#mrs. miller

[myost]

[now-playing] - ost - mike curb & lawrence brown - mary Jane - 1967

[lizzie-cakes]

Love, love, love the Miller family❤️❤️❤️ just beautiful 💫

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

THE FINAL INTEGRATION—All the fragments unify into something new.

a/n: Last chapter :) :( I'm so emotional, this is awful but so spectacular - it's all coming together and it's finally over! I was sobbing so hard, tearing up, choking up - I had this idea in my head for so long, now seeing it executed... I can't believe it. Epilogue left to wrap this baby up 🌻

word count: 18,000+ (woo, mama, she's a big one)

What is home?

See, it really depends on the person you ask. To a reader, it might be a stack of books, their broken spines and the soft hum of imagination. To a child, it might be the warmth of their parents’ voice at bedtime.

Now, if you asked Joel Miller what home is, he would tell you that it is the nicest word out there. You can build a house anywhere, but a home? He was too much of a pragmatist to be poignant, but he knows exactly what it feels like to lose it, and how rare it is to find it again. And when you have lived as long as him, you know: when you find it, you do everything you can to deserve that goddamn feeling. Even if you're not sure you ever will.

Home wasn’t where Joel laid his head. It wasn’t the decorated walls and soaring ceilings of the big, white house—not in any way that mattered. Home was the physical structure where Leela could shut her eyes and not flinch when he draped his arm across her waist. Home was a second mug set out beside his, even if he was the first one up. Home was where Maya’s laughter could rise—unburdened, unguarded—without the shadow of the world chasing it down.

Home wasn’t just where they were. It was where they lived.

And still—the non-allusive home list never stopped creeping in.

A squeaky hinge on the front gate. Chipped paint on the eaves. One of the rain barrels had a slow leak, a dark stain bleeding against the siding. The back steps needed resealing before the frost set in, or Leela would lose her footing come winter.

And Maya’s bed.

It would not have been an issue if not for his little troublemaker who had figured out how to climb out of her crib a few months ago—nearly gave him a heart attack when he found her downstairs in the kitchen at two in the morning, knuckle deep in a bottle of jam, no pants on. He kept telling Leela he’d replace the crib with a real bed soon, but every time he tried, he’d end up just standing in the doorway, watching her sleep from over the rails, unable to bring himself to take it down.

Her new bed was upstairs in his workshop, still raw in places, still missing the final polish on the edges. Pinewood. Sturdy as shit. He’d hand-picked the planks while running two towns over, carrying them back on his shoulders.

He’d started carving it a year ago, just after the thaw. A simple design—square legs, clean lines, not much ornament. But on the arch of the headboard, he’d carved her name. Each letter was in cursive, meticulous grooves. M-A-Y-A. He’d traced them with his thumb afterwards, wondering how many years it would take before she outgrew it. If she knew that he'd been there, right next to her mother, when they named her.

It sat in his space. Joel’s space.

The workshop on the third storey, tucked into the far end of the house, where the bare rafters angled low and the windows stretched wide across the back wall. This was his bastion—no one else’s—just as much a part of him as Leela was. And she had established it so.

Not a man cave or a den, as much as Tommy taunted. A room that didn’t ask for much or pretend to be anything other than what it was: wood, dust, light, and Joel.

Sunlight filtered through the high, slanted windows in shifting moods—at times too sharp, at others perfectly subdued. Mornings arrived in a flood of amber, gilding the furniture and suspending dust motes in a celestial dance. By evening, it softened into burnished streaks that stretched across the floorboards. Joel often found himself staring, transfixed on those fading lines longer than he meant to.

The walls were bare but for a few scattered tools and a calendar frozen decades ago. Beneath the windows, a long wooden workbench ran the length of the room—its surface worn smooth in places, splintered in others. It was always cluttered: wood shavings, clamps, loose nails, a steel square, and a dented tin of wood glue with its lid stuck askew. A tiny, abandoned, poorly-carved figurine that Maya had insisted was a three-eyed alien sat among the disarray like a forgotten thought.

No matter how often he swept, a fine layer of sawdust clung to everything. Along the back wall, shelves sagged under half-used varnish cans, loose screws, folded rags, and off to the side sat a chair he’d reupholstered himself—too stiff for most, but just right for him.

No one came up here unless he said so. And even then, they tread lightly. Leela called it his “thinking room,” and aptly so. Some days, Joel sat there just to let his mind run amok. Other days, he came up simply to fall apart—quiet, alone, unburdened by the need to explain himself.

And in one of the little drawers—right-hand side, third down—was the ring.

It hadn’t started out that way. He’d found it all the way back in Vegas, of all places. The thing had been broken straight through the band, warped like someone’d tried to twist it off in anger. No gem. Just the ghost of where one used to sit. It looked like the kind of ring that once meant everything to someone—and then didn’t.

He’d picked it up anyway. A part of him hoped it could still mean something, given the right hands.

It took him all of five straight months once he started working on the ring, in holes and corners.

He wasn’t a jeweller. Wasn’t even an artist, not unless bullheadedness counted as talent. But he had tools, he had time, and he had a piece of oak. From the big, old tree out front—the one that’d stood through too many winters and dropped leaves in slow gold spirals every fall. Maya’s favourite playground, Leela’s greatest shade.

He’d carved the wood into a thin inlay, cradled around the repaired band like a second spine, dark against the soft gleam of restored gold, the colour of desert dusk. Filled the rupture in the metal with painstaking heat, forged the shape again, slow and exact, hammered it soft where it had gone brittle. He’d even filed the edges smooth and dared a small flourish on the oak—enamelled, rose-shaped ridges, intricate wreaths. Elegant in its own rough way.

It wasn’t flashy. No lofty gems. Only a touch of a woodworker’s pride.

If he thought about it, the ring was them—Leela, the soft blush of gold once broken now cautiously welded, gleaming with grace; Joel, the deep-grained oak that held it in a reinforced circle, weathered and stubborn the way old trees are.

And it had been ready for months now. All polished. Finished, and just sitting there.

He’d rolled it between his fingers a dozen times since, thumb brushing over the seam he’d sanded down by hand, almost invisible now unless you knew where to look—at the workbench, on the porch, tucked in his coat pocket on those quiet walks back from patrol. Always waiting for the moment that felt like it mattered enough. The right breath, the right light, the right words.

He didn’t hear the stairs creak one afternoon—Leela moved like a ghost when she wanted to—but he heard her voice, breathless and distracted.

“Joel, I—”

He startled, just enough to curse himself for it, then push the ring under an oil-stained rag. She stepped into the doorway a second later, her silhouette backlit by afternoon sun.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him, head tilted, brow drawn.

“Sorry, did I interrupt you?” she asked, tone softened. “I should get a door fixed here soon.”

He nodded inanely, then shook his head. Swallowed. “Yeah. No. Nah, no need. Was just—workin’.”

She glanced at the bench, then back to him, a sceptical brow arching. “Alright, um. I need your hands for a sec. The tomato trellis is sagging, and baby girl swears there’s a spider the size of her face in there.”

Joel stood, brushing sawdust from his jeans. “Tell her that the spider’s paid the rent. It stays.”

Leela didn’t smile, but the corner of her mouth twitched. She turned to go.

He opened his mouth, reaching for the rag. “Honey—”

She stopped. Looked over her shoulder. Skin dewy from the heat, a little furrow between her eyes, and the light shimmered on her cheekbones and the line of her throat, where sweat had caught the sun, and she looked jewelled for a second.

And just like that—he had lost his nerve. He could’ve said it then. Could’ve pulled the ring from the shadows, could’ve made a joke about it being too stupid or too late or whatever the hell it was. He had nothing prepared. Mundane and marred by spider eviction.

So instead, Joel nudged the ring farther back beneath the rag.

“Be right there,” he muttered around his throat closing up, grabbing a pair of work gloves from the peg.

Alas, that right, light-bulb moment never quite came. Nothing ever felt big enough. Not after everything they’d already lived through. Not when the days already felt borrowed.

They had a daughter. A big house. Nights spent curled together like old trees grown toward the same sun. There wasn’t anything missing, and the people in Jackson already talked like it was done.

“Joel’s folks.”

“Joel’s girl.”

And his least favourite, “The Miller baby.”

Everyone saw them for what they were.

Still, it gnawed at him. He wanted something more than knowing. More than the comfort of habit. He wanted something in fact. Tactile. Seen. A thing that didn’t live only in gestures or glances or the way she said hi, Joel, after a long day.

