly at him. You could feel your face warming up, the reality of it all sinking in. "What, cat got your tongue?" Sylus purrs, pressing a kiss on the corner of your lips. "You're so forward!" You exclaim, putting your hands on his chest to push him away from your embarrassed form.

"That I am. Don't lie, you like it." He teases, making you even more flustered. "Maybe I do." You shoot back, linking arms with him.

"Do you want to go back to your apartment to watch some movies and get some rest? My motorcycle is parked outside the hospital, just make sure to hold on tight. I'll go slow."

"I thought you'd never ask."

taglist: @noxellaa , @boopershnooper , @aboobie , @blorbohunter , @notisekais , @justpassingdontworry

#zayne x reader #sylus x reader #love and deepspace #zayne angst #zayne x mc #sylus x you #sylus angst #sylus fluff #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace zayne #sylus #zayne

576 notes · View notes

damneddamsy · 3 months ago

Text

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part viii)

SOFT INFINITY—Not endlessness, but the gentle refusal to end.

summary: As Joel entirely embraces new fatherhood, it becomes glaringly obvious that it isn't what it was cut out to be—it's harder, messier, and terrifyingly real.

a/n: oh yeah, this one's got it all. it's biiiiiig. you want cowboy joel? you got it. you want flirty joel? you got it. you want a daddy joel? you. got. it! might be one of my favourites until now, can't wait for you to read this one! WARNINGS this time, alcohol abuse, substance abuse, light smut.

Joel realized, maybe too late, that raising a kid meant surrender. Not in a way that made him feel small, but in a way that made him feel like everything he was, everything he did, mattered. Really mattered.

Who you were, what you believed, what you let your kid see in you—every single second of it meant something. It was stamped onto them in ways you wouldn’t even notice until you caught a glimpse of yourself staring back. And God, did he see it in her.

Months passed in a slow, golden stretch, summer giving way to autumn. The heat receded, but the sun still burned, casting everything in deep amber, draping the world in honeyed light. The days, despite their quiet toil, had taken on a kind of sweetness. He didn’t think much about it at first, but one evening, as he watched Maya toddle across the porch, her curls catching the last of the light, he felt it sink in.

His days were sweeter because of her.

Maya was at the age, where she knew what she wanted with no second-guessing, what she liked and what she didn’t, and it wasn’t a surprise that she was turning out just like him. Stubborn in one way, expressive in others, passionate to understand the world in her own little way.

And—well, it felt like a miracle, but she liked his guitar. She liked his music. She liked to sing with him.

Whenever he let out that familiar grunt as he lowered himself onto the porch swing, Maya’s ears would perk. From wherever she was—inside, out back, tucked into Leela’s arms for a story—she’d drop everything and make her way to the front door.

He’d hear her small, eager footsteps pad against the wood floor, and then—there she was, peeking around the big front door, wide-mouthed and grinning, her four little teeth on full display.

And then the clapping. Always the clapping.

“Yeah, yeah, trouble,” he’d grumble, settling the guitar on his lap. “I’m gettin’ to it.”

He’d strum a chord, throwing in an extra flourish, and she’d giggle, her small hands patting at the strings, feeling them hum beneath her touch.

“Maya's here to see me play her favourite song,” he'd first idly sing in tenor, and strum the strings, leaning down to push a kiss on her soft curls.

And her favourite song of the moment? Handy Man. He fucking loved that song now. And damn if she didn’t know the words already. Well, sort of, whatever her baby brain could comprehend. When he hit the chorus, she’d push close between his knees, mouthing along, all serious concentration, her tiny fingers gripping at the air like she could pluck the notes right from his hands.

“Come-a, come-a, come-a, come-a, come, come,” he would sing to her, and she'd tune with him with that big, pretty smile, “Oh, now, they'll come runnin' to me.”

“Comma, comma, comma, me-hee!” she'd laugh after the song was over, plucking the strings herself.

And Leela—she stood in the doorway, watching all of it. Always watching, never interfering. Sometimes, when Maya was wrapped up in his arms, conked out, she’d reach over, smoothing a hand over Maya’s growing curls, meeting Joel’s eyes with something so complete, so warm, it made his entirely too at home.

She didn’t say much, not with words, but she didn’t have to. He saw it in her face, in the way she touched their daughter, in the way she looked at him.

She loved him. She loved him in the same quiet, unconditional way that Maya did. God help him, he loved her too. He loved her 'til he was bursting at the seams.

And by that same front door, Maya waited for him. On the dot. Four o’clock sharp. His very own homecoming.

She’d perch on the porch step, her toy horse clutched tight in her hand, rocking back and forth, big brown eyes fixed on the street like a tiny sentry. And when she did spot him—dust-covered, exhausted, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders, pack in hand—she didn’t run straight for him. Not at first.

No, she’d squeal loud enough for the street to hear, all shy excitement, and scurry back into the house like she couldn’t bear to face it head-on.

That never lasted long. By the time he reached the porch steps, there she was, barreling into him at full speed, arms open, curls bouncing, calling for him in that desperate, earth-shattering little voice that never failed to gut him. His little shadow.

“Da-da-da-da—”

Joel never grabbed her up right away—not yet, not until he wiped every last trace of the day’s grime from his hands and face. She’d linger by his boots, gripping at his pants, all but vibrating with the need to be held.

“Hey, now, hold on, baby girl.” He held up his hands, palms out, dirty from the day, trying to walk his way around her. “Lemme—hey, hey. I'mna squish you, Maya, jeez.”

Maya bounced on her toes, impatient, grabbing at his pant leg with a whine. “Up, up, up—”

And she followed him all the way to the kitchen sink, opening and closing her fingers, teetering on her tiptoes, tugging at his pants like she could climb up his leg if she tried hard enough.

“Alright. What’d you do today, sunshine?” he’d ask, crouching down, draping the kitchen towel over his shoulder.

Maya, thrilled to be heard, would babble a response, half-gibberish, half-words, expressive as anything. One day about her clothes, one day about the fruits in the garden, one day about her lunch.

“Mm-mm…” she hummed this time like she was keeping secrets. Then, suddenly, “Mama ‘n me,” more incomprehensible gibberish, pointing out the window, “...bird.”

“Yeah?” He pushed a ringlet behind her ear, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “You saw a bird?”

She flapped her arms, mouth forming a perfect little ‘O.’ “Biiiig bird.”

And he’d nod along, utterly rapt, hanging onto her every word. Every single time. Ever since she started to talk, he couldn't go a moment without hearing it.

And Maya—she was far more interested in his hands than her own stories. She grabbed at them, little fingers poking into his palm, inspecting. He chuckled, letting her turn them over, palms up, palms down.

With a knowing smirk, Joel reached back into his jacket pockets, bringing his fists between them, closed tight. A familiar game. One she never got tired of.

Her eyes lit up instantly. Excitement fizzled through her tiny frame, her little fists curling at her sides like she could barely stand the suspense.

Joel pulled his lips to a smile for her. “Which one?”

Maya let out a high-pitched giggle, practically thrumming, as she tapped her tiny fingers against his fists. She took her time, bottom lip jutting out in concentration, brows knitting together, her nose scrunching. Then—she tapped his right hand.

Joel uncurled his fingers. A small handful of blackberries spilled out of his palm, violet, ripe and plump.

Maya perked up. Letting out a curious sound, she carefully plucked one between two tiny fingers, examining it like it might reveal a secret if she looked close enough. She turned it over, squishing just a little before deciding it passed her test.

Joel popped one into his mouth, chewing slow.

Without hesitation, Maya followed, mirroring him like she always did, stuffing the berry into her mouth. Her cheeks rounded out as she chewed, her tiny jaw working. Then, as if suddenly remembering something important, she tilted her head back and grinned. Berry-stained, toothy, pure delight.

And by that same front door of her house grew the one thing she despised—to watch him go as the day came to an end.

Some days, she was content to wave from Leela's arms. Tiny hand flapping in the air, so dazed, until he crossed the street and closed the door behind him.

“Say 'bye,'” Leela coaxed her.

“Bye,” Maya echoed, watching him go, although not with that sweet spirit that always laced her voice.

And those nights—strangely, selfishly—were his favourite, even though the hardest. Because as much as it ached to walk away, it meant something. It meant she loved him in a way he could feel in his bones.

That carried him through the door, through the long hours, through the world beyond this big, white house of his. And when he returned—when he stepped onto that porch and saw her waiting there, chewing on her breakfast, beaming at him with her whole little heart—he swore, there was nothing on earth that could ever feel better.

Other nights—God, those nights—Maya wept like her whole world was caving in.

She’d stand at the door, fists rubbing furiously at her eyes, her lip trembling so hard she could barely get the words out. But she tried anyway, between big, shuddering breaths. “No go, no go, da-da.”

Again and again, like a prayer, like a plea, like she thought if she said it enough, it’d undo the fact that he had to leave. She’d cling to him, her small fingers curling into his shirt, her whole body pressed against his legs like she could anchor him there, keep him from slipping away.

And every single time, Leela would murmur knowingly from the doorway, arms folded, watching him with those calm, dark eyes.

“Guess you’re staying over tonight.”

And every single time, she was right.

He wouldn’t dare sleep in her bed—his courage only stretched so far—but he found his place in the nursery. The expensive memory foam mattress was properly equipped for a man of his size, but even then, he always woke up aching, every knot in his back a little worse than before. Not that he minded. He liked being close. Liked that if Maya so much as moaned in her crib in a sudden bout of loneliness, he’d hear it, could reach for her, could whisper, Shh, I’m here, and she’d settle instantly.

Some nights, he ended up in the basement instead.

Just to be near Leela.

She was always down there. Gloves rolled on, hair tied back, brow furrowed in concentration. Fixing something, building something, welding something—whatever it was, she did it with that singular focus, hands steady, mouth set, utterly in control.

And he was always there too. Hovering, passing her tools, handing her protective glasses, lifting the heavy things when she needed him to.

He told himself it was enough.

It was enough just to be close, just to hear her murmur thanks when he tightened a bolt for her or held a panel steady. It was enough to watch the way the glow of the welding torch lit up her face, how she wiped the sweat from her temple with the back of her hand, and how she chewed absently at the corner of her lip when she was thinking. It was hard to find common ground in the way he did with Maya—he didn’t have the brainpower for her technobabble, the same way she didn’t have the patience for guitar.

He told himself that. Over and over. It was totally enough.

“Y’know,” he muttered one night, leaning against the workbench as she tightened a bolt, “I got no goddamn clue what you’re doin’ half the time. S'like watching Top Gear. Can't understand shit, but it's fun as hell.”

Leela huffed a quiet laugh, not looking up. “I figured that out when you handed me the wrong pliers three times in a row.”

Joel rolled his eyes but smirked anyway. That was entirely her fault; those little shorts of hers were a daily nuisance and blessing. “Still doesn’t stop me from helpin’, does it?”

She finally glanced up, the corners of her mouth tugging upward in that soft, knowing way. “No,” she admitted. “I like it when you're next to me.”

Except—except sometimes it wasn’t.

Because every time he was near her, every time she was just within reach, he had to force himself not to touch her. Not to brush his knuckles down her spine. Not to stroke the delicate dip of her lower back. Not to slip his fingers just under the hem of her crochet top and feel the curves and planes of her skin against his calloused hands.

She was just so—beautiful.

It hurt sometimes, looking at her.

The smooth lines of her body, the way her throat moved when she swallowed, the effortless way she existed like she belonged in the world in a way he never had.

Sometimes, helpless to his wants, he'd reach out—slow, testing—just to brush the backs of his knuckles along the bare, soft skin of her thigh. Not much, just enough to feel the heat of her, just enough to see if she’d let him. God, he wanted his mouth there, he wanted to sink his teeth in, let his tongue taste what it was like there.

She didn’t move at first, and that was enough to make his breath catch—maybe, maybe—but, just as quick, she effortlessly shifted away, like she hadn’t even noticed. Like she hadn’t felt it.

She reached for a pen instead, silently scratching down something on a paper, brows furrowing in concentration.

Joel let his hand fall, flexing his fingers once before he curled them into a loose fist against his thigh. He told himself it didn’t sting. Not really.

Instead, he forced out a rough chuckle, trying to cover the way his heart still hammered up his throat. “You always this cruel, or am I just special?”

Leela hummed to herself, lips quirking like she might actually be amused. “You’re special, Joel.”

Joel grunted, shaking his head, but he couldn’t quite fight the smirk tugging at his own mouth. Damn tease, this girl.

It was getting maddening, waiting for her comfort. Waiting for her to want him.

Yet, here they were.

On his birthday, side by side in the Maranello, seats reclined all the way back, hood rolled down, the garage door cracked open behind them while the car lingered out on the huge driveway, the night breeze blanketing them. The scent of rain lingered from an earlier shower, mingling with the faint, distant burn of woodsmoke.

The sky stretched wide above them, endless and dark, stars scattered like someone had dragged their fingers through a bowl of salt. Crickets hummed, a lazy song against the quiet, broken only by the occasional clink of their beer bottles. A perfect, warm night.

Joel sighed, lifting his bottle to his lips. His gaze drifted over the dashboard, over the leather interior, over the sleek frame of the goddamn Lambo he was sitting in.

He still couldn’t believe it. Leela had gifted him this thing. Useless in the apocalypse. But fucking cool.

A snort rattled from his chest, and he thumped a fist against it to cover a burp. His stomach was full from his birthday dinner, grease and sauce still coating his tongue. Cheeseburgers, french fries with the little holes in them, cold beers. Classic. Having a grinning Maya pass him the glistening keys in the morning at breakfast? Adorable. Leela had outdone herself big-time.

“Burgers were top-notch, sweetheart,” he muttered, tipping his beer toward her in a lazy toast. “I 'preciate it.”

Leela pulled the bottle from her lips, raising a brow. “I believe the word you used for the burgers was 'gut-busting'.”

Joel huffed a laugh, shifting to glance at her, fully amused.

“Gut-busting, greasy-ass cheeseburgers,” they stated in unison.

Leela giggled, a hand over her mouth. His grin lingered, slow and easy. “A fast car and a fat burger. Hands down the best birthday I’ve had in twenty years.”

And just like that—just those few words—it struck him. Twenty damn years.

Joel rolled the bottle between his fingers, staring up at the sky, watching the way the stars flickered in and out of the clouds, how they dimmed and reappeared, shifting, changing—like they were alive. Like they had always been there, even when the night felt too dark to hold anything at all.

Twenty years.

This day had been a gaping wound for so long, torn open year after year, over and over, until it barely bled anymore. Just a dull, aching thing, carved into his ribs. A black hole that seemed to conquer him, again and again.

Twenty years ago, the world had ended. His world had ended.

He could still feel it if he let himself—the heat of the pavement. The smell of fire. The deadweight of her in his arms. The desperate, shaking press of his palm, Stay with me, baby, please stay with me—The silence after. The void. Sarah.

He swallowed hard, taking a slow sip of beer. Let the taste settle on his tongue, rich and bitter, grounding him to the moment.

Now. Now. Stay here.

Joel blinked, staring up at the stars, at the dark stretch of sky.

Because somehow—somehow—he was here. Sitting in the front seat of a convertible. Beer in hand. A belly full of hot food. A beautiful baby girl waiting for her goodnight kiss. A woman at his side, stunning and easy in her skin, fulfilling his dreams.

For the first time in twenty years—this day didn’t feel like hellish grief.

It felt like something else. Lighter, better, easy.

Funny how life does that to you. How it yanks you under, pulls you apart, spits on your face, leaves you with nothing—and then, somehow, years later, it gives you this.

Because if it weren’t for them—if it weren’t for Maya or Leela—he wouldn’t have left his house. Wouldn’t have stepped foot outside that goddamn pullout. Would’ve let himself rot in it, hollowed out and mourning, still letting the world pile itself on top of him until he disappeared beneath it.

But she had given him this. Not just the car or the amazing dinner. The moment. The peace. Hope in himself.

“I planted onions just for these burgers. They don't usually last the winter,” she mused all of a sudden, pulling him back to reality.

Joel turned his head, blinking and eyeing her. “You did?”

She nodded. “Can you believe that? And now you just belch it up like it's nothing.”

“Chrissake.” Joel groaned, throwing his arm over his eyes. Only she could make him sound that disgusting.

Leela laughed. A real laugh, warm and taunting, something she saved just for his ears. “But hey, you know what?”

Joel peeked at her from under his arm, and—shit. Shouldn’t have done that.

Because she’d rolled onto her side, head propped up on her palm, body stretched out, long legs draped lazily over the seat, the hem of her pretty yellow top riding up just enough to show a teasing sliver of skin. His gaze caught on the curve of her waist, the faint dip of her stomach, and the soft swell of her breasts pressed against the fabric of her top.

He had to collect his jaw back up and clear his throat. “What?”

She didn’t try. That’s what got him. Didn’t preen or pose. Didn’t shift under his gaze like she knew what she was doing to him.

She just was. Existing in the way she always had—effortless, untouched by his wanting, yet somehow still the sexiest goddamn thing he’d ever laid eyes on. Best fucking birthday ever.

“We missed something crucial,” she murmured, eyes gleaming in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

Joel swallowed thickly. “That so?”

She nodded. “Sodas. My favourite was—”

“Cherry Coke,” he finished, tongue-in-cheek.

She rolled her eyes. “Good to know I've become that predictable.”

He grunted, shifting onto his side too, trying—but failing—to move as smoothly as she did. “Well, actually, I missed a birthday kiss.”

Leela’s lips curved. Slow. Knowing. “I can fix that.”

Then she leaned in, putting his heart in overdrive.

Not hesitant. Not rushed. Just sure. Soft, just a brush of warmth against his mouth, so fleeting it almost didn’t happen. A whisper of heat, a promise more than a kiss. One more soft kiss on his nose before she pulled away.

“Only because you asked nicely,” she said, wiping a thumb over his mouth.

And that just pulled the rug right out from under him. He managed a smile as she leaned onto her back, head resting back over her arm.

She'd only kissed him because he wanted it. God, what a fucking joke he was.

She liked him. That much he knew. She liked his presence, liked that he was there, liked the easy simplicity between them. Liked just being with him without expectation or pressure. And yeah—after everything she’d been through, that was a good thing. A great thing. She saw him as someone she trusted. Someone she felt safe with.

But sometimes—sometimes, it almost felt like she didn’t see him.

Not as a man. Not as someone she wanted.

Look, he wasn’t some goddamn heartthrob. Wasn’t James Dean or Paul fucking Newman. He wasn’t expecting her to look at him like that, wasn’t expecting her to ache for him the way he ached for her. But was it so much to ask that she did look?

That she saw him, really saw him, as more than just Maya’s dad?

Because he saw himself. And what was there to want?

He’d caught his reflection in the mirror earlier. Stared at it longer than he should’ve, cataloguing everything he hated.

There was a paunch in his stomach, slight sagging muscles beneath the too-tight flannel, a scatter of age spots across his forehead, deepening creases in his brow, endless white creeping into his beard and temples, and years settling into his skin like old grief.

He gave his chest a scratch. Jesus. Ancient, worn down, unexceptional. Maybe that was why she didn’t kiss or touch him much. Perhaps it was easier to see him as something safe and constant—because there was nothing desirable about him anymore.

Once, he found an old packet of men’s hair dye while rummaging for an electric razor, set on plucking away those stubborn white hairs from his beard.

He’d held the dye packet, turning it over in his palm, giving it more thought than he wanted to admit. Wouldn’t hurt, right? Just to try?

But before he could shove it away, a voice.

“Are you going to use that?”

Leela stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her mouth twitching like she was holding back a laugh.

Joel gritted his teeth, fisting the pack so tight his knuckles went white. “No.”

She hummed, stepping closer, and Christ—he wanted to die right then and there. Or flush the damn thing down the toilet.

But instead—she reached for him.

Her fingers dragged through his hair, combing it back, nails barely grazing his scalp. And fuck—he sighed, head tipping forward, catching her wrist in his palm, pressing a slow, reverent kiss against her pulse. Felt it flutter beneath his lips.

“I really like this though,” she murmured.

Joel lifted a brow, not trusting himself to look at her fully. “I’m gettin’ old, darlin’. Nothing left to like.”

She nodded, her smile small, a little shy. “Oh, I don't know.” A pause. “I know I can’t wait for my hair to get like that.”

He frowned. “Like what? A zebra?”

She gave him a look, like are you really making me spell it out?

So, softly, she said, “So we’ll look the same, Joel.”

His chest caved in with a tight breath.

She didn’t just see him. She wanted to be like him.

His heart felt like it was too big for his ribs, pressing up against the inside of him, aching in a way that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with love. He was the king of the fucking world, alright. Jack Dawson had nothing on him.

He swallowed hard, gripping her wrist a little tighter, as if maybe—if he just held on long enough—he’d finally figure out how to put it all into words. How to tell her that she was everything. But all he could say was—

“You've got a long way to go,” he said, teasing.

She pushed her lips out to a pout. “Another few years?”

Joel huffed. She wasn’t even American. Her hair wasn’t going grey any time soon. He figured she had a good decade before she had to start worrying about it.

“Longer,” he said.

She hummed, tilting her head a little, studying him like she was trying to figure something out. And then, before he could process it, she leaned forward on her toes, pressing her lips to his. His hands instinctively came to settle on her waist.

Soft. Warm. Unhurried. Her fingers brushed along his jaw, the pad of her thumb stroking over the rough bristle of his chin. She lingered there for just a second before pulling away, pressing one last kiss to his cheek, like she was sealing something in place.

Because that single statement from her, that simple act, changed it all. Made him braver. Made him feel like maybe she did see him the way he wanted her to.

And come morning, he had his answer.

She was there at the kitchen island, waiting for him at breakfast, greeting him with another kiss—this time at the white hair on his temple, fingers curling into the curls at his nape as she slid a piece of toast onto his plate.

Yeah. He got the message.

There were bitter, darker days.

Less frequent than before, but still there, waiting beneath the surface. Days, where the loads settled too heavy on his chest, pressing him down, making the simple act of breathing, feel like a goddamn effort.

Yesterday had been one of those days.

From the moment he woke up, he'd known it, a dull, aching fog clouded his mind. His limbs felt sluggish, his body unwilling, his muscles all crumbs. He’d barely moved from bed, save for dragging himself to the kitchen, only to stand there, staring at nothing, gripping the counter's edge like it might keep him from drowning.

Sarah’s birthday. And he’d forgotten.

The realization had hit him out of nowhere, sucker-punching him in the ribs, making his breath catch.

How? How the fuck had he forgotten?

For years, her birthday had been a bare, uncleaned wound, a day spent drowning in liquor if it was nearby, in silence, in the unbearable pricks of memory. He’d counted down the days every year. Her age, had she been by his side. What she would've been doing.

And now?

Now he had let it slip past him, let it fade into the haze of normal days—just another morning, another afternoon. He had laughed yesterday. Laughed. He had eaten, spoken, kissed, sang, loved—without realizing what day it was.

A sickness had curdled in his gut. That painful guilt of living came unbidden. It made him disgusted with himself. So much, so that he couldn't dare face anyone around him. Not even Tommy.

So he did what he used to do.

He grabbed a bottle from the bar, kept his head down as he left, and took the back route home before Maya could spot him from the porch. He had seen her there, though. Tiny thing, peering down the street for him, waiting.

And he hadn’t wanted her to see him like this. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this.

He had shut the door behind him, the bottle clinking against the wood as he sank onto the couch, letting the liquor do what it always did—burn through the hollow parts, dull the sharp edges, and take him somewhere else.