He wanted to see that ring glint on her finger when she brushed the hair from Maya’s face. He wanted to feel its cool shape against his callused palm when she reached for him in the night.

On this hot afternoon—Joel sat back against the trunk of a sycamore tree just off the ridge trail, elbows on his knees, the ring between his fingers. Spinning it slow, like maybe—if he looked at it long enough—it would just tell him what to do. Like the answer might rise out of the metal, plain as daylight, if he just waited quiet and still.

The trail below was quiet, sun hammering down through the branches, the grass around them dry and crackling in the breeze. They’d cleared the area an hour ago, but Tommy had gone ahead to check the northern bend. Joel thought he had time.

He didn’t hear the bastard come back until boots crunched right behind him. Same little shit behaviour, couldn't give him a moment of peace.

Joel flinched a little—just in his eyes—then quickly pocketed the ring, like he was sixteen again and got caught smoking. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

Tommy let out a low whistle, stepping up beside him with a shit-eating grin. “Holy shit. Is that what I think it is?”

He shot him a sideways glance. “You people gotta stop sneakin’ up on me. I used to be foolproof at this shit.”

Tommy chuckled. “You’re slippin’, old man. Maybe it’s time you quit patrol.”

“I’ll show you slippin’ if you open that big hole again.”

That made him laugh harder. “You gettin’ jumped this easy? Can’t have Jackson’s best gunslinger losin’ his edge over a tiny ring.”

“Maybe I just got too much on my mind,” he mumbled.

“That ain’t a bad thing anymore, brother.”

Tommy crouched beside Joel with the easy, infuriating grace of someone who hadn’t just hiked ten miles in the heat. Pulled his canteen off his belt, took a long sip.

“So, how long have you been haulin’ that thing around?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. A while.”

Tommy sighed, shaking his head. “About goddamn time, is all.”

Joel didn’t say anything to that. Just stared forward at the empty hills. Chin resting in his hand now. Thumb stroking his lip like he could erase the expression off his own damn face.

Tommy, then said, quieter, more to the trees than to his brother, “I get it, y’know. I’m glad you want this for yourself.”

Joel didn’t respond, but it landed.

Of all the people left in the world, Tommy was the only one who could say that and mean it. Because Tommy had seen him through everything.

Before the fall. After it. In the thick of the fire and fury, when Joel had become someone hard and horrific and capable of things they didn’t talk about anymore. And now that he’d found a new purpose in the quiet hum of Jackson, in the child’s head resting on his shoulder, in the sound of her laugh.

His little brother had been there for all of it. He’d seen Joel break, and survive, and soften.

“What’d you—” Joel started, then stopped. Took a long breath, like the words weren’t shaped right in his mouth. “What’d you do for Maria?”

Tommy blinked, not expecting the question. “What d’you mean?”

Joel looked out across the clearing, squinting into the sun-glared trees like the answer might be hiding out there, just waiting to be found. “Just—when you asked her. To... marry you.”

Tommy took another sip, then leaned back beside him, stretching his legs out in the dust. Let out a low, thoughtful hum. “Not much. I just asked her.”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “That it?”

“That’s it.”

“You didn’t—plan nothin’?”

Tommy gave a lazy shrug. “Figured she already knew I was an idiot. Didn’t need to prove it with the whole song and dance.”

Joel huffed a short laugh, but there wasn’t much humour in it. More like steam escaping. His thumb worked across the ridges of the ring again. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Tommy didn’t help one bit. It just made him feel like he was doing it wrong. Maybe other men just asked and it worked out, and he was the only fool who needed to rehearse a thousand different versions of a sentence he still couldn’t quite say.

Joel swallowed hard. “S’pose I don’t ask it right,” he muttered.

Tommy crossed his arms, exasperated. “There ain’t a right way, Joel.”

And he looked at Joel then—not as the little brother, not as the man who used to pull him out of bar fights, or drag him back from the edge, or talk him off a bad decision—but as the man who’d walked with him through hell and come out the other side.

“You’ve already done the hardest shit a man can do. You made it out,” Tommy said.

He clapped a hand once on Joel’s shoulder. “So if you’re waitin’ for a sign, maybe just… stop. 'Cause she’s right there. And you already know.”

Yet, Joel kept the ring close.

Tucked it into different pockets depending on the day—his coat, the small drawer by the bed, the inner lining of his backpack when he was out for patrol. Some nights, it lived beneath his pillow. Not because he thought she’d find it, but because he liked knowing it was near. A secret between him and the future he didn’t quite believe he deserved. Like it might vibrate or shine if the right moment came.

There’d been a handful of almosts. Moments where he’d come so close he could taste the words in the back of his throat. All the permutations of a few simple words.

Please marry me. Leela, marry me. I wanna marry you, Leela.

But he’d say it how he meant it.

I want you. All the way. Every day of the week. Even when you don’t talk for three of them. Even when your brain goes fuzzy and you make me feel like I’m missing a decimal point. I still want you until I'm a dead man.

Like that time he caught her humming to Maya in the bathtub—laughing, sleeves rolled, her knees on the tile, playfully creating a shark fin out of foam and Maya's curls. Joel had stood in the hallway, just out of sight, the scent of soap and warm water drifting through the air.

Or all those nights they’d danced, slow and off-beat in the living room, barefoot on warm floorboards, Leela swaying with him while Percy Sledge rasped on about love that wouldn’t let go. She’d never once asked what he was thinking during those dances, but sometimes—especially when her forehead rested just under his chin—he thought maybe she knew.

Look, the thing is, Joel Miller didn’t ask easy. He’d loved and lost and paid for both. And though time had softened the sharper edges of his grief, it hadn’t erased it. He was a man rebuilt from wreckage—stronger in some places, brittle in others—and he’d learned the hard way not to reach too fast for anything that felt too good.

What if she said no when he popped the question?

Or worse—what if she said yes, and somewhere down the line, looked at him with that distance he’d seen in too many eyes, that what did I do kind of sorrow?

Because one night, not long ago, they’d sat on the porch together—full of warmth, of breath, of small giggles, of a peace they didn’t speak of because naming it might break the spell. The sky had been that deep western blue, just shy of dusk, the kind of shade that made shadows stretch like sleepy children. Crickets were starting up in the brush. The wind wound through Leela’s hair like an old friend.

And she’d looked at him.

Not smiling or blinking. As if she saw right through the walls, he still hadn’t realised he kept. And then she said, while the silence waited for her—soft, certain:

“You make me feel like I survived on purpose, Joel.”

The words had struck something so deep in him he hadn’t known how to hold them. Like she’d laid a gift in his lap, tender, bone-deep, and all he could do was nod. His fingers had curled into the armrest until his knuckles went white, trying to ground himself in something. Because Christ, that was a thing to be told.

Not I love you. Not I need you. That would have been a letdown.

I lived—and now I know why.

He could’ve asked her then. The ring was sitting in that drawer by the bed, tucked inside a flannel shirt he never wore. It would’ve taken less than a minute. Less than a breath. Just a few words.

But he didn’t.

Not because he didn’t want to. He’d been carrying that want around like a second heart, beating hard every time she laughed, every time she leaned into his side, every time she held their baby girl.

No—he didn’t ask because he was still Joel.

Still, that man who had learned the hard way what it cost to love something more than the world could bear. Still a man who sometimes woke up half-expecting it to all be gone. Who held joy like it might break in his hands if he wasn’t careful.

Tommy cleared his throat, suckered him back to the trail ahead, like he was winding up for something. They rode single file through the narrow trail, the horses steady beneath them, and Jackson wasn’t far now—maybe another hour if they didn’t stop.

“Tell you what,” Tommy started, giving his reins a lazy flick. “This weekend—dinner with the whole family. I’ll get the grill goin’, and I will personally make sure Ellie shows. No bullshit excuses. You ask Leela then.”

Joel shot him a look. “In front of everyone?”

Tommy shrugged, unbothered. “Nah, we’ll be watchin’ from a respectful distance. You need your emotional support system, big guy. And you take Leela aside. Do the damn thing. Then you take her home and make sweet love to your new wife.”

Joel huffed through his nose. “Jesus, Tommy. The hell is wrong with you?”

“What? She’ll say yes, ya wuss. Everybody and their mother knows it. It ain’t that deep.”

“Don’t need an audience,” Joel said, shaking his head, but Tommy wasn’t done.