And still, it hadn't been enough.

When evening crept in, it came slow. Shadows stretched long across the walls, the last of the day bleeding out in streaks of dull orange, then fading to blue.

He barely heard the knock at the door. A soft pat-pat-pat. And then—a voice. Small. Muffled through the wood.

“Da-da.”

Another knock, more rigid and insistent. “Joel?”

Joel barely moved. Didn't even turn his head. He wanted to, he really did. His body felt leaden, pinned beneath—this day, this year, all the years before it—pressed too deep into his bones, sinking him down into the mattress. His head throbbed, a slow, punishing ache, that faded at the edges but persistent. And that wound—the one no one could see—still wouldn’t close.

He couldn't face them like this. This broken shell of a person. What if they never came back after this?

“C’mon, Maya,” Leela murmured, gentle but firm. Obviously attempting to tuck Maya back into her side. “He’s probably tired. He’s sleeping.”

A beat of quiet. Then—Maya, in that soft, curious little voice— “Sleeeeepy.”

“That's right,” Leela hummed, warmth threading through her words. Like it was the easiest thing. Like sleep was something you could just slip into. “We’ll come back later.”

“Da-da dinna’.”

Something rustled outside. A soft thud. Joel blinked slowly at the ceiling, tracking the sound.

“Very good. Put the lid on top.” A pause, that gentle patience he had seen in her when she was with her daughter. “Do you want to go back home, and Mama will put some music for you?”

A clap. Small hands smacking together. An excited squeal. “Comma, comma, comma, Mama.”

A breath of laughter. Light and soft. “Yeah, baby. Let's go.”

The warmth of their voices drifted away, their footsteps fading down the porch, swallowed by the quiet of the night. He wanted to walk out, stop them, follow them, hold them—but he imagined how his ribs might crack, or the lead in his lungs might choke him.

So, Joel stayed where he was, his gaze unfocused, tracing the cracks in the ceiling. Leela wasn’t wrong. He was tired. But not the kind of tiredness that sleep could fix. Not the kind that ever really went away.

Time blurred. Hours, maybe. Minutes. He couldn’t tell. Nothing made sense in the darkness.

The whiskey had burned low in his veins, leaving behind only the ache, the hollowing out. Everything hurt, but not in the way anything could soothe away.

Eventually, exhaustion took hold. Not rest. Not peace. Just a slow descent into the depths, dark and familiar.

At last, he dreamt.

Of Sarah. Of her arms around him, small, warm, clinging tight, her face buried in his chest, breathing deep. Of her laugh. The way it used to sound—radiant, uninhibited, lighting up the spaces inside him that he hadn’t even known were empty.

For a second, he could almost believe it. Almost feel her again.

But then—the cold came. Took it all away.

Cold that seeped into the marrow, nailed in deep, wrapped tight around his ribs and never let go. The kind that pulled him under, again and again, no matter how hard he fought it. And fought so goddamn hard.

And yet—somewhere, in the edges of that darkness, something else lingered. Something little.

The echo of a laugh. Not Sarah’s anymore.

No, this one was lighter. Younger. Breathless. He liked it. It didn't hurt to hear it as much.

A weight against his chest—but different this time. Not loss, not emptiness. A little palm, splayed over his ribs, forming a fist into his collar. A warm, sleepy body curled into his chest, tap-tap-tapping away like she was making sure he was still there.

Maya.

Joel’s breath stuttered. Even in sleep, his body knew before his mind did. The warmth of it, the shape of it—what he had now. His reality.

And for once—for just a glad moment—it kept him from sinking. A life vest in his raging ocean.

Morning came too late, in slivers of light through the blinds. Pale. Reluctant. Afraid for him. Like even the sun wasn’t sure if it was welcome here.

Joel blinked, groggy and slow, rubbing a heavy hand over his face. His throat felt raw like he'd screamed too loud for too long, his mouth dry, the taste of stale whiskey clinging to his tongue. His head was thick, his thoughts sluggish, and beneath it all—beneath the crusted-over exhaustion and the dull throb of his skull—the hurt was still there.

That same old invisible bullet lodged somewhere deep, that never fully dislodged, pressing into the places he didn’t like to look at too closely. The kind of wound that never fully closed, never let him forget it was there.

Still—he pushed himself up like he always did.

Didn’t know why. Didn’t know what the hell was pulling him forward, keeping him upright, but he moved. Swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Dug his palms into his knees. Breathed through it.

Got the hell on with it.

He dragged himself to the sink, and planted his hands on the cool porcelain, gripping it hard, like it might hold him up if his legs finally gave out. His reflection stared back, hollow-eyed, lined with years and misery, the past carved deep into every crease, every shadow. He despised himself with every inch of his being. He hated it all.

He brushed his teeth with patience he didn’t have.

Splashed water on his face, cold and biting, shocking his skin like maybe that could shake him loose from the bullet pressing into his ribs.

It didn’t.

Still, he moved.

The morning light hit harder here, slanting golden through the windows, indifferent to the man standing in it. The world had the nerve to keep turning, to keep moving forward.

Joel squinted against the sunrays, his gaze landing on the coffee table.

The bottle sat there, emptied, toppled on its side, amber remnants clinging to the bottom.

And by the bottle—a sandwich. Small. Wrapped neatly with careful hands. He'd evidently bit into it and left the rest to rot overnight.

Joel exhaled, dragging a hand over his jaw.

He didn’t remember drinking. Didn’t remember setting the bottle down. Didn't remember walking to the door. Didn't remember staring out the window, across the street at the big, white house that had gone dark now. Didn't remember breaking down right there, feeling like a fucking failure to the dead and the living. Didn’t remember eating. Didn’t remember closing his eyes, or dreaming, or waking up.

Didn’t remember much of anything. Except for the pain.

But even that felt faded now—like an echo of something sharper, something that had already done its damage and left him to sit in the wreckage.

Still—he moved.

Stepped outside.

Joel blinked against the morning light, the world stretching wide and clear around him, washed in pale blue, moving on without him, uncaring, like it always had, and then—his body betrayed him.

His knees bent before he could stop them, hanging onto the rails, and he sank onto the porch steps, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Winded all of a sudden.

Count to ten, he recalled. Slow. Even. One, two, three.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

His ribs ached. His skin felt too tight, like it was trying to hold in something too big, something pressing outward from him.

And still—he counted. Four, five six...

By the time he looked up, the knot in his chest hadn’t loosened, not really, but—they were there, too.

Them. Across the street.

Leela and Maya. Standing in the wide front lawn, bathed in the softness of morning.

Leela had clearly been sidetracked—again—always halfway between duty and distraction. He knew how much she hated these chores. The clothesline stretched out, strung with damp sheets, but the laundry basket at her feet sat untouched, still full of what she’d meant to hang.

She wasn’t folding anymore.

Instead, she was holding up a long, white bedsheet, grinning at Maya's small hands curled into fists of excitement.

Joel watched as Leela ducked behind the sheet, disappearing—Maya’s breath hitched—and then—

Leela reappeared, hands lifting, fingers wiggling. “Boo!”

Maya shrieked, her whole body jolting in surprise before she collapsed onto the grass, giggling so hard she lost her balance, tumbling onto her little butt. Her laughter was bright, high-pitched, breathless, shaking her tiny shoulders.

Leela laughed too, full and warm, head tipping back just slightly.

And Joel just sat there. Breathing in, breathing out. Eight, nine, ten. Barely thinking about it anymore.

Because fuck.

After last night. After the whiskey. After the emptiness. After the memories had clawed their way out of their grave and wrapped around his throat like they wanted to drag him back under—

Here he stopped.

Watching this. Warm. Real. Close enough to touch.

Something that hadn’t been there twenty years ago, but was here now, right in front of him.

And he still didn’t think he deserved it.

But really—maybe he didn’t need to.

He didn’t move. Not right away.

Just sat there, hands braced on his knees, watching. Letting it settle into him, this moment. Something to dig his heels into while he caught up with the world again.

Leela exhaled, dramatic, hands on her hips. “Phew,” she huffed, glancing down at the still-full laundry basket. “Still got to hang these up.”

Maya, fresh off her giggling fit, sat up, rocking forward onto her hands and knees before clambering to her feet. Her dress—soft cotton, faded at the edges, patterned with tiny yellow flowers—was rumpled from rolling in the grass. A few strands of dark curls stuck to her forehead, but she barely noticed, too busy eyeing the basket with newfound purpose.

Joel could see it happen—that little shift.

The way her expression turned serious, brows knitting in focus, her lips parting like she’d just discovered the most important job in the world.

She reached down, fingers barely big enough to grasp the edge of a sheet. She grunted, giving it all she had, but it didn’t budge.

Leela glanced down. “Hm?”

Maya huffed, squared her tiny shoulders, and tried again—both hands this time, using her whole little body to tug at the fabric, little theatrical 'hng!' of hard work escaping her chest.

Still nothing.

“Mama.” She stomped her foot. “Up.”

Leela’s mouth twitched, amusement flickering in her eyes. She crouched beside her daughter, resting her hands on her knees. “Oh, I see. You’re helping me, huh?”

Maya nodded. Firm. Determined. “Gimme, gimme.”

Joel palmed his mouth, hoping the world didn’t take his smile away too soon.

Leela reached into the basket, fingers brushing lightly over Maya’s before gathering up the sheet properly. “Thank you, baby,” she murmured.

Maya beamed. Like the baby girl had just been handed the keys to the kingdom.

She toddled after her mother as Leela walked to the line, big eyes fixed on the way the fabric billowed like a cloud as it caught the light.

Joel exhaled. Sat frozen, watching.

The simple rhythm of it. The way Maya—so small, so certain—kept reaching down, picking up the next thing, both hands now, learning from last time, lurching after her mama with that same eager little voice.

“Mama, up.”

And every time—every single time—Leela patiently answered the same. “Thank you, baby.”

Again, and again. Again, and again.

Joel swallowed. His throat no longer felt tight. His head still ached, still held the despair of last night, of everything before it. But right now, here, with the cool air on his skin, the smell of damp earth in his lungs, the sound of Maya’s tiny voice chirping “Mama, up” over and over—

He could breathe. Really breathe.

And when his feet finally moved, when he finally pushed himself up from the steps and started walking toward them—it wasn’t some grand decision. It wasn’t something he had to force himself to do.

It was simply inevitable.

Leela didn’t hear him approach. Too focused on her daughter, on the task at hand, on the rhythm of their little world.

His fingers moved, apart from his control, found the frayed waistband of her shorts, just there, and hooked in. A gentle tug, a slow pull toward him.

Leela flinched—not much, just a hitch in her shoulders, a half-second's worth of instinct before she recognized him. Still unlearning old habits. Before she softened right against his chest.

And when she laughed, soft and knowing, she reached up without hesitation, fingers brushing along the side of his bristly cheek, a gentle, familiar warmth.

“G'morning,” she whispered.

Joel didn’t care anymore.

Didn’t care about the ghosts still clinging to his ribs. Didn’t care about the way exhaustion stretched him thin, about how last night still loomed in the back of his mind, dark and swollen and waiting to be acknowledged. Didn’t care that he probably looked half a corpse, standing there in yesterday’s clothes, smelling like whiskey and relapse.

He only cared about this. Only this.

The strings of her top tied at the nape of her neck, the curve of her spine beneath his fingertips, her skin warmed at his touch as he leaned in, pressed his open mouth against it, and let himself taste her where he could.

Leela sighed, tilting just slightly, like she always did—like her body always made room for him, even before her mind caught up.

His fingers slid forward, skimming beneath the loose hem of her top, smoothing down, trailing slowly over the smooth plane of her stomach.

A reminder. That she was here. That he was here. They were here. And that some things in this world were still good.

“Mornin',” he murmured into her skin.

Leela blinked, only half-registering the words. Then—

She sniffed and grimaced at him. “Jesus, Joel,” she muttered, nose wrinkling, “did you drink?”

Joel let out a quiet breath, pressing his forehead to the curve of her shoulder.

He shook his head. Not a yes. Not a no, not really. Just not now. “I don't wanna talk about it.”

Leela didn’t push. She only turned, facing him now, studying him like she was flipping through the pages of a book she already knew by heart.

His sunken eyes. The pallid, drawn look of him. His hair, a complete mess. His shirt, wrinkled like he hadn’t even bothered taking it off before collapsing somewhere.

He felt the attention in her stare. Not pity, she just understood. She knew because this had been her for some time, minus the alcohol.

So, all she said was—“Do you want to wash up?” Her voice was quiet. Only there for him. “I’ll make you some coffee and you can sit by the garden. Get some fresh air.”

Relief punched through him, sharp and unexpected. He nodded. Squeezed at her waist. “Yeah. Thank you.”

Leela didn’t look away, still watching him. Seeing if he needed anything else. Not even when he tried to smooth his voice out, tried to make it sound like he was okay.

“I'm alright, darlin’,” he promised—lied. “Had a rough night. Thanks for the sandwich.”

She patted his cheek before her lips curved into a meaningful smile. He really needed her with him, like the air he breathed.

“Maya,” Leela called, her eyes still anchored on his. “Look who's here, baby.”

Maya, busy untangling the last set of laundry from the basket, glanced up at her mother. Then her company.

Her face lit up, her mouth opening wide with a smile. And then she was off like a shot, legs pumping through the grass, a firecracker of squeals and giggles and wild, uncontainable joy.

Joel barely had time to brace himself before she crashed into his legs, clinging to him with all the strength her tiny body could manage.

“Da-da!”

Fuck.

He shut his eyes for half a second. That little voice, that little word, scraping a five-fingered claw so raw inside him, into something that shouldn’t be touched. But when he opened his eyes again, when he looked down and saw her, saw the absolute unsought delight written across Maya's face—

He couldn’t refuse her. He never could.

“Hi, baby girl,” he rasped, hoisting her up with one arm. “C'mere. Gimme a kiss.”

Maya fit perfectly against him, the way she always did, all carved in for herself, her arms impossibly small where they wrapped around his neck. And Jesus, the way she grinned at him—then leaned forward to smack a tiny, wet kiss on his cheek.

“You're breakin' my heart in that dress,” he told her, brushing a thumb over the little yellow flowers. “Did you pick it out?”

Maya gasped and pointed at them for him. “'S-h-f—s’flowers, my f-d-dwess,” she stammered, words tumbling over themselves in the excitement of seeing him.

Joel huffed a laugh, tucking his chin against her head. Christ, how did she get sweeter every goddamn day?

But then she started squirming, leaning right out of his arms, stretching her little fingers toward the clothesline as far as they could go. “Hang!”

Joel caught her before she toppled, laughing despite himself. “Woah, yeah, I know you did.” He glanced at Leela, who was watching them with that quiet, knowing expression. “Biggest little helper in the world.”

Maya nodded. Like it was a fact.

Joel pressed a kiss to her temple, still holding her close. “Listen, sunshine, I gotta hit the shower, okay? 'Cause your mama said I stink, and I can’t have that.”

Maya wrinkled her nose, scrunching up her whole face. He pinched at it.

Leela arched a brow. “Mama's only concerned,” she murmured.

“Mama ain't gotta be, yeah?” Joel shot back. But his voice was softer than before. Not so hollow.

Leela studied him for a second—like she knew that wasn’t true. Knew exactly what had happened last night. Knew exactly what he’d been trying to drown. But she didn’t say anything or call him out. She only did what Leela always did—she helped. Without condition. Without question.

“Now,” Joel cleared his throat, adjusting Maya in his arms, “which one of you pretty ladies is gonna fix me up a nice breakfast?”

Maya clapped her hands, a little burst of glee. “Yay!”

It started with Ellie. Because of course, it did.

That kid had a way of getting under his skin, of digging her nails into the parts of him he didn’t even realize were still soft. Poking. Prodding. Needling. And she’d done just that—smirking, goading, dangling the bait in front of his face like she knew damn well he was gonna take it.

“Well, sourpuss, Leela’s coming,” she'd convincingly said to him as they were returning their horses to the stables after patrol.

Joel had laughed at her face. Scoffed, even. And, what? His Leela? At the Tipsy Bison? At a goddamn party? With all the noise, all the music, all the drunk, sweaty fools two-stepping on the wooden floor? No chance in hell.

Yet, Ellie went on.

“I dunno how Tommy convinced her,” she had said, grinning like she’d already won, shoving her hands into her pockets. “But—yeah. She’ll be here with Maya.”

And that was all it took.

Which was how Joel found himself here. Stood stiff by the bar, one hand wrapped around a sweating glass of beer, the other clenching and unclenching at his side. His leather jacket felt too damn hot under the press of too many bodies, the heat of the string lights, and the music—Christ, the music. That twangy, knee-stomping, boot-scuffing, banjo-heavy bullshit rattling through the rafters—loud enough to set his damn teeth on edge. He'd hated it back then, and he hated it now.

The annual hoedown at the Tipsy Bison.

The world couldn’t give him a break. How in God’s name had he ended up here? How the hell had he let this happen?

This was not his scene. And it sure as hell wasn’t Leela’s. They would've been at home, curled up for dinner, amusing themselves with Maya like she was their favourite show on the television.

All it took was to establish that Leela was going to be there.

Because now, here he was—standing in the corner like a goddamn joke, cleaned up like he had any business being out on a Friday night, his boots polished, his hair combed back, his leather jacket slung over a shirt he actually bothered to button properly. Dressed to the fucking nines, he was.

And for what? To sit in a sea of drunken idiots and wait? Wait for her to walk in, looking like she was some kind of myth, some rare, elusive thing, something too glorious to be real? Wait for every goddamn person in the room to notice?

Because they would. Of course, they fucking would. Even the straightest of women would be turning their heads for her if they'd seen what he'd seen. Those never-ending legs, that face, that smile—shit, yeah, he was in big trouble.

Because fucking Maria had gotten her hands on Leela, and Maria was up to no good.

He’d tried. Lord knows he’d tried. He had stomped up the stairs at the fifteen-minute mark, knowing damn well this whole thing was taking too long, and had called, “Alright, well—sweetheart, nothing too showy, right? Y’know, these people don’t ‘preciate that as much as—”

“Oh, get the fuck outta here, Smeagol!” Maria had shouted him off.

Now, he was here... all because of her. And she wasn’t even here yet.

Joel exhaled sharply, jaw ticking, eyes darting to the door for the tenth time in five minutes. Nothing. He dragged his fingers along the rim of the bottle, still scowling at the bar like it owed him an apology.

Because the longer he stood here, the clearer it became what was really getting to him.

It wasn’t that Leela was coming.

It wasn’t that she’d let Maria fix her up—touch her pretty face, brush out her hair, maybe even put her in a pretty little dress.

No. It was the eyes. The way they were gonna watch her.

Hell yeah, Joel was jealous man. One of the many sins he had the privilege of bearing. He could get territorial as fuck, no doubt about it. All that sharing and community crap was bullshit. He had what he had, and it was splendid. Perfect, even. It was his because he kept it that way. He wasn't about to flaunt it to everyone in this town, have everyone poking at the green-eyed monster. And now was not the right time to test it, especially with his shocking self-esteem at an all-time low.

Damn it, this was his Leela.

She wasn’t just pretty. She wasn’t just easy on the eyes. She was—God, she just was. Unknowable. Untouchable. Something soft and sharp and utterly fucking stunning—and worst of all? She didn’t even realize it.

But they would. And Joel—fuck, he was pissed. Not at her. Never at her.

At them.

Because they didn’t get to see her the way he did.

Not in the morning, curled up and soft, her voice all husky and groggy. Not when she was tired in the afternoons, tucked into the couch with Maya, absentmindedly stroking her little girl’s hair. Not at night, in the flickering warmth of the fireplace, barefaced and undone, tucked between her blackboards and chalk pieces, humming the rhythm of equations under her breath.

They didn’t get that. They didn’t get her. But that wouldn’t stop them from looking. From trying.

Joel was still scowling at the door when Ellie appeared at his side, grinning like a fox. Before he could say anything—something landed on his head, slumping into his eyes. A ritzy, cowboy hat.

His whole body went rigid.

“Hat-asaur, yeah!” Ellie whooped, slapping the brim.

Joel exhaled sharply. The Lord was really trying him tonight. His hand went up automatically, ready to rip the damn thing off, but—

“Wait, Joel, c’mon!” Ellie slapped his hand away. “You look good, Maya will love it.”

Joel sighed and dragged a hand down his face. Then—begrudgingly, muttered, “Fine.”

Ellie whooped again, nudging him hard enough to make him stumble a step forward.

He grumbled something under his breath, eyes still glued to the damn door. Because any second now—she was gonna walk in. And already, it felt like his ass was on fire.

He flexed his fingers, shifting on his feet, too aware of the way the hat sat a little too low over his eyes, the way his collar felt like it was choking him. He wasn’t nervous, alright? Not nervous. Just—

Shit.

The door opened. At first, it was just a blur of movement, people shuffling in and out, but then—there.

Leela stepped inside. And Joel was simply a man who’d been gone a long time and just found his way home.

Her head was tilted slightly down, eyes lowered in that way of hers, like she wasn’t sure if she clicked in a place like this. Maya was tucked close to her side, her little hand securely fastened within her mother's, but she was already wriggling, already whining, ready to tear herself away and make her own little discoveries around the place.

Little thing was decked out in tiny denim overalls, small curls pulled into two bows, soft white boots barely keeping up as she stomped at the floor, still fighting against Leela’s hold, squealing her frustration, saying, “Mama, go, me go!”

And well—thank you, Maria. Because Jesus Christ. Leela wasn’t wearing anything particularly more catering to her strappy tastes, nothing that showed more skin than usual, but somehow, it was worse—because of course it was.

The soft brown dress unevenly swayed at her calves, the deep plunge of it down to her sternum until it nearly blended into her skin, the measly beaded strings tied around her neck. Her black hair all loose and wild around her waist. Effortless as anything.

And those goddamn embroidered, leathery cowgirl boots. Stopped his goddamn heart. Sexy as hell. All he could think about now was having them over his shoulders, that dress pulled to the seam of those arch legs, lips tasting, moving against that sweet, sweet—

He closed his eyes to collect his scattered wits for a second. Oh, Christ, he was already losing it.

See it didn’t matter that the dress was modest, that she wasn’t trying to draw attention to herself. People were still fucking looking, alright.

Leela hadn’t spotted him yet, her focus on a sniffling Maya as she crouched low, murmuring something in her ear, pressing a warm kiss to her palm, before handing her off to Maria with a soft, “Sorry, I’ll be right back.”

She searched the crowd, weaving carefully between bodies, until she looked up and spotted him. No other flicker in her eyes, just recognition, as she didn't waste another second and made her way straight to him.

Joel barely had time to say anything before she reached for his hand, cool fingers slotting through his as she dragged him aside, away from the crowd, away from the noise, into a quiet corner near the stairs.

“Come with me,” she murmured to him.

He could feel the eyes burning through him, the silent stares pressing in from every direction. And for a split second, he had the strongest urge to make it known. To push her against that wall. To kiss her. To stake his claim, loud and clear for the whole damn bar to see.

But before he could do a thing, Leela was stopping.

She was unfolding something. A piece of paper, scrawled with numbers and symbols smoothed out between trembling fingers.

Her eyes darted to his, wide and glowing with something almost feverish.

“I did it,” she said, voice a mere breath and almost shaking. “I solved it, Joel. The Riemann Hypothesis.”

Joel blinked. The who-what now?