“You think I’m missin’ the moment my pain-in-the-ass brother tries to get down on one knee?” He chuckled. “Not a chance. That’s goin’ in the family vault. Right next to the time you fell off the roof fixin’ the antenna. Sixteen-year-old dumbfuck.”

Joel grunted. “That wasn’t my goddamn fault. Wind kicked up, and you were rushing me.”

“Uh-huh. Just like it’ll be the wind’s fault if you chicken out again.”

His jaw worked, teeth grinding against the storm of thoughts in his head.

He could see it too clearly—the glass slipping from his fingers, the moment crumbling like dust in his mouth. Maybe he said the wrong thing. Maybe he said too much. Maybe the look on her face turned uncertain, and the silence stretched too long. Maybe she didn’t say anything at all.

He gripped the saddle horn a little tighter. The ring was still in his coat pocket. Same place it’d been for a while now.

Tommy kept talking, not helping one goddamn bit. “You overthink everything, man. Always have.”

Joel muttered, “And you never think at all.”

Tommy just laughed, like he didn’t mind being told the truth.

Although lately... lately, something had shifted. Joel clocked it the minute it arrived.

Because he wasn’t just a man grieving anymore. He was something almost foreign to him. Something he hadn’t dared to be since before the world turned to ash and bone.

He was hopeful. Making rings, planning a proposal, a whole, nice family around him. Was that the difference this time around?

Because love, for a man like Joel Miller, was never gonna be fireworks or proposals in fields of flowers. He didn’t know how to make speeches. He didn’t trust perfect moments. The world had taught him too well how things fall apart.

To him, love didn’t promise safety. If anything, it made the fall steeper. And Joel had spent too long learning how to stand back up. Because needing meant breaking, needing meant pain.

They were about forty minutes out from the gate when the bend in the trail opened up near the creek, and Joel saw movement—two figures just off the path, half in shadow, half in gold-streaked midday screening through the trees. A man stood tall, blonde, broad-shouldered, one arm raised in a friendly wave that felt just a little too staged. The woman beside him leaned against the trunk of a skinny spruce, arms folded, gaze fixed in that way that wasn’t bored or wary—just watchful.

Tommy slowed first, fingers brushing his holster in that smooth, practised way. Not drawing, not just yet. Joel mirrored him a beat later, easing the reins back, quietly. First, he just took them in.

The man was definitely ex-military or something close to it; that kind of posture didn’t just come from ranch work. He looked fit, shoulders squared, like he knew how to take a punch and stay on his feet. The woman wasn’t slack either, built like an ox—tall, maybe five-ten, and there was tension in her arms and stance, like she could bolt or strike and hadn’t decided which she preferred.

Joel didn’t like it one bit. Too calm. Too tidy. Too alert for two stragglers lost in the woods.

“Afternoon,” the man called as they approached. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” Tommy replied, his own tone casual but clipped. “You folks alright?”

“We’re fine,” the man said. “Just passing through. Got turned around near the pass.”

That instantly made Joel narrow his eyes. Nobody got turned around near that pass without being real damn unlucky—or real damn curious.

“Where you two headed?” Joel asked, making certain.

The man glanced sideways at the woman, then looked back. An obvious signal. Bunch of seedy pricks, that was for sure. “Nowhere in particular. Heard there’s a settlement not too far. Jackson City, right?”

There it was. Joel clocked it right then. Subtle, but unmistakable. They were looking for names.

Tommy nodded slowly. “That’s right.”

“You two from there?”

The air changed. Just a little. Just enough so Joel could feel Tommy hesitate—briefly, maybe half a second—but long enough for Joel to notice. Long enough for someone else to notice, too.

“Yeah,” Joel said, cutting in, voice even. “Been there a while.”

The woman spoke then. First time. She hadn’t moved a muscle. She was calm. Almost too even. “Have you had any Fireflies come through these parts?” A pause. “Anyone looking to settle down sometime ago?”

It was the way she said it—like it didn’t matter. Like she was asking about the weather. But her eyes were fixed, like she was listening for the snap of a tripwire in the grass.

Joel didn’t blink.

She hadn’t asked if either of them had come through. She was hunting for a breadcrumb, not the whole damn loaf.

He knew the shape of that question. He’d used it before—back when he was tracking people. Back when it was his job to find folks who didn’t want to be found. And that man beside her—he was quiet now, but his gaze was doing the same work. Sweeping over Joel and Tommy like he was looking for something to snag on. A familiar gait. A voice. A scar.

Joel kept his tone neutral. “Not for a long time, ma'am,” he said. “Pretty quiet around these parts. Nothin’ but raiders.”

But he felt the tension rise up the back of his neck, slow drips, like water rising in a well.

Then the man asked, just a touch too casually, “Place like Jackson—y’all must get travellers every now and then. Guess it’s good if someone’s lookin’ to start over.”

Start over. Joel heard it like a gun cocking under a table.

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even suspicious—on paper. But it was the way it layered—soft probes, neutral phrases, no names. They were trying to walk backwards into a truth without triggering the alarm. No doubt coached themselves: Don’t ask about him. Not directly. Feel it out first.

And Joel felt it, a nail pressed into his back.

He didn’t show a damn thing. But in his head, the alarm bells had already started to ring.

“What about anyone coming through from Salt Lake City?” she asked, sounding frustrated now. “A couple of years back, maybe more. They settle down here?”

It was almost nothing. Just a question. Said easily. No lean on it. Yet, it was a wire snapping tight across his chest.

Salt Lake City.

He didn’t show it. Not in his shoulders, not in his eyes. But inside, something went still. Like the silence right before a storm tears the sky open.

Salt Lake was a name no one mentioned unless they were pulling at his thread.

And the way she said it? It wasn’t vague curiosity. It wasn’t nonchalant. It was placed—premeditated, rehearsed even. She was watching him, not for the answer, but for the reaction.

Joel kept his eyes level, gave a short shrug like he had to think about it. “No one comes to mind. Quite far from here, ain’t it?”

“Lookin' for someone in particular?” Tommy asked.

“Yeah.” Again, no names, nothing.

But his pulse had already picked up, pounding hot blood behind his ribs.

Tommy shifted slightly in his saddle. Joel could feel his brother’s confusion—he didn’t know what the hell Salt Lake City meant to them, but he sure as shit knew what it meant to Joel.

The man—whatever the fuck he went by—glanced at the woman, but didn’t press. Joel could see it now—the way they stood, the way they spoke. They weren’t wandering. They were hunting. Controlled. Like folks who’d trained themselves to look normal.

Verifying intel. About what happened out west. About Salt Lake.

And Joel knew. Right then, as clear as if they’d drawn on him. They didn’t come out here by chance. They came looking for a man who disappeared off the face of the earth. A man who walked out of a hospital in Salt Lake, left a trail of gunpowder and bullet smoke, with a young girl covered in blood and never looked back.

They were looking for Joel fucking Miller.

“You got names?” he asked.

Joel didn’t hesitate. Hesitation was a crack. And cracks split wide under pressure.

“James,” he said, tapping his chest. “That’s Steve.”

He didn’t look at Tommy—just heard the dry scoff behind him, the faint shift of saddle leather. That was Tommy’s protest. Wordless, but understood. But he didn’t correct or call him out. Good.

Joel kept his eyes on the two.

“You two got names?” he asked, playing the game, keeping the rhythm casual.

The man smiled, just a twitch at the corners of his mouth, as if he had passed some test. “Manny,” he said. Nodded to the woman. “That’s Nora.”

Manny. Nora. Manny. Nora. Fucking lies. There it was—another detail that settled wrong in his gut. The names came too quickly. No pause, no glance between them to coordinate.

Four names now, none real, sitting in the air, rounds chambered with unspent bullets.

Joel didn’t say anything, but in his head, the pieces were already falling into place. They weren't just passing through. They were hunting. They were scouts, and he was the goddamn map.

“You folks wanna head down to Jackson?” Tommy offered, leaning into his saddle, tone just a hair too smooth. “Restock, rest up? Diner’s got stew on most nights, and we can have rooms ready in no time.”

It was a test. Joel knew it. Tommy was trying to see what they’d do with an invitation. A wide, open front door.

Manny smiled again—polite, just the right amount. “Thank you, but we’ll keep moving. We don’t want to impose.”

Joel held his gaze a second longer, then gave a slow nod. “Suit yourselves.”