“Took me ten whole years,” she whispered, hands trembling slightly as she held up the paper. “And my dad’s entire life. I-it’s a milestone in the field of mathematics. I just solved the biggest unsolved problem out there, Joel. Oh, I—I don’t know what to do—I don’t—Omigod—shit, I can’t breathe—”

“Hey, hey.” Joel reacted before he could think, his hands reaching up, long fingers networking at the back of her head, cupping her face, grounding her to him.

“Daggum, girl, you're incredible,” he murmured, close to her ear, pressing a kiss there. “You make me proud every damn day.”

Leela let out a breath, squeezing her hands to her mouth, eyes bright and almost disbelieving. “Thanks.”

She exhaled again, shaking her head a little, like she was still trying to wrap her mind around it.

A thought hit her. Then—her gaze snapped back to his, sharp and alive. She held his elbows tight.

“Do you know someone we can tell?” she asked, the words tumbling out. “This is really revolutionary, Joel. Would Tommy or Maria know? Someone outside of Wyoming maybe, a professor or a student? Radio them? Or someone who—um, can get this notarized?”

Her words started rushing out, full of hope, full of expectation—but Joel had nothing. He just stood there.

He was a man used to thinking practically, used to reading the world for threats, for weaknesses, for what mattered in the immediate sense of survival.

This was out of his hands, out of his understanding. Leela’s excitement, the breathless urgency in her voice—it’s not something he was used to handling. It’s not something he can fix with his fists, with a gun, with a little death. This was bigger than him, bigger than Jackson, bigger than this world they’re barely holding together.

And that’s the part that was eating at him.

Because she cared about this. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way she shook when she pressed that crumpled piece of paper into his hands. This wasn’t just numbers to her. This was ten years of her life. This was her father’s legacy.

And all he could do was stare at it.

Because what the fuck was he supposed to say? What could he tell her when there’s no one left to hear it? Anyone worth anything was gone? When there’s no university, no award, no history books to remember her name?

It made him angry in a way he couldn’t explain. At the whole fucking world. At the way it had stolen so much from her already—and now it was going to take this, too.

She saw it in his face before he even spoke. He tried to think, tried to come up with something, but he was taking too long.

And that was the worst part. Because that spark, that glow in her eyes—it was already dying.

She swallowed and managed a faltering smile. Folded the paper back up, like it was nothing. Like it was just another thing she had to let go of.

“So silly,” she mumbled.

Joel wanted to stop her. To tell her it mattered that what she’d done was worth all the awards, golds and notaries in the world. But what would that mean coming from him? What the hell does he know about numbers or legacy? He'd shit all over his own.

So he just watched as she tucked the paper away. That familiar, bitter rage simmered at the back of his throat.

“Darlin’,” he said softly, stroking the back of her head.

She shook her head. “No, it’s fine,” she said quietly, running a hand through her hair. “I just—I don’t know what I was expecting. World's different now.”

Joel clenched his jaw. She should’ve expected more. She deserved more.

The world was too small now, and she was too big for it.

A moment passed, heavy and quiet, and Joel really tried to work his mouth, distract her, pull her out of her head. He didn't need to.

So softly it barely made a sound—

“I like your hat.”

Joel blinked at her, and felt something in his chest ease, just a little, at the quiet humour in her voice. He exhaled a small laugh, tipping his head slightly, letting the hat slink a little lower, playing along.

“Yeah? Reckon you’ve never been hit on by a real cowboy before,” he drawled, all gravel and honey, emphasizing his accent, thumb hooking into his belt.

Leela let out a soft laugh, her fingers brushing her lips. “Never even been to a bar before.”

Joel whistled, low and slow, shaking his head like he’d just laid eyes on the Mona Lisa. “Damn shame for a pretty young thing like you.”

He really was trying, pulling out all the big guns. Laying it on thick, thicker than he had any right to, but goddamn—if she deserved the world, and he couldn’t give her that, at least he could make her smile. At least he could lift that weight off her shoulders, even for a minute.

So he leaned in a little more, let his voice drop to a slow, easy drawl, and let the heat of his gaze do half the work.

“Well, now,” he murmured, watching her just a little too long, letting his gaze drag over her like a slow hand, “lucky for you, darlin’… I got a real nice record of showin’ a lady a good time. My saddle ain’t the only thing gettin’ ridden hard if you said it.”

Leela raised her brows, sceptical but not immune. “...saddle? Oh.”

Joel felt it the moment it landed. The way her breath hitched—not much, just enough. The way her fingers tightened around the folded slip of paper in her hand.

And he wanted to feel it—wanted to feel that tension in her, the kind he swore he could taste in the air between them. It had been a long goddamn time since he felt this—since he wanted something enough to reach for it.

Slow, steady—like breaking a skittish horse. Like testing the waters, making sure she wouldn’t spook. His hand hovered, calloused fingers just inches from her skin, giving her the chance to move, to pull away, to tell him no.

She didn’t. So he took what she gave.

His fingers found her chin, the pad of his thumb barely grazing the plush curve of her bottom lip. He tilted her face up just a fraction—just enough to make her look at him, to catch that moment her lips parted on instinct, like she was already breathless.

Jesus. His control didn’t do much when she blinked up at him like that, lashes and lips fluttering—just asking to be pinned to that wall behind her.

His smirk came easy—lazy, dangerous, wolfish. Yeah, he knew that look. Knew it because he felt the same damn way.

He casually let go, and her eyes followed his hand down to his side.

“See,” he continued, angling his body toward hers, close enough to catch the way her pulse ticked at the base of her throat. “A cowboy’s got a duty, y’know. Gotta show a fine lady what a proper gentleman’s like.”

His fingers dipped under the brim of his hat, tipping it just so—shadowing his eyes, letting his gaze drop, nice and slow, just long enough to let her know exactly where he was looking.

Then, a slow shrug—broad shoulders rolling under his shirt, casual, easy—like he wasn’t laying a goddamn trap.

“Well,” he drawled, voice turning downright sinful, “‘d be mighty honoured to be called yours t’night.”

And there it was. And Joel knew right then and there—he had her. Because she didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t laugh or stop him.

That telltale little pause—like maybe, just maybe, she was picturing it. He knew he was.

Instead, she just stood there, watching him, lips parted like maybe she had something to say—something that got lost somewhere in the space between them.

And for one wild, reckless moment, Joel thought she might just lean in, kiss the crap out of him. But then—she blinked, and the moment was gone.

She let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head. “You're funny.”

Joel grinned, even though he felt the shift. The retreat. “That so?” he drawled, still not letting up.

“You sound like you walked out of a Western.”

He smirked, tipped his hat lower, and let his voice drop just for her. “Now, sugar, that ain’t no way to talk to the man who’s about to teach you how to have your first bar fight. I quite like a girl with some fire in her belly.”

That got a laugh out of her. A real one. And Joel soaked it in, every damn inch of it.

Leela snorted, rolling her eyes. “Absolutely not.”

“C’mon, now,” he teased, nudging her arm, his fingers just barely brushing against the soft skin there. “You’ve been missin’ out, angel, bein’ all locked away in that big house of yours.”

She raised her palm up in surrender. “Excuse me for having more pressing matters.”

Joel let his gaze drift over her, taking his time, dragging over the curve of her dress, the shape of her legs in those maddening boots. And then—he looked her right in the eye.

“Well,” he murmured, deep and sure, “maybe it’s time you stopped thinkin' about it.”

And just like that—the mood swerved again. Leela’s smile flickered, fingers twitching at her side.

She wasn’t looking at him anymore. Joel hated that he understood what that felt like. Hated that she deserved so much more than this world could ever give her. But before he could say a thing—

A little body slammed into his leg, nearly knocking him off balance.

Joel let out a breath just in time to feel Maya’s tiny arms latch around his calf, her face tipped up at him, all big eyes and a hopeful little four-teeth grin.

“Pease, pease, da-da,” she whined, hopping in place, her little hands patting at his jeans. “Up!”

Joel exhaled, running a hand down his face. Jesus Christ. Tic-tac-sized cockblocker, he was raising.

Leela laughed, faint and knowing, shaking her head as Maya demanded his full attention. But Joel couldn't even be mad. Baby girl was looking at him like he'd just walked straight out of heaven.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, already reaching for her. “C’mon up, trouble.”

Maya squealed, her little body kicking excitedly as Joel lifted her into the air, her arms flung out like she was ready to take off. He swung her once, twice, before tucking her close, and she immediately latched onto him, her tiny hands gripping at his collar like she owned him.

Hell. Maybe she did.

She smelled like baby powder and whatever sweet stuff Tommy had probably snuck her earlier, and her little curls were tickling his jaw as she wriggled against him. She was always moving, always vibrating with energy, her whole body alive with it.

Then, suddenly—her wide eyes locked on his hat. Oh, hell. Joel knew that look.

“Gimme, gimme,” she demanded, tiny fingers already reaching.

He playfully narrowed his eyes at her. “Gimme?” he echoed, raising a brow. “That how you ask me?”

Maya pushed her lips out—big, dramatic, a whole damn performance. All that, he had no idea where that came from. Then she reached again, ready to rip it off him if she had to. “Gimme.”

Leela sighed beside them. “Maya, you have to say plea—”

“Pease!” Maya cut in quickly, blinking up at him with too much innocence.

Joel shook his head, letting out a low chuckle. “Goddamn, you’re trouble.”

Then, without another word, he took the too-big hat off his head and plopped it right onto hers.

The thing swallowed her whole. She was just this tiny little baby, her grinning cheeks barely visible beneath the brim, only the tips of her fingers peeking out as she held it up with both hands.

Then—with all the theatrics of a seasoned performer—she bent all the way back, her whole body arched beneath the hat, peering at him, flashing him a big, toothy grin.

And when she let out that breathy giggle—sharp, bright, real—Joel felt his chest squeeze. Too damn much.

“You havin’ fun under there?”

Maya nodded so hard the hat nearly flew off, and she had to grab at it, still giggling.

Then, out of habit, he glanced up—toward Leela.

No, she wasn’t really there. Her body was, sure—standing right beside him, arms crossed, eyes aimed at Maya. But she wasn’t watching. She was elsewhere, stuck somewhere in her own head, her fingers twitching like she wanted to grab at something—her pocket, that damn folded-up paper, something to keep herself busy.

Joel’s grip tightened on Maya.

He knew that look, the feeling. The way the body stayed standing but the mind wasn’t anywhere close.

His mouth opened, but before he could get anything out—

“I’ll go get a drink,” Leela muttered.

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was her way of saying—don’t follow me. So, he just let her go with a quiet nod.

But the second she disappeared into the crowd—he moved. His jaw was already tight as he reached for Ellie, snagging her by the arm and pulling her away from whatever dumb thing she was about to get into.

“The fuck... Joel?” she snapped, yanking at his grip.

Joel ignored her. Nodded toward the bar.

“Leela’s out of it,” he muttered, voice low. “Get her with your friends. Make her relax or somethin’.”

Ellie’s brows pulled together, her sharp little gaze flicking toward where Leela had gone. “What, so you’re just pawning her off? Your precious darlin'?”

Joel shot her a don't-test-me-look.

Ellie rolled her eyes. Dramatic as hell, now he knew exactly where Maya was getting it from. “Fine, whatever,” she muttered. “I got it.”

And with that, she disappeared after Leela, not without giving Maya's nose a little affectionate boop.

Joel stayed put, jaw still clenched, a hand on his hips, gaze locked on the door.

A small, warm hand patted his cheek for his attention.

“Da-da,” Maya mumbled. Her tiny fingers gripped his collar again, her cheeks still half-swallowed by his hat, her dark eyes big and certain.

And just like that, his body eased.

Joel sighed through his nose. “Yeah, baby girl. I'm here.”

Then, slowly, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of her tummy.

“C’mon,” he murmured, shifting her higher against his chest. “Let’s get you somethin’ to drink, too. You want to share a beer?”