They stepped off the trail, just enough to let the horses through. Joel guided his mount past, hand close to the rifle slung by his leg, every muscle tense and humming. He didn’t look back, not until the trees had swallowed them up behind.

They were almost out of earshot when the call came again.

“Hey!”

Joel’s horse shifted under him, hooves scraping rock. He didn’t need to look—he already felt Tommy tense beside him.

They both turned.

Manny and Nora stood in the trail, maybe thirty paces back. Manny raised a hand, easy and nonthreatening. “Just a quick question.”

Tommy didn’t move much. Just unhooked the clasp over his sidearm, fingers resting lightly on the grip. “Go on.”

“You two know of any other settlements out here?” Manny asked. “West of here, maybe north? Somewhere people might’ve passed through?”

There it was again—smooth, specific. Not where they could go. Where others might’ve gone.

Joel didn’t say a word. Just stared ahead, a warning drum in his chest.

Tommy scratched at his jaw, then gave a half-smile. “Closest is a fishing camp up near Dubois. Might be one out near Tensleep. Little place tucked in the hills. Ain’t much—some cabins, old lodge, maybe a dozen folks running traps and brewing shine. They don’t take in newcomers unless someone vouches. Real closed off.”

Joel flicked a glance toward his brother. Tensleep was real—barely a dot on the map. He’d passed through it once, a long time ago. Nothing there but dead wood and wind through the hills. No lodge. No cabins. No community.

Smart. Close enough to sound real. Far enough from Jackson to send them the wrong way. Tiring enough to consider that their deadass lead has dried up.

Manny nodded like he was tucking the information into a mental drawer. “Good to know.”

Joel watched him just a second longer. Nora hadn’t said a word. Just stood there, watching Tommy, scrutinising Joel.

“Appreciate the help,” Manny added, with that same rehearsed smile.

Tommy only nodded. “Safe travels.”

Then they turned, Joel clicked his tongue once, and the horse moved.

This time, they didn’t stop them again.

They didn’t speak until the pines closed behind them and the sound of the other pair’s footsteps had faded into the brush.

Tommy blew out a breath. “Think they bought it?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He could feel the sweat down his spine, cold despite the sun.

“They didn’t call us on it,” he muttered. “That’s good enough.”

Tommy didn’t say a word after that—quite out of character for someone that mouthy—not until Jackson’s gates behind them clanked shut with a low metallic groan, sealing off the woods. The sound echoed for a moment, final and hollow, a lid being pressed down on something they weren’t meant to carry back in with them.

But they did. They always did.

By the time Joel made it back home, sleep had passed him over like he wasn’t even on the goddamn map. And he didn’t chase it. Just sat there for a while, elbows on his knees, the front door creaking behind him when the sky bruised into twilight. The house was waiting for him. Warm. Safe. That was the part he couldn’t get over—how safe it all felt every day.

And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about how close he’d come to losing all of it.

He hadn’t meant to see Manny’s face again. Or Nora’s. Or that unmistakable Firefly snarl of purpose, coming at him through the woods like a storm he’d outrun for too long. Their shadows had clawed him back to Salt Lake, to Ellie, to the screaming silence of that hallway. The rifle. The red on the walls.

Tommy had found him after. Looked at Joel the way men do when they see the edge and know you’ve gone over it once already.

Just said, “You’re off rotation.”

That was it. No talk, no vote, no lecture on reliability or protocol. Just a quiet, unmovable order. It stung coming from his little brother.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Tommy added, after a long beat. “Don’t push it. Focus on your family.”

So now Joel had to step in and say it. To tell Leela that he was too known around the continent for his grim, bloody decisions with that reluctant honesty that made his skin crawl.

He didn’t know what she’d say. He didn’t know what he wanted her to say.

He thought about it, while killing time in the barn and fixing his gear. He imagined how he might tell her. Started the sentence in his head so many times he could feel the shape of it in his throat.

Leela, there’s somethin’ you oughta know. I need to tell you what really happened with Ellie, a long time ago.

But every time, the words stuck, died on the back of his tongue. How do you tell the person you love that you killed a good future for their daughter? That you made yourself the villain in someone else's story, just so you could keep hold of one small, precious thing? How would you justify being a murderer for the sake of love?

So he didn’t say it. Figured she didn’t need that truth. Figured she already carried enough.

Still, it had to start somewhere.

Leela was at the stove when he stepped in, as quietly as he could to not alert Maya, while the home was awash with the low sizzle of onions and a spice beneath it—cumin, maybe, or fenugreek. Her sleeves were rolled, her thick braid twisted into that lazy knot, and her back was to him. She didn’t look up when he came in, just stretched a cute little smile.

“You’re late,” she noticed. “Maya waited for you all evening.”

A breezy “sorry,” was all he could respond with.

“Just fed her some leftover porridge from breakfast and put her down to bed a while ago. She might still be up.”

He stood there for a long moment, watching the way her wrist moved as she stirred.

“Darlin’, I... gotta tell you somethin’,” he started, letting his pack idle by the foyer shelves. He took off his boots, letting the warmth of the floorboards seep right into his soles.

Leela's head tilted, the way it always did when she was listening closely. But she kept stirring. “Mhm?”

He cleared his throat. Looked at the floor. “Tommy’s takin’ me off patrol.”

That made her pause. Not startled—more like she’d seen it coming before he had. She turned the flame low, let the wooden spoon rest on the lip of the pan, and finally looked over her shoulder.

Not relief, exactly—understanding. Maybe even… agreement. He couldn’t stand it.

“This ain’t how I meant to tell you,” Joel went on. “Was gonna bring it up myself, but…” He trailed off. Couldn’t say their names. Couldn’t say why Tommy had made the call. “Might be time for the young blood to take over.”

In all truth, he was starting to think maybe it was time to hang it up for good. The rifle. The shifts. The long, bone-cold rides out past the gates. Let someone younger take the reins. Let them chase shadows and walk barricade lines. He’d done more than enough of that; survival hadn't allowed for subtlety back then, but it did now.

And lately, the idea of going back to contracting—roofs, plumbing, clean, quiet work that didn’t come with blood—had started to settle into him naturally. Not a fallback, but a choice.

Leela dried her hands on a dish towel and turned to face him fully. Her eyes didn’t press, but they saw him, and that was worse in a way.

“Okay,” she said softly. “You’re home. That’s what matters.”

He felt a slow sprout of hope inside his chest, not sudden like a jolt, but gradual—like thaw. The ice that splits over a moving lake underneath. He didn’t know what to do with that grace. He didn’t feel like he’d earned it.

“I’ll pull my weight here,” he muttered, turning to the sink, letting the cold water run over his arms, washing off trail dust and dried sweat. Then leaned forward, splashed some over his face, rubbed a hand through his hair, combed the damp back with his fingers until he felt a little less like a scarecrow. He exhaled. It felt good. Real good.

He shook his head, letting the cold droplets run into his shirt. “Look, I’ll find other ways. I just—I don’t want you thinkin’ I’m quittin’ ‘cause I’m soft, or not up to it. I can still take shifts whenever—”

“Joel,” she halted.

“Baby,” he triumphed, hands on his hips.

“You didn’t make a mistake coming home. And it’d be nice to have you around more.”

With that, she turned back to the stove. Joel stood there, fists clenched, heart hollowed out and full at the same time.

He scratched the back of his neck. “You sure you can handle me hovering over your shoulder all day?”

Then she looked over at him again, a feeble smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. “Doing it right now. Besides, I’ve survived worse.”

And Joel, for all his doubts, for all the old narratives his bones still apprised him—about battles, about failure, about who he used to be—felt valuable. Not because he could shoot straight or hold a line—but because he was him. Because Leela knew all of him, and still chose to make space. He didn't have to be a fighter anymore just to matter to his family.

He was allowed to want. Allowed to want his home, his girls. He wanted to hear Maya’s footsteps in the morning and not worry if he’d be there to tuck her in at night. With Sarah, he never had the chance. He was always working, too busy hauling drywall, always chasing another job, always just a little too late to recitals, always thinking there’d be time later.

There hadn’t been.

Now with Leela—he didn’t always know how to help her. Didn’t have the right words, but understood what was happening behind those quiet eyes of hers. He just wanted to be close. To make sure she ate. Slept. Smiled. That she knew she wasn’t alone.

And then there was goddamn Ellie. She acted like she didn’t need anybody, that she had plans, that she didn’t need Joel, but he knew better. She was still just a kid herself, scratching eighteen, discovering herself, growing up too fast. And he didn’t want her to feel like she was being shuffled off while he built his own little world alongside hers.