Maya had been swept away by the time Tommy had caught up to Joel with a bottle and a few guys, practically pried out of Joel’s arms before he could blink. Maria had her now, parading her like a carnival float, making a whole damn show out of her.

And why wouldn’t she? The smallest baby in dirt road Jackson. Hell, Maya was practically town property at this point.

Joel watched, a little amused, as Maria lifted her high, twirling her around like a prize before setting her on her shoulders. Maya squealed, fisting her tiny hands into Maria’s hair, kicking her little boots, having the goddamn time of her life.

“Miller baby’s gonna get spoiled rotten,” Tommy muttered beside him, arms crossed.

That name still rubbed at him wrong. “Already is,” Joel mumbled.

He hummed. “And she’s eatin’ this up, little peacock.”

Joel made a derisive noise in his throat. “Ain’t her fault everyone here treats her like the second comin’.”

Tommy chuckled, shaking his head. “Can’t blame ‘em. Cute as hell.”

Joel couldn't argue with that. Just watched Maya beam at the attention, watched Maria spin her like she was royalty, watched as people—grown adults—cooed and clapped like she was putting on a Broadway show.

Yeah. This kid had them all wrapped around her little finger.

Joel exhaled, rubbing his jaw, his fingers pressing into the rough scrape of stubble like it might ground him. Tommy stood beside him, his stance easy, but Joel knew his brother too well—there was a thought in the way he was standing.

And then—the nudge. So casual, it almost had him fooled.

“So, back to the point,” Tommy started, quieter now, like he didn’t want the words to carry. “Leela’s big breakthrough. Hypothesis or whatever. Shit, I knew she had it in her.”

Joel ran his tongue over his teeth, nodding, preferring to stay silent rather than give anything away.

Tommy sighed, bracing a hand on his hip, eyes lazily scanning the room before he went on. “Listen, man, there are—people. Some folks I knew way back. When I was with the Fireflies. Dunno if they're still around, but...”

Joel turned his head slowly, his jaw tightening like a steel trap.

Tommy met his gaze, serious now. “Way outside of LA.”

Joel didn’t say anything. Just waited.

“They’re still keepin’ the science goin’,” Tommy said, voice lower now. “Not a lot. Just—pockets of ‘em, doin’ what they can. Research and stuff. Pretty legit. The kinda thing she’d wanna hear.”

Joel’s fingers flexed against the worn leather of his belt.

He didn’t like where this was going. Or the thought of giving her something to hope for, just to rip it out of her hands when it all went to hell. He also didn’t like how much this conversation was starting to matter to him.

Tommy let out another sigh, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“But we keep off the radar,” he said firmly. “No radio, no messages, nothin’ that could get the wrong kinda attention. You know the rules.” He levelled Joel with a look, voice final. “So, I won’t tell her a thing.��

Joel swallowed, his throat tight, something hot and sour curdling in his gut.

It was the right call, but that didn’t mean he liked it. He despised knowing that there were still people out there who gave a shit about knowledge, about discovery, about the old world. Knowing that Leela might’ve had a place there, if things had been different.

He grunted. “Good.”

Tommy exhaled, long and slow, like he’d been holding his breath. “Maria and I were thinking.... it'd be nice if she helped out at the school.”

Joel sniffed a, “What?”

Tommy shrugged, shifting his weight. “Y’know. Teach the kids.”

Joel furrowed his brows, fully turning to face him now. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“I mean, she’s sittin’ on all that knowledge,” Tommy said. “And she’s stuck in that damn house all the time.” He lifted a brow. “Might do her some good. Get her mind off…” He waved vaguely, eyes flicking in the direction Leela had gone. “Everything.”

Joel just stared at him.

Tommy shrugged again. “Think about it.”

Joel did. It wasn't the worst idea. But he didn't know if she’d be up for it or even consider stepping into that kind of role. He was about to say as much when—

A burst of murmurs and hoots erupted from the centre of the bar, cutting through the low hum of music. Chairs scraped, people turned, and a few whistles pierced the air.

Both brothers looked toward the noise. Tommy raised a brow. Joel narrowed his eyes.

“What in the...”

And then he saw her.

Leela. Right there in the centre of it all. She was surrounded—by Ellie, Dina, Jesse, and a few others forming a loose, laughing circle around her, dancing along. Encouraging. Egging her on.

She wasn’t two-stepping. This wasn’t a country song anymore. The band had taken a break, and someone had thrown on an old record—something slow, sultry, snappy, the kind of tune that slinked through the air, curling into the bones, pushed you to move.

And she was feeling it.

Joel had never seen her dance like that. Way too much for his heart to handle. Not his Leela, who never strayed too far from the walls, slipping between shadows, never let her guard down, never let herself be seen.

When Soft Cell sang about having the burnin', yearnin' feeling inside on Where Did Our Love Go, he felt that deep. Right now—she was a goddamn sight. Pure, wicked temptation.

Body swaying, hips rolling in slow, leisurely motions. Hands tangled in her own hair, then sliding down her neck—down—over her chest, grazing her ribs, curling over the curve of her waist.

She had no idea what she looked like right now—how that loose dress clung to her body with every billow, shifting and stretching with every movement. How the dim, golden light caught on her skin, illuminating her like some sort of deity.

How nearly every person in this bar had stopped to watch her.

It pissed him off.

And yet—he couldn’t look away.

Joel’s fingers twitched at his sides. Didn’t know whether to stop her or—pull her close.

Drag her against him, press his hands to her waist, and let her roll those hips against him, sink his teeth into her skin, deep enough to leave his mark. Hold her still, just for a moment, just long enough to feel her body fit into his—see if she’d let him.

So soft, willing, entirely elsewhere. Like she wasn’t in Jackson anymore, wasn’t in this old, rough-edged bar, but in some smoky club, where the lights were low, sequins danced off clothes, and the air was sweaty and nobody cared about pasts or promises.

The way her skirts fluttered as she moved, clutched loosely in her fingers, lifting just enough to show the lean muscle of her legs. The way she smiled—full, unguarded, head tossed back, a laugh cruising out, teeth gleaming in the dim light, unrestrained, a sound so full of life it hurt.

He’d seen her smile before. But never like this—wild, free, daredevil. Ellie must’ve really gotten more than three hard drinks in her.

Joel swallowed hard, forcing his feet to stay planted where they were.

Because something about this—about her—about the way her body moved, the way she felt the rhythm like it was something sacred, the way she tilted her head, eyes fluttering shut for a moment like the music sunk under her skin—

Something about it made Joel feel like his skin didn’t quite fit around his bones. Like something was gnawing at him. Feeding into his insatiate hunger. He curled his hands into fists, shoving them into his pockets. Because the way he wanted to touch her right now? Not fucking appropriate.

Tommy doubled up with a hoot. “Oh, hell, man.” He clapped Joel on the shoulder. “That’s a whole different Leela right there!”

Joel exhaled slowly, forcing his jaw to loosen. He knew he should be worried. Should be thinking about why she was drinking that much, why she was like this all of a sudden. Relaxing was different. This was goddamn spinning in outer space.

But she wasn’t reckless. She wasn’t stumbling, wasn’t out of control. She was just—happy. And how the hell was he supposed to take that from her?

Joel shook his head, mouth twitching into something dangerously close to a grin. “Just let her be.”

Tommy shot him a look. “Yeah?”

Joel exhaled, watching as Leela did something almost like a body roll, slow and smooth, skirts flicking as she spun. He dragged a hand over his beard. “Never seen her smile like that.”

And God. He wanted her to keep smiling like that. He wanted to keep her like that. That lightness. That freedom. That untouchable, golden, weightless feeling. She’d been carrying that unspeakable shit in her chest since the day he met her. And now?

Now, she looked free. Like she was burning it all away. Let her, the world owed her that much.

She threw her hair forward, fingers raking through the strands before she whipped it back, shaking it out, arms in the air, eyes half-closed, a small, lazy grin curling at her lips—

Joel was staring. Unblinking. Jesus, just look at her. All of that belonged to him. He really did all right for himself, didn't he?

And he wasn’t the only one watching.

“Holy shit,” Tommy murmured, his amusement barely contained. Joel didn’t have to look at him to know that stupid grin was plastered all over his face. “You lucky old bastard.”

“Shameless jackass.” Joel smacked him upside the head, but hell—he wasn’t gonna argue.

Because Leela was out there, a careless grace, hips swaying, head tilted back just enough for the dim glow to catch on the slope of her throat. She wasn’t dancing with anyone, not really—just herself, the music, the air around her.

And then—she spotted him. Their eyes locked.

Joel watched, not backing down, cocking a brow, casually lifting the rim of his beer to his mouth. Go on, then.

Her lips curled slow, teasing, teeth catching on the edge of a grin as she raised her index finger, a silver ring glinting off it—beckoning him. A clear come-hither look if he'd ever seen one. Dance with me.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose. She was being such a goddamn tease tonight.

Where the hell was this girl all along? He was halfway to forgetting himself, forgetting how his boot was planted firm against the bar wall, how he wasn’t the kind of man to drift into the thick of things, but hell if she wasn’t making it too damn tempting. His feet nearly moved on their own.

The little flirt brought the fingernail between her canines, watching him back through dark lashes, still swaying. Oh, she knew exactly what she was doing to him, drunk or not.

Then someone grabbed her.

It happened fast—a rough hand curled at her elbow, breaking that moment clean in two. Yanking her back, that playful grin dropped from her face as she stumbled back.

“You wanna fuckin' dance like that, you take it to the fuckin' streets where you belong,” the man sneered, his grip tight, stance aggressive.

Joel didn’t spare another thought, pushing past people, single-minded on one thing, one thing only. Fucking this guy up.

He was already moving, already cutting across the floor before Ellie’s sharp “Hey—!” had fully left her clenched teeth. Before Dina had raised her voice louder or Jesse had shoved his drink onto a nearby table.

Joel got there first.

His fist caught the guy’s collar, violent and hard, hauling him back so fast his boots scraped the floor. The man let out a startled grunt as Joel shoved him, sending him staggering.

“Get the fuck off me!” he barked, regaining his footing and immediately shoving back.

Big mistake—he might as well have tried pushing a brick wall. Joel barely moved a muscle.

That dark, familiar thing flared in his chest, searching for fuel, the way it always did before things got really bad for someone else. It thrived in moments like this. His jaw locked, teeth gritted.

Tommy got between them fast, hands up. “Alright, hey. Back off.”

The man’s lip curled, face twisted. “She’s makin’ a damn scene. Grown men tryna enjoy a drink, and she’s out here—” he waved a hand, scowling, “—doin’ that sleazy shit.”

“She was dancing, motherfucker,” Ellie snapped.

Dina stepped forward, unhesitant. “You got a problem with a girl having some fun?”

The bar crackled with tension.

Joel hadn’t looked away from the bastard. His chest rose slow, calculated, shoulders squared. He could already feel the heat of his pulse through every vein.

And the son of a bitch had the audacity to hold his gaze.

Joel was one word, one breath away from ripping his fucking teeth out of his head.

His fingers curled at his sides, hot with the need to do something, to wipe that smug look clean off the bastard’s face. It was an old, ugly feeling, one he knew too well—one that had kept him alive, carved into his bones like instinct.

“Don’t, Joel.” Tommy’s voice, quiet, firm. A name. “Maya.”

Joel’s breath hitched, like a hand gripping his collar, yanking him back before he could step over the edge.

He flicked his eyes past Tommy—past Maria—toward the far end of the bar. And there she was. His baby girl, small in Maria’s arms, being bounced in a steady rhythm. Distracted enough, but still watching. Big, dark eyes locked onto him, lips parted, fingers idly picking at her mouth like she did when something upset her.

Joel forced himself to breathe a calm breath in.

The man muttered something under his breath, took a step back.

Joel let him go. For now.

When he turned for Leela, she was stock-still, eyes fixed on the ground like she was trying to unsee what just happened. Her breath came shallow, uneven. Her fingers twitched at her sides, curling and uncurling, like they hadn’t quite gotten the message that the danger had passed.

Joel moved toward her without another thought, reaching for her. His hand found her face, a thumb grazing over her cheekbones. “Hey, we're done here.”

She blinked up at him. Swallowed. Lips parted like she meant to answer, but nothing came.

Joel didn’t wait, didn’t want to stand in this damn bar any longer with all these eyes on them and the sticky air pressing in. He guided her out—out of the noise, out of the murmurs, out into the cooler air beyond.

He barely heard the bar door swing shut behind them, noises within muffled by the night. His grip around Leela didn’t loosen until they reached the railings, and even then, he kept a steadying hand at her arm as she lowered herself to sit.

She sagged against the cool wood, breath coming uneven, gaze distant.

Joel inhaled deeply, trying to work the fire out of his blood. It only eased a fraction—just enough to let him think past the need to hit something. But something was still very, very wrong.

Dina, Jesse, and Ellie weren’t far behind. He barely registered them at first, too busy watching Leela.

Then it hit him.

This wasn’t just liquor. He’d seen it before, the unfocused sway, the way her pupils were just a little too blown, the sluggish, too-long blinks like her brain was catching up to reality in slow motion.

Joel had seen this before. Dealt with it before.

This stupid girl was high off her ass.

His breath came out sharp through his nose, and Jesse—fucking kid—must have caught onto his mood, because he held his hands out, cautious.

“Okay, Joel, before you lose your shit—”

Joel’s head snapped up, and the look he gave Jesse could’ve killed him right there. “The hell is wrong with you kids?”

Ellie threw up her hands. “You said to relax her! What else am I supposed to assume?”

Relax her. Joel almost laughed.

Because what kind of idiot was he, thinking they’d understand what he meant? He’d asked them to look out for her, to make sure she wasn’t overwhelmed—not drug her up and leave her swaying like a goddamn candle in the wind.

A headache started curling at the base of his skull.

The door opened again. “All okay out here?” Maria’s voice sliced through. She stepped outside, arms empty—Maya was with Tommy now. One long glance at Leela, and her expression sharpened. “Who got her high?”

Silence.

“I did.”

Dina, sounding less defensive and more resigned, shoulders dropping as she rubbed at the back of her neck. “Look, she was miserable, okay? I didn't want her to cry so... I just helped her out a bit.”

Joel pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes, fingers digging in. A few months ago, he might’ve laid into the poor kid. Might’ve let his anger tear out of him in something sharp and punishing, because what the hell were they thinking?

But right now—now, there was Leela.

And she was leaning into him, forehead coming to press against his stomach, fingers loosely gripping the fabric of his shirt. Seeking warmth, steadiness. Him.

His hand found the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair, stroking down in slow, absent motions. She was still warm, her breath soft against his stomach.

“Booooo-berries,” she slurred into him. It was the way Maya said it to them with that toothy smile, the one that never failed to get the two of them cracking up every morning.

Joel shook his head. “Christ.”

Maria sighed. “Take her home, Joel. I’ll take care of these three and send Tommy with Maya once you’ve got her sobered up.”

Joel didn't need to be told twice. He just nodded, tightening his hold on Leela, and braced himself for the slow, messy walk home.

Leela had surprisingly good depth perception for someone downright hopped up on drugs.

She’d asked him to dance with her to the music in her head five times, been refused all five times, attempted to spell some long-ass word while balancing on her tippiest toes, yelled that they'd lost Maya at least three times to which he'd assured her three times, and even showed off her ability to wiggle her ears like it was the greatest goddamn achievement in the world.

And well, Joel was having the time of his life.

Because everything about her at this moment was a person frozen in time, immature, stopped somewhere around nineteen, probably the same age her parents had passed. Like the weed had stripped everything else away, dulled out the grief, the hardship, the relentless millstone of responsibility.

Something she probably hadn’t let herself be in a long time. The Leela before Maya came along.

He sighed, steering her toward the house with firm hands at her waist, shuffling her through the door with the patience of a saint. She giggled at something—probably nothing—and the moment she was inside, she made a halfhearted attempt to kick off her pretty boots but ended up dropping onto the bottom step of the staircase with a huff, stretching out like a damn cat, arms over her head, smiling up at him like he’d just given her the world.

He shook his head, fighting the twitch in his lips. “Stay put, darlin’. Gonna get you some water.”

“Sure thing, darlin’,” she teased, stretching the words out, thick and syrupy. Her eyes glittered, mischief curling at the edge of her lips.

Jesus. Joel exhaled hard, rubbing a hand down his jaw as he turned toward the kitchen. He needed a second—just one—to get ahold of himself.

The faucet hummed as he filled a glass, and he let the sound drown out the heat still prickling under his skin. She’s just high. Just loose. That’s all. But damn if she wasn’t making it hard to remember that.

By the time he came back, she’d sprawled out even more, a lazy sprawl that had no right looking as ravishing as it did. Dark hair spilling like seaweed on the steps, one arm bent behind her head, the other resting just below her collarbone—fingers ghosting slow, absent patterns over the bare skin there.

His pulse ticked at his temple. He needed to look anywhere else.

He set the glass of water down, just beside her head, looming over her, leg stretched on a step, and patted her cheek. “Drink up, c'mon now.”

Leela blinked up at him, hazy and warm, and smiled like she was about to do something thoughtless. Oh, then she did.

Her hand lifted, fingers threading into the front of his hair, tugging through the strands before dragging down the rough line of his jaw. He exhaled sharply through his nose, caught between amusement and the low hum of shattering want.

“You're so hot,” she mumbled.

Pretty sure he'd blown a fuse. Now, it would be so easy to let himself sink into it, just let himself fall.

Instead, he huffed. “You’re so high.”

“I know,” she murmured, almost pleased with herself. Then, just as easily as she touched him, she let her hand drop. Then, like she’d been turning it over for a while, she said, “You know, Joel… if we got married, I’d be... Leela Miller.”

Joel froze, then—damn him—grinned his teeth off. He hadn’t ever married before, hadn’t even thought about it past the young, fleeting kind of love that got tangled up in dreams of a life he never really had. He was barely in college when he had Sarah, and after that, everything had been for her. Marriage, romance—it had been so far from his mind it might as well have been another country.

But hearing it now? So late in his life, in this broken, rebuilt world, and from a woman like Leela? It felt—strangely—like a promise. Her, standing there, hair tucked into a veil, teeth gleaming in a smile, a big white dress on a long aisle, walking towards him—it was what it was. A fantasy.

“Mrs. Miller,” he drawled, tasting the words. He shook his head. “No, actually—I like Dr. Miller more. First one in the family.”

Leela sighed like it was some faraway dream. “Dr. Leela, PhD.” She shook her head, biting down a smile. “Can you imagine that? I’d be published, be on planes, lecture students… maybe get tenure.”

He could imagine it, beyond question. Leela, all sharp intellect and sophistication, standing in front of a lecture hall full of wide-eyed students, knocking socks off with her brilliance. He saw her in crisp suits, red-bottoms clacking on marble floors, shaking hands with scholars, debating theories over glasses of wine, running circles around the best of them.

But then her expression shifted, something more distant creeping in. “But I think I’d rather take up my parents’ names. For legacy.”

Joel nodded. Made sense. If she wanted to honour where she came from, if she wanted that, who was he—

“Legacy,” she snorted, cutting through his thoughts. She carelessly patted at her skirt, fishing through her pockets, and pulled out a note—a small, crumpled scrap of paper, worn at the edges. She waved it absently in the air.

The numbers meant nothing to him, but he knew what they meant. The solution to one of the biggest unsolved mathematical problems out there. The kind of thing people used to kill themselves trying to solve. The kind of thing that would have her face and name splashed on headlines, maybe get her one of those Nobel Prizes. And she just held it like it was nothing.

“What’s the point anymore?” she muttered.

Then, before he could blink, she dunked it straight into the glass of water.

Joel lurched forward. “What in—” He snatched at the glass, pulling the soaked paper free. “The hell is wrong with you?”

“It doesn’t matter, Joel,” she dismissed him with a sigh. “There isn’t anyone out there who cares about this anymore. Just… let it go.”

Joel stared at her, then at the dripping remnants of her work. He pressed the ruined paper to his chest as if, somehow, he could will it back into existence, but it was too late. The ink had smudged, the numbers running into each other in unreadable streaks. The thin paper had started to break apart.

His jaw tightened. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Leela didn’t look at him. Her gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the walls of the house, out past Jackson, past whatever limits she had drawn for herself.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose, rubbing at his face. He looked around the small space of the stairwell, the dim light catching the curve of her cheek and the sharp slope of her nose. She looked tired—and not just in the way that meant she needed sleep.

He leaned back on his haunches, resting his arms on his knees, watching her like he was trying to figure out the right words.

“Y’know,” he started, “I used to think that too. That things didn’t matter. That people—ideas… that they could just disappear, and the world would keep going like nothin’ happened.”

Leela blinked at him, somewhat interested. “And?”

“And I was wrong.”

She scoffed, barely there. “What changed?”

Joel tilted his head, brooding. He wanted to say Sarah. But that wasn’t the definitive truth. Losing Sarah had been the reason he stopped believing in things, in himself, in the good of the world. But finding Ellie, loving Maya, falling for Leela, learning to give a shit about anything again—that was what made him realize he was wrong.

So instead, he just said, “I did.”

Leela studied him, still in a daze. Then, she dropped her gaze to the water-stained paper. “It’s not the same, Joel,” she murmured. “No one’s out there waiting for this anymore.”

He shook his head. “That ain’t the point.”

He gestured vaguely at the note, at the numbers that were little more than smudges now. “You put your time and life into this.” He glanced back at her. “You cared. Your people cared.”

She didn’t say anything. Just sat there, shoulders drawn in, staring at her own hands.

Joel sighed, rubbing at his jaw. “Listen, I ain't some goddamn philosopher. I don’t know shit about legacy or what’s supposed to last. Or have one. But I do know—things don’t stop matterin’ just ’cause you’re tired of carryin’ ‘em.”

Leela swallowed, but her throat bobbed like it was hard work.

Joel reached down, nudging the damp paper toward her. “You wanna throw it away? Fine. But don’t tell yourself it never meant nothin’ in the first place. You wisen the fuck up and find somethin' else. Another big idea.”

Leela stared at the ruined note. He could see the war going on in her head, the part of her that wanted to believe him, and the part that had already convinced herself it was all pointless.

And he wasn’t sure if it was because she was thinking about it, or because she was already too far gone.

That being said, Joel barely had time to react when it began. The very first notch on his epitaph.

Leela lifted onto her elbows, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt, pulling him down over her until her breath ghosted over his lips—warm, teasing, heady. He could smell the impulse, the weed, the sweetness of her skin, everything that made up this living ideal. And then, just like that, she closed the distance and kissed him.

Slow at first, careful. Like she was figuring it out as she went, learning the way their mouths fit together, the way he tasted, tongue searching for his. And then something shifted—her hands slid up, fisting at the leather over his shoulders, tugging at him, voicing a small, needy sound in the back of her throat that just about undid him.

Joel breathed out sharply, his restraint unravelling like a frayed rope snapping under too much tension. Wrecking him, ruining him, pushing him, making him lose his head.

“Joel,” she murmured a plea.

“Christ, Leela,” he hissed against her lips. “We—”

We what? Can't do this? Are not ready? Need to do this on your big-ass bed so I don't throw my back out? Need to talk this through, and set some boundaries? What was he, an idiot?

She was fucking with him. Just had to be.

But, the joke's on her because he was fucked to begin with.

His closed, shaking fists found her ass, opening only to press into the softness there, mapping the curves and grooves he’d spent too goddamn long depriving himself of.

And then she was pushing his jacket back, fingers clumsy but determined, impatient.