He’d hold space for all of it. For her. For Maya. For Leela. And maybe, finally, for himself.

Joel let out a soft huff of air—half a laugh, half disbelief. That crooked smile of hers had a way of taking the fight out of him. Or maybe it just reminded him there wasn’t anything to fight.

“You just want someone to lift the heavy gizmos for you, huh?” he joked.

“That too.” She tipped her shoulder. “But also—some of the tools need rewiring. You’re good with your hands.”

“You bet your sweet bippy.”

He reached for a dish towel, wiped the water from his face, and wandered closer. He rested his hip against the counter, eyes tracking her movements as she spooned something from the skillet into a bowl.

“Been workin’ all day?” he asked, nodding toward the food. It was really late for her to be cooking.

She pouted in chagrin. “Barely got through my chore chart. I was in the basement all afternoon after I sent Maya off with Ellie. Worked on restringing the washing line later. It... got away from me.”

This was the cost of loving a woman smarter than god and twice as stubborn, who carried the future of goddamn science on her shoulders. Who kept Jackson humming with electricity and heat, who might—if she could finish what she started—be the reason a new generation didn’t grow up thinking math was an ancient language. This was the fallout of her last meltdown, or the one before that—one of plenty.

But, especially then, was when his big white house started to feel lived-in again. That was the best part—how the space had changed, like the tide coming back. It was slow at first, but now he saw signs of her everywhere again. Her workspace was bleeding into the house.

Her notebooks started showing up again, sprawled across the arm of the couch. Inexplicably brewed, half-drunk mugs left behind, always lukewarm tea, some with faint lip prints near the rim. Grocery lists scribbled and torn off on the backs of old lecture notes. A growing pile of crumpled paper by the trash can, evidence she’d missed it more often than not. Tiny equations in the margins of Maya’s drawings. A chalkboard in the kitchen was covered in half-finished thoughts and flowery chore charts.

That was Leela, always halfway between burnout and brilliance. A human fault line. He loved every inch of that chaos. It made the house feel like her again.

But not everything came easily.

There were gaps in her knowledge—biology, for one. The molecular, microscopic stuff. Things that didn’t bend to logic the way numbers did. She’d grown up with numbers, not cell cultures. She could program a solar grid blindfolded, but had to reread the same medical journal six times before she could make sense of it or until the print blurred.

Sometimes he’d find her like that. On the floor, back against the wall. Legs folded under her like she’d meant to sit for a minute and never got up. Notebooks fanned around her like feathers, papers scattered. Eyes all red, hands fisted in her sleeves, breaths shallow. Holding too much. Trying not to break under the duress.

Joel had learned the drill by now: don’t interfere. Don’t prod or touch. Let it ride. Let her burn out on her own terms.

He never asked. He just sat down beside her. Shoulder to shoulder, but not touching. Letting her remember the world was still turning. Letting her breathe in the silence until she found her own way back.

And eventually she did. She always did. She’d have a bruised whisper for him, sometimes. “It’s too much.”

Too much pressure for one young woman. Too many pieces looking to be fixed. Too many people hoping she could save this town.

And he’d shrug. Look off, scratch his chin. “So?”

It wasn’t her responsibility. It never was. She’d done enough. Hell, more than enough. The rest was for others to carry. She just had to do what she could. Then stop.

But she never did. And he was done asking her to stop.

“You need to cool it. I told you I'd do the washing line for you,” Joel pointed out. But no, housework was Leela pacing herself. It wasn’t for him or for Maya, not entirely. She was trying to make sure she didn’t collapse before the real work was done.

She chuckled. “My hero. I've done this only my entire life.”

He made a noise of acknowledgement, but his eyes were on her hands—how precise she was, the small lift of her wrist when she plated, the way she pressed the back of a spoon to flatten the top like it mattered. Like, care still had a place in the world.

He didn’t realise he’d been staring until she turned and held out a spoonful for him to try.

Joel blinked. “What is it?”

“Just try it.”

He leaned in and let her feed it to him, lips brushing the edge of the spoon. Warm, sharp with lemon and sumac, soft from lentils cooked down until they barely held shape. He groaned low in his throat, more surprise than anything. “Daggum, girl.”

She gave a tiny nod, lips pursed in mock approval. “You’re still trainable.”

He swallowed. “Still don’t know shit about fuck, darlin’. Just know it tastes good.”

She set the spoon aside and moved to grab the second bowl, and that’s when her eyes caught on his stomach. She paused, just a beat. Let her fingers hover, then rest lightly above the line of his hipbone.

Joel stiffened—reflex, not rejection. He felt the rampant impulse to shift, to suck in, to grumble at her to get it over with, but he didn’t. Not when she was looking at him like that.

He'd put on some weight lately—nothing great, but enough to notice. Enough to feel the change when he bent to tie his boots, and his belt dug in more than it used to. It wasn’t muscle. It was a carefully crafted softness. Around his middle. In his face, in the lighter eyes. Just under the skin, the healthy colour there.

He hadn’t been gaunt per se, this outbreak had made him its robust, powerful mirror—and hell, he'd been starving more years than not—but Jackson, and her, changed that. Her cooking, especially. She fed him like he was worth feeding. Making sure he ate, he relaxed, went to bed with that deep, restful sigh from a full stomach. All those portions of spiced rice, those heavenly lamb koftas. Flatbreads brushed with oil, saffron and sumac. Warm lentil soup with lemon and garlic, pulled fresh from the garden. Things he’d never even heard of before her, let alone tasted. Now he craved them like he craved her.

“Guess I’ve been eatin’ good this year. Too much of your fattening love,” he muttered first, stroking the top of his abdomen.

Leela looked up at him then, eyes shining. “You’ve been healing,” she said simply, fingers smoothing over the soft curve at his core. “I like it. It looks good on you.”

Joel’s throat worked. She didn’t say it like it was a weakness. Like softness was something to hide, ageing into something better. He really was the luckiest son of a bitch in this damnable world, wasn't he?

“C'mere,” he murmured, a hand crowning her throat to bring her closer.

He leaned down, kissed her—with his lips first, then deeper when she didn’t pull away, one hand slipping behind her neck to draw her in. Her lips were warm, familiar, and tasted faintly of lemon and the rosemary steam curling from the pot behind her.

She was humming into his mouth, her fingers sliding up under the hem of his shirt, when he decided: fuck it all.

Joel pulled back just long enough to mutter, “Screw it.”

He dropped everything then, turned the stove off with a practised flick and dropped the dishtowel somewhere behind him. Food was already made—a late dinner would do just fine. Maya was napping like a log, world on pause.

He'd picked Leela up, right there in the kitchen—arms under her thighs, holding her up and close, chest to chest.

“Joel, shower first! You smell!” she giggled.

“Shh-ssh, shower later,” he whispered against her jaw, “gonna make my girl feel like a queen first.”

And with her still in his arms—bare skin pressed to bare skin, hearts pounding in sync—he laid her back over the cool, accommodating marble of the counter, somewhere between the herb bundles. It caught the curve of her spine perfectly. She gasped at the contact, at the contrast, and he just grinned. Shifted her gently, until she was right where he wanted her.

He hefted himself over the counter without ceremony, grunting, his flannel landing on the sink, jeans halfway down, knocking aside shit to the floor with a crashes neither of them cared about nor did dozy Maya upstairs. All he knew was her, laid out like a fever dream beneath him. Dark braid fanned out. Her warm skin. Her open mouth. Her legs parted for him like instinct.

She was familiarised with him already. She knew it all by now, welcomed him to her. It wasn’t graceful, but it was real. Raw. Desperate. Fucking ridiculous, but fun as hell.

Mouth brushing her ear, he muttered, “We really fuckin’ on the kitchen counter. Right between baby girl’s rosemary and the salt jar.”

She let out a startled laugh as she tried to bury her face in his shoulder. “Joel—no.”

“What, you shy?” he teased, grinding into her just enough to make her gasp. “Gotta say, mama… if this is how you season your food, Daddy’s been eatin’ way too polite.”

“Stop it,” she whispered, flustered and grinning, hiding her face now with both hands.

He kissed her temple, grinning like the bastard he was. “Nothin’ to be shy about. You’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted in this kitchen.”

So when their bodies came together—sweaty, slick, trembling with restraint they no longer had—it wasn’t just about want. It was about possession. About claiming. About making each other feel real in a world that kept trying to strip that away.

“You with me, sweetheart?” Something he asked without fail until she gave him a fervent, eager nod.

She gasped when he slid two testing fingers inside her, already dripping, aching for a part of him. And right on schedule, “So fuckin’ ready for me,” he muttered, and it surprised him every time, never stopped being a miracle.

He lined himself up, ran the head of his cock through the slick heat of her, once, twice, slow, and her legs twitched around his hips.

Then he thrust in. Hard, deep, all the way, bottoming out with a groan that scraped right out of his chest.

“There’s my girl,” he hissed, staying buried inside her, forehead dropping to hers, both of them shaking, just for a moment, to feel her. To let her feel him. “How the hell do you keep gettin’ better every time?”

She couldn’t answer—just held him there, her fingers clawed at his back, dragging through sweat, through the grooves of muscle and old scar tissue, her walls fluttering around him like she was already close.

He pulled back slowly, savouring the drag, that acclimated part of her, then drove in again—hard enough to rock her against the countertop, make her moan. A prayer, a curse, a benediction.

Her legs locked around him. Her heels dug into his back, urging him deeper, faster. He caught her mouth. Licked into her like he was starved. One hand on her throat—not choking, just having, feeling her pulse thrash hard against his palm. The other slid down between them, thumb finding her clit, circling, rubbing, watching her come undone with every rough snap of his hips.

She was reclaiming something—piece by piece, touch by touch—and he was just lucky enough to witness it. To be the one she trusted with that fight.

And every time she took him—deliberately, slowly, selfishly—it damn near unmade him.

She could be shy about it, yes. Whisper soft little requests into the crook of his neck. Or she could be bold, back arched, and mouth falling open as she rode him like she meant to ruin him. Either way, she kept him guessing, kept him alive in ways he hadn’t known he’d gone numb.

Some nights, she touched him like she was trying to memorise him. Ran her hand down his chest, scratching at his scruff, in her own personal worship. Kissed the inside of his wrist. Bit the tendon in his neck, just because she liked the way he twitched.

Other mornings, half-asleep, arms slack on her, and soft with warmth, she pulled him close, guided him under her nightdress with nothing more than a sigh and a roll of her hips—just to let him come inside her slowly, just for the way it made her feel full throughout the day. Safe. His.

“More—please—more, Joel,” Leela huffed again when he pumped deep—but there was no laughter, no hesitation this time.

Joel lost it. His rhythm went savage, body slamming into hers with full weight, countertop rattling, her cries going high and sharp and needy as she clung to him.

“You ask so fuckin’ sweet,” he gritted out, driving into her again.

Look, people could say it was too much sex for a man like him. Too much hunger. Too much need. That he ought to slow down before his real age caught up with him.

But they didn’t know. Didn’t know what it meant to be dying for most of your goddamn life. To go decades without an ounce of softness. Without safety. Without something—or someone—you could lose yourself in without fear.

Here he was, only making up for the lost years. The dead years. The years when nothing felt like this.

And when grabbed her ass, pulled her in so he could thrust harder—when she wrapped her legs tighter him, dragged him close with that soft little whimper in her throat—they crashed together like it was the last time, like every second mattered.

When it hit—when he finally let go—it gutted him. Buried himself as deep as she’d take him, spilled with a roar that tore right from his chest, raw, guttural, desperate. Like every last decade he’d gone without this—without her—was pouring out of him all at once.

Like it was the only way he knew how to say I’m yours.

A vow. A promise made skin to skin, breath to breath. It was two people burning at the end of the world, holding on to each other like the flames hadn’t already taken everything else.

Time was always running out.

So they met it head-on—bodies breaking and blooming with every gasp, thrust, and whisper of each other’s name—repeatedly, again and again.

X

“Every shot you don’t take is a miss,” Maria had told him about tonight. Yeah, well. Plenty of shots aren’t worth taking either.

Joel adjusted the collar of the coudroy shirt he’d picked out—was wearing, really, because picking something out would’ve meant making a damn decision about his appearance, which had not—fancier than anything he’d worn in months, lifted from one of Dr. Reed’s abandoned closets as if it still had a mortgage on it. Stiff at the shoulders, rich at the cuffs. He couldn’t tell if it made him look handsome or like a fool playing dress-up in another man’s memories.

He eyed himself in the mirror like the man in there might blink first. Brushed his hand along the line of his jaw, then down to the traitorous little paunch he still wasn’t used to. The salt in his beard looked defiant tonight. That slicked-back hair, too. He tugged down the front of the shirt, opened another button. Still didn’t feel right. He looked like a cleaned-up version of a man who’d already done the worst thing in his life.

Proposal. Christ, this was torture.

He hadn’t had a whiskey in over a year. Not a drop. But standing here trying to figure out how to ask the biggest question of his whole damn life, relapse was starting to look more appealing than letting those few little words tumble out of his mouth.

Why was it so fucking hard? Leela was not expecting anything. He could leave the ring in his pocket and say it another time. He could practically hear Tommy’s voice needling him: What, you gonna keep waiting ‘til Maya’s thirty?

He swallowed, straightened again. Tonight was the night. No more stalling. No more waiting for a better moment. He was doing this. Now or never.

Tommy’s place. Backyard barbecue. Beer, burgers, laughter. Nothing dramatic, they had done this hundreds of times. Yet, the thought of doing it in front of his folks—Tommy, Maria, Ellie—made his stomach twist up like barbed wire.

And he still hadn’t found the words. He wasn’t good with those. Never had been.

He sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Get it together,” he told himself. He's been through worse than this.

A voice broke up his spiralling thoughts—her voice, warm and strong from downstairs. Thank fuck. “Joel! I’m sending Maya upstairs—can you please get her dressed?”

He cleared his throat, found his voice. “Yeah, I got her.” Then, in a lazy drawl, trying to joke his way back into his skin: “Hey, you wearin’ them strappy things tonight?”

Her laugh was distant, teasing. “You mean the dress? Do you want me to?”

He scratched at his neck, already hot under the collar. “…Yes.”

She didn’t answer. Or maybe she did, but he couldn’t hear it—because at that moment, there was a thunder of small feet on the stairs.

Maya burst through the door like a firework, in nothing but her nappy. Nearly three years old, a goddamn menace nowadays, but a whole comet made of giggles and sharp elbows. Today, her tangled curls were up in a complicated, tidy, intricate braid—Leela’s handiwork. A little crown on her head.

Joel barely had time to brace himself before Maya launched into his legs like she shot out of a cannon.

“Whoa—there you are. Pretty girl,” he muttered, scooping her up. She curled into him instinctively, her head finding the crook of his shoulder. At some point—maybe the moment she realised her body could launch wherever her mind went—she’d stopped asking. Now, she treated him like part of the furniture. Just another chair in the house with a heartbeat.

He could still carry her easy, but she was getting heavier. Her legs dangled lower than they used to. Her arms didn’t quite reach around his neck anymore.

“Mama did your hair so nice,” he murmured, brushing a hand over the braid, dropping a kiss there.

“’S too tight,” she whined, digging a finger into the base of her skull.

He smiled. “Yeah, well. That’s the price of royalty.”

She shoved the dress at him—an old button-down of his, faded soft, its sleeves trimmed, buttons reinforced and stitched with a little patch of flowers near the hem. Leela had turned it into a dress a year ago, when Maya decided “twirling” was essential to her identity.

“This one, wed colour,” she told him, grinning.

It hit him sometimes—out of nowhere—that she wouldn’t always fit like this, curled up against him, smelling faintly of powder and sun-warmed cotton. That one day she’d stop climbing all over him like her own tree. One day, she’d want space. Secrets. Doors closed. But right now she still thought he hung the damn moon. And he wasn’t ready to let that go.

“Alright, let’s wrangle you into this thing,” he mumbled.

Joel knelt, helping her step into it, his big, calloused hands fumbling a little on the buttons.

But noticed her attention wasn’t on him. She was turning something over in her hands, eyes focused, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth in concentration. Probably a rock. Or a bottle cap. She was always collecting junk, fidgeting with things, just like her mother.

She launched into a half-babbled story about how she went to the park with Ellie today, and one of the kids had a big dog. And that his mama had caught him a fish from the creek.

“I wanna catch one, too,” Maya declared as he tightened the bow at her shoulders. “Can we go, Daddy? I want to keep my fish. And my turtles, my starfish... ah, my seahorse!”