He could tell, she clearly didn’t know what she was doing—not entirely—but she was following instinct, and it was killing him. She had no idea what it did to him, the way she was just handing herself over like this. Like she wanted it just as badly.

So, he let her work it off him, let it fall with a soft thump, not caring where it landed, his own hands greedy now, focused and unstoppable—sliding up her ribs, the dip of her waist, down to the soft skin between her thighs. She was supple beneath his touch, melting into every press, every slow drag of his fingers, his own callouses catching into her skin.

Joel wasn’t sure if he was breathing. Didn’t care if he wasn't.

He had to rip himself off her to kneel back on a creaking step to find his pace, unbutton his cuffs one by one and roll back his sleeves to his elbows, like a dedicated man about to knuckle down and give everything.

Because this was how he should’ve had her—how he’d wanted her from the start. All fingers and touch. Desperate. Awed. Like she was something he’d been dying to claim.

“You okay?” he had to pant out, that one last instinct pushing him to ask, but he couldn't stop himself to one more deep kiss into her neck. “Jesus, I can't stop. Fuckin' want everything... you alright, sweetheart?”

No response, but he was met with a quiet, feeble nod when he looked at her. It was all he needed.

“S'okay, I've got you. I'll make it good, real good for you, baby,” he made his promise, feverish.

Now utterly too immersed in her, trailing his lips, beard scratching a little too hard into her skin—on the thin, useless straps of that dress, slipping off her shoulders like they had no right being there in the first place.

He dragged his mouth down, nudging slow, deep, open-mouthed kisses against the inside of her arm, the slope of her shoulder, and the sharp line of her collarbone. He let himself linger, let himself taste—the wet, sweet, hot summer in the flesh, tongue flicking against the hollow of her throat, feeling the way she swallowed.

Fucking dress. Driving him insane, the way it barely covered her, how easy it would be to pull it down, to strip her bare, and—shit, he had to get his head in the game.

He let out a breath, hot and heavy, dragging his lips down lower, between her chest, kissing the bony little space there, hands smoothing over her breasts, squeezing them into his palm, pressing each one with a lingering, rolling, attentive kiss, revelling in the softness there. His teeth grazed the soft flesh, just enough to make her gasp, to feel her fingers tighten where they clutched at his arms. He soothed the spot with his tongue, tasting the salt of her skin, his hands roaming lower, gripping, kneading, pulling her deeper into his mouth.

She arched into him even, like her body was learning how to react, and he groaned, half-mad with want, barely holding himself together. “Oh, baby…”

His fingers found the hem of her dress, gathering it up, slowly pushing it up over the curve of her stomach.

He was like a goddamn kid opening a present on Christmas day.

The muscle there—taut, toned, fucking sexy. Deep stretch marks from pregnancy settled into her skin like the rings of a tree, or his own uncharted map, leading him down, down, to the space between her legs. From there, it was all long limbs and those maddening cowgirl boots—boots he had big plans to enjoy. He clenched his jaw and pressed his mouth against the dip above her navel, lips parting, teeth scraping, biting down just enough to feel the resistance of her skin against his tongue.

Then—his senile little brain caught up all at once, like a heart attack. “Gotta be kiddin' me. Look at you.”

Black. A little faded, like they’d been through too many wash cycles. A tiny white bow stitched into the hem of those soft, ruffled panties. He had half a mind to ask if she liked them—if she’d mind him tearing them off with his teeth. If she wouldn’t, well… he sure as hell wouldn’t.

He nearly felt a spark against his fingertip as he slid his fingers over the bow, over the fabric, his mouth watering, his longest finger pressuring in, feeling her slit through the softness, so warm, a ready little ridge in her body waiting just for him.

Well, fuck, if that wasn't a slice of heaven, he didn't know what was.

His breath hitched, and for a second, a strange dread twisted in his gut—tight and sharp, a visceral reaction to seeing her like this, vulnerable and unharmed in ways that had nothing to do with her body and everything to do with the way she just laid there.

Because she wasn’t here. Not completely.

Her hands were on him, but barely. Just resting. No urgency, no fire, no need that matched his own. Her fingers curled into his shirt like she didn’t know what to do with them. Like she wasn’t even thinking about what they were doing, like she was just letting herself be taken.

Her eyes—half-lidded, unfocused, watching him but not seeing him. Allowing him, not needing him. He couldn't tell if that was the weed or just her instinct.

And suddenly, all that desperate, consuming heat turned ice-cold in his chest.

No.

Not like this. This wasn’t how he wanted her. This wasn’t how he wanted them. Not when she might not even fucking remember it in the morning.

Joel blew out a sigh, pressing his forehead against her stomach, forcing himself to breathe, to reel himself in, to fight the fucking starvation clawing at him from the inside. His fingers twitched against her ribs, aching to keep going, to give in, to be selfish for once in this goddamn relationship.

But he couldn’t. He knew his own strength, knew how easy it would be to press too hard, take too much. He’d spent too many years being careful. Watching himself. And right now, it wasn’t just himself he needed to be careful of.

And he was in this for the long run.

He leaned back, jaw clenched so tight it hurt, forced his hands to loosen, to let her go.

She glanced at him, sluggish, blinking like she didn’t understand why he’d stopped.

Joel brushed her hair out of her face, his thumb stroking gently over her temple, his touch mindful now, like she might break.

“Hey,” he murmured, rough, still thick with want. Forced himself to smile, small and lopsided, like none of this was pulling him apart at the seams.

“Where’d you go, darlin’? You with me?”

And he hated how desperate it sounded. Because he wanted her here right by him. Wanting this as much as he did. But if she wasn’t, if she wasn’t entirely here, then he wasn’t going to fucking take it.

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him, half-there, half-somewhere else, something unreadable flickering in her expression.

Then—slowly, consciously—her fingers lifted, skimming along the stubble of his jaw, then lower, slipping behind her own neck. “It's okay.”

His breath hitched as she undid the thin strap at the back of her neck, her dress loosening, slipping ever so slightly. The curve of her shoulder, more of that smooth, bronze skin—fuck.

Joel closed his fingers around her wrist before it could go further, her pulse jumping beneath his fingertips.

And for a moment, there was only the ragged pull of their breathing, his harsher than hers, his mind a coil of need and restraint, and something dangerously close to guilt.

Without a word, he turned her hand over, brushing his lips to the centre of her palm. The way a man might kiss a cross before prayer.

Leela’s fingers twitched, then curled slightly.

She swallowed, then hesitated. “Did I do something—don't you...” Her voice was quiet, too careful. “Don’t you want to, um...?”

Joel's throat constricted. The words shouldn’t have made him feel like this—shouldn’t have sent something sharp and aching curling deep in his chest. But they did. They scoured against him, somewhere he hadn’t realized was still bleeding.

He exhaled sharply, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes for a second, like he could rub out the frustration clawing through his chest. His jaw was tight, his pulse hammering—his whole body still wound too fucking tight from everything that almost happened, from everything he wanted to happen.

Then he dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head.

“Jesus, Leela.” His voice was low, rough-edged.

She just watched him, slow-blinking, her head tilting slightly—something indistinct crossing her expression. She looked… lost. Like she wasn’t sure how they got here.

Then, quieter now—“Don’t you want me, Joel?”

Joel inhaled. Exhaled. Fought it. Fought the goddamn instinct to pull her right back in, to let himself take, to let himself lose.

Instead, he pushed a hand through his hair, let out a sharp breath, and muttered, "More than you fucking know."

His voice came out hoarse, almost gutted. Because it was the truth.

He wanted her more than anything. More than he wanted to breathe, more than he could goddamn stand, more than he despised himself. He’d spent too many nights pretending not to, spent too many mornings waking up with her ghosted across his senses, still tangled in his bloodstream, in every part of him. He wanted her in ways he shouldn’t. In ways that scared the living shit out of him.

And she was right there. Warm, soft, half-lost in the haze of the weed, but still her. Still Leela. Still, the only thing he wanted.

But not like this.

He shifted back, forcing space between them—except her warmth was still there, still lingering, still wrapped around him like she hadn’t realized yet that he was trying to let go.

Leela blinked at him again. Slow. Fuzzy. Making sense of this. “Okay.”

She reached behind her, fumbling with the ties of her dress, shoulders shifting as she tried to fix them, needing to close the space between them with something more real.

But before she could—he beat her to it. His hands moved without thinking—secured the knot at her shoulder, fingers brushed against warm skin.

He sighed. “You are so beautiful. And smart. Make me so damn unworthy of you.”

And then—a pause. A moment he shouldn’t have let himself have.

Softly, he pressed his lips to the lune of her shoulderblade, just once. A slow breath against her skin. And then, finally, he pulled the fabric back over her legs, smoothing it into place.

Not because he didn’t want her. Because he refused to take her like this.

It was entirely too heartbreaking, the way she was looking at him now—lost and waiting, her fingers curling into nothing, like she wanted to hold onto something but wasn’t sure if she could.

Leela watched him, unmoving. Something flickering in her eyes, something deeper than the haze, something real trying to surface through the weed.

He cupped the side of her ribs, palm splayed over warm skin, then moved lower, pressing his hand firm against her lower stomach.

Leela inhaled sharply, lips parting slightly, something flickering behind her gaze. A breath hitched in her throat.

Joel swallowed hard, his jaw working as he stared at her, his thumb stroking once over the fabric of her dress, over the smooth skin beneath. Trying to make sure she felt it.

Right there. Right where he wanted to be.

“But the truth is, I love you,” he rasped. A promise. A warning. He didn't have to force it out anymore, it was written all over him.

“So, one day, when I'm real deep inside you, Leela, I am all you're gonna think about. Just me, loving all of you.”

Her lashes fluttered. And for the first time in the last few minutes, she really looked at him. Like she was coming back. Like his words had cut through the fog and pulled her back down to him.

Joel’s breathing was ragged now, his self-restraint stretched thin, nearly breaking—but he didn’t move. Didn’t close the last inch between them, didn’t let himself pull her under.

Instead, it was she who moved. Right toward him.

Slowly, carefully, she shuffled forward, and slid down onto the step beside him. The movement was hesitant, like she wasn’t sure if he’d let her. Quietly curled into his side, slipping her arm around his bicep, the warmth of her soaking into him, settling beneath his skin.

Joel let out a slow, shuddering breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The muscles in his shoulders eased, just slightly, before he let himself lean into her, pressing his nose into her hair, breathing her in.

Her fingers found his, twisting together, small and warm and so fucking delicate.

Then she lifted his hand to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles, barely there—but she ravaged him.

Then, quiet—hesitant—

“You're good for me,” she whispered.

Joel closed his eyes for a second.

It wasn’t a question. Wasn’t a plea. Just a simple, quiet thing, like she’d finally let herself believe it. And maybe that was what ravaged him the most.

Because he wasn’t good. Had never been. He was a man shaped by hard choices, by regret, by suffering, by all the things he’d done just to survive. He was pretty sure the gears in his heart were rusted, black sludge pumped through his veins, merely broken in ways that time hadn’t fixed.

But for her—with her, with Maya—he wanted to be. God, he wanted to be. Maybe he already was. Maybe she saw something in him that he never let himself hope for before he ever did.

His fingers curled tighter around hers, like he could hold onto this moment, keep it from slipping through the cracks. His thumb traced slow, absent circles against her skin, memorizing the feel of her, in the press of his calloused hand against hers.

“You're good f'me, too,” he muttered.

She just leaned in closer, her body soft against his. Yeah, Joel let himself believe it now.

He's good for her.

{ taglist 🫶: @darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams , @bluemusickid , @bumblepony , @legoemma , @chantelle-mh , @heartlessvirgo , @possiblyafangirl , @pedropascalsbbg , @oolongreads -> @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , @isla-finke-blog , @millercontracting , @tinawantstobeadoll , @funerals-with-cake , @txlady37 , @inasunlitroom , @clya4 , @callmebyyournick-name , @axshadows , @littlemissoblivious } - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

506 notes · View notes