“We’ll see,” Joel said, which was his favourite way to buy time when she got ideas.

What got him most wasn’t just what she said—but how she said it. Like it was nothing. Ordinary. Familiar. Not some big, scary thing she had to steel herself for.

But Joel remembered what it was like at the start—how she used to cling to Leela’s leg like ivy, her little body practically welded to her mother’s side. She’d hide her face in the fabric of Leela’s coat whenever someone new walked by. Wouldn’t set foot off the porch unless one of them was holding her hand the whole way. Wouldn’t even speak above a whisper if someone other than their folks were listening. Too quiet for a child.

And then Ellie showed up, with all the subtlety of a stampede and twice the stubbornness. Who didn’t care how shy Maya was, didn’t give up when she clammed up or bawled. Who dragged her into games of tag, taught her to throw rocks in the creek, and chased her down laughing until Maya forgot to be afraid. Ellie had a way of making the world feel like a place worth running around in.

And little by little, Maya started to believe it.

Now the park wasn’t just a place they passed on the way to the market. It was a real thing. Somewhere she looked forward to—asked for. Fit it into her days like brushing her teeth or untangling her curls.

Joel knew that kind of change didn’t just happen. It took time. It took patience. Weeks of gentle coaxing, trial runs, of walking beside her until she was ready to go a little further on her own. Of letting her come home early, face buried in Leela’s neck, when the noise or the crowd got too loud. Leela called it building the muscle. Joel figured that was just her way of saying it’s okay to start small.

Now here Maya was, chattering about creek fish and some boy with a dog like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He bent forward and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, rough hand cupping the back of it, just for a moment. “You’re gettin’ real brave, baby girl.”

Maya gave a toothy grin to the shiny thing in her palms. Joel didn’t think much of it until she tried to stick whatever was in her hand right into her mouth.

“Hey—hey. No.” He reached, pried it from her death grip. “C’mere. What’d I say about eatin’ crap off the floor—”

And then he stopped.

The ring. Shit.

He turned it over in his fingers, heart sinking straight through his boots. The damn thing must’ve fallen out of his pocket. He’d checked it this morning. Hell, he always checked it. Before breakfast, after lunch, after pissing—like some kind of nervous tic.

“Where’d you get this?” he asked, voice sharper than he meant.

Maya blinked up at him, unbothered. “Stairs.” Then, proudly, she chirped, “It’s mine now.”

Joel pressed a hand to his eyes. Of course. Of course, she’d find it. Three years old, couldn’t find her socks even if they were taped to her, but put one shiny object in her line of sight and she turned into goddamn Gollum.

“It’s not yours.” He sounded a little too sharp. When her lip started to tremble, he softened. “Hey. Listen to me. This is somethin’ real important, baby, okay?”

She gasped, appalled. “Gimme my ring!”

He was already regretting everything.

It was like every ounce of careful planning had crumbled with the shake of her little fist. Joel stared down at the ring, its band smudged now, Maya’s fingerprints across the enamel on the wood. He wiped it on his sleeve, heart hammering. Was that a sign? A warning? Or just toddler chaos in action?

Maya folded her arms and jutted her lip like she meant to put a hex on him. “Finders keepers.”

“Not with this one. It ain’t yours.” He sighed, trying to sound calm. “You can not tell Mama, alright?”

“Why not?” she asked, poking at his knee.

“’Cause it’s...” He hesitated—ambushed by her honesty, her curiosity. “Her big surprise tonight. Secret... surprise?” he offered at last.

“Ohh.” Her eyes lit up. She leaned forward and tapped a finger to her lips, “Shh-ssh. I won’t tell. Sec-wet.”

Joel’s laugh was small, startled. “Yeah, sec-wet.” He nodded, a hand brushing a few stray curls back from her face. “Thanks, baby girl.”

Then he did what any man in his position would—slid the ring deep into his front pocket to stop it from jumping out and start broadcasting itself. No damn chances. Not with a three-year-old wild card.

He decided, then and there, to keep Maya close through the rest of the night. The walk to Tommy’s place, the goddamn bathroom. No unnecessary interactions with Leela—not until the moment was right. Not until her attention was somewhere else.

Later on, Tommy made that easier than expected—plucking Maya into his arms and guiding her over to the spitting grill, holding her high like a little gymnast, her hand wrapped around the spatula with exaggerated seriousness as she helped him flip patties. She loved it. The flames licked too close, and when a gust of smoke blew toward her, she made a silly face and laughed like it was a game. Took it as a challenge. His girl, through and through.

Joel kept back, one boot on the deck rail, nursing a sweating beer he barely tasted, a thumb rubbing the label raw. He couldn’t stop watching her—Leela.

That wasn’t new. It had become muscle memory by now, the way his eyes found her across any room, any field, any porch. He watched for signs. All of it. Who she was talking to. If she was smiling because she meant it or because it was easier. If she was cold, if she needed a drink, if she looked away too long at nothing.

Tonight it wasn’t just instinct. It was that in a few short hours—hell, maybe less—she might say yes. She might become his wife.

Dr. Leela Miller. The words were absurd in his mouth.

He’d bagged a scientist, for Christ’s sake. Mind like an iron trap. Thinking in shapes and theories he didn’t have words for.

She solved things. He broke them. And yet—here they were.

He used to imagine himself ending up with someone… simpler. Maybe an older woman who let him take care of her, who liked country music and didn’t ask too many hard questions. A woman who liked the same things as him. Not someone who would outthink a room full of men in lab coats and look like that doing it.

But that was before he learned that love didn’t mean soft edges and easy silences. Sometimes it meant hard-earned peace.

And now, here he was. A battered old man, and this was the woman sharing her years with him—her best ones, if he was being honest. Years she could’ve spent anywhere, with anyone.

Just look at her. Look at his girl.

She wore that sundress tonight—the pale, crocheted fabric light against her bronze skin, clinging to her like water, delicate straps kissing her shoulders. The open back dipped low, exposing the twin ridges of her long spine and the elegant stretch of her neck in a way that should be outlawed. Her half-undone braid hung long and heavy, swaying like a dark pendulum with every movement—tick, tock, tick, tock—a countdown to the moment he still hadn’t worked up the nerve to reach.

He dragged his eyes away, tried to focus on anything else, then back again.

Those fucking legs of hers were endless. Bare to past mid-thigh, strong, and gleaming like summer itself, with whatever coconut oil she'd bartered from Maria for and insisted on using even when they were rationing rice.

The way her jaw angled when she tilted her head to listen to Maria—the gentle bow of her lips, parted in a small smile that didn’t always reach her eyes—Jesus. Jesus Christ. How the hell was she real?

How the hell did he come home to her? Some days, he still waited to wake up alone. One blink, and it was over. As if all this—her, Maya, this chance at a future—was some long con his own mind had pulled to survive.

No, this was real. And soon enough, people would see a ring on her hand and know. That woman? She was spoken for by a man like him.

And maybe they’d stare. Maybe they’d wonder what she was doing with him—what deal she’d made, what kindness she was repaying.

But he’d know better because she chose him. Had chosen him again and again, in a hundred small, quiet ways. Every worn, angry, aching part of him.

His throat went dry again when he thought of words. He still could not find a goddamn syllable, at least not until she was looking at him—not distracted, not tired, not halfway out of a conversation with someone else.

Then—

“Cheese, put the cheese, uncle!”

The spell shattered like glass underfoot. Joel blinked, pulled back to earth, and turned toward the grill. His little girl, sitting on Tommy’s hip, had latched onto his arm like a baby sloth, legs swinging, tiny fists tangled in his beard.

“Ow—Jesus, the paws on you, squirt,” Tommy grunted, trying to balance a spatula in one hand and fend her off with the other. “Ay, I gave you a bunch!”

“I want more!” she howled. “Put—put more!”

“You want more, ask your precious daddy to make you some,” Tommy shot back, far too smug for a grown man battling a toddler over shredded cheddar.

“Auntie, look!” Maya screeched, throwing a dramatic finger at his chest. “He’s bein’ mean again!”

Maria appeared with the timing of a saint—or a fed-up bartender—marching up the porch with a sloshy beer in one hand and a look of long-suffering amusement on her face. “Baby, why do you keep picking fights with her?”

Tommy raised both hands in surrender. “She starts it.”

Ellie barked out a laugh from the porch swing, legs kicked up, looking like summer mischief incarnate. “C’mere, you gremlin,” she called, arms outstretched.

Maya didn’t hesitate. She launched off Tommy’s side with alarming speed, limbs flailing, landing square on Ellie’s back with a triumphant giggle.

Joel winced. “Christ,” he muttered. “No fear, that one.”

“Ellie, cheese,” Maya stage-whispered to her.

Ellie gave a soft grunt as she straightened up, hands under Maya’s knees. “Yep. She’s gonna run this town by the time she’s six,” she said over her shoulder, carrying the kid like it was second nature.

As she passed Joel, she leaned in just enough to talk low, real casual-like, but he caught the glint in her eye.

“So,” she murmured, “I heard you’re breeding doves and shit for tonight.”

Joel didn’t have the breath to joke back. Just stiffened a little.

Ellie nudged his elbow with her shoulder. “Gonna propose, or you gonna wuss out and die of a heart attack before dessert?”

Joel exhaled through his nose, the closest thing to a laugh he could manage. “Got anything else against my ticker?”

Ellie glanced down at Maya, who was busy combing her fingers through Ellie's ponytail. “You’re probably out here thinkin’ you’re too busted up or whatever,” she said. “Just gotta ask, man.”

She turned to go, but not before tossing a last look over her shoulder. “Besides, the kid’s already calling you Dad. Might as well make it official.”

He stayed there a moment longer after Ellie disappeared inside, her words still hanging in the air like a bell just rung. You just gotta ask. Simple, as though anything about Leela ever had been.

He rubbed a thumb over the callus on his palm, eyes finding her the way they always did—unconsciously, inevitably.

She was alone now, standing at the edge of the porch where the string lights flickered like dying fireflies. Her gaze was caught—intent—by the glow that shimmered off the wires. Always watching. Always had to fix things, even if no one asked her to. Her fingers moved with quiet purpose, already unspooling one loose bulb like it had wronged her.

He knew that particular bulb had been out since the last storm. Had seen it a dozen times and let it be. But not her, she didn’t let broken things lie.

Low-hung string lights, the ones Maria had put up last winter when the dark came too early. Maya loved them—called them stars you could reach. They weren’t one bit of magic. But in Jackson, they were close enough. And in that moment, with Leela outlined in gold and dusk, they might as well have been divine.

The porch had emptied. The grill snuffed out, and the rest of them had moved inside. He watched Tommy amble past with a tray of half-charred patties, grin wide like he already knew what was about to happen. He caught Joel’s eye on the way past, gave him a wiseass grin, and a smug clap to the shoulder before disappearing through the screen door.

Joel stood for a beat longer. Then moved, no decision, only motion. How a lodestone drags metal, or the moon controls the tides.

He bent down beside the cooler, fished around till his knuckles hit glass, pulled a bottle free and popped the cap open with his canines—a barbaric, stupid little trick that always got a rise out of her.

“Can’t stay put for a second, can you?” he said as he offered her the bottle.

She glanced his way, half-distracted, fingers still curled around the base of a bulb. “Just a loose wire,” she murmured. “Ruins the whole thing.”

One last twist, and it sparked back to life, scattering warm shadows over her face. It caught in her eyes, lit the curve of her cheek. For a heartbeat, she seemed as if she were holding the blazing sun in her hands—and Joel felt, with a stiff certainty, that’s exactly what she was in his life. A bright, beautiful, terrifying thing that left everywhere else in the dusk.

“We oughta put some of these up at our place,” he said, like it was just a passing thought.

She hoisted herself onto the porch rail, all effortless and bare legs, taking a swig from the bottle before resting it on her thigh. He moved instinctively—his palm hovering behind her lower back as her safety net, just in case.

She looked at him then, that gaze that never missed a damn thing. A slantwise smile crept onto her lips, and she laughed softly, buzzing low against the rim of the bottle.

Joel’s brows ticked down. “What?”

“You look so much more human when you’re nervous. Less of a hardass,” she said, with a sweet fondness in her voice.

Joel gave a huff of a laugh and looked down at his boots. “Thought I was hidin’ that pretty well.”

“Not since you quit patrol.”

He scratched at the back of his neck, half a smile on his lips, and took a slow swig from his beer, the fizz settling behind his teeth. “’Mfine, baby. Couldn’t’ve come at a better time.”

She squinted at him, like she was weighing him against the truth—some private scale only she could read. She didn’t call him on it, only let it sit.

“Be honest. What do you want to do, Joel?” Her voice was gentle, not accusing. “I’m not asking you to get out of the house and kill those things, am I? You did enough of that for ten lives.”

Those words landed like a fist to the ribs, and he puffed out the discomfort. “I told you I’ll find somethin’. Not in a rush.”

“You don’t have to,” she said, matter-of-fact. “You could just… stay. Be here. Grow old. Get fat and lazy. Let me take care of everything else.”

Joel raised a brow, baring an amused smile. “Would you do that too?”

There was a pause. She didn’t smile this time. Her eyes tracked toward the window where the curtains billowed, letting a sliver of warm lamplight spill out onto the porch. Inside, he could hear Maya’s voice, high and bright like wind chimes.

“If L.A. didn’t happen,” she said slowly, “I might’ve. I would've let myself slow down.”

Joel caught the flicker in her voice. “But now,” she continued, eyes still on the window, “I have commitments. I have a future to protect.”

Joel followed her gaze. Maya’s silhouette spun behind the curtain, arms in the air like she was catching invisible snow.

That was the thing about Leela. She didn’t speak in dreams or wishes—she spoke in tethers. In roots. And he felt it again—that old ache, that rising tide of don’t fuck this up.

Joel watched the way her fingers fussed with the bottle. Spinning it. Wiping away condensation. Giving her hands something to do when her mouth wanted to say more than she could bear.

“Leela,” he muttered, leaning in just enough to study the shadows on her face. “What’s really on your mind?”

She rolled her lips inward, like she was biting back a smile—or a secret. Then she laid her hand flat across her forehead and gave a careless, little laugh.

“Oh, no, don’t ask me that. I’ll upset you,” she moaned.

“You could never, not ever,” he said without hesitation. And he truly meant it. If she opened her mouth and told him she was leaving him in the morning, it’d level him—but he’d still mean it.

She released her bitten lip, a scroll unravelling. And that’s when he saw it—that softening in her eyes, the complicacy that would eventually land between them.

“I know about the ring, Joel.”

His deaf ear must've definitely failed him then. Just to confirm—“What?”

She chuckled. “The ring. Was it not for me?”

Everything in him deflated: his nerves, his strength, his words. All in a slow exhale when that pinched valve inside him gave way. Like the last little bit of breath he’d been holding onto leaked right out of him.

He blinked once, then rubbed at the back of his neck like it might dislodge whatever came next. Then he sank down beside her on the porch rail, knees wide, boots scuffing the planks, elbows on thighs, eyes fixed on the space between his boots.

“How long’ve you known?” he mumbled.

The words came out unintentionally rough-edged. He wasn’t angry. It was all the thoughts in his head—Be gentle. Or don’t. But please, not this way.

Because what he wanted—what he feared—wasn’t just that she knew. It was how she knew, and why she hadn’t said anything 'til now. Because that was the part he couldn’t bear—if she'd seen the ring and walked past it. If she’d picked it up in her hand, held it, felt all his time and love, and thought no.

And still didn’t tell him. The ache of the answer already there—quiet, and kindly given, but still: no.

“A few hours,” she eventually confessed. “Found it on the stairs, then I left it there. Figured you’d come back for it.”

He let out a soft, pained sound—almost a laugh, but there was no humour in it. “Jesus. I really am slippin’.”

“It’s a beautiful ring. I know you made it, I could tell,” she offered gently, like it was something he could still be proud of.

He didn’t answer right away, only managed a quiet nod. He fished into his pocket and pulled the ring out, the wood warm from his body heat, cradling it in his palm, more than some whittled promise. It looked small there, the gold catching against his callused thumb. A simple circle of carved oak, ringed with gold. Made by hand, with time, for her.

Leela didn’t reach for it, but she was studying it—and him—from a place he couldn’t follow.

She smiled, half-lidded. “And after everything I said about marriage being obsolete. Symbolism that doesn’t serve us anymore.”

She wasn’t trying to hurt him. He knew that. That was just her—clear-eyed, clinical, stripped of sentiment when it got in the way of understanding. Like solving a math problem. Reduce it. Isolate the variable. Eliminate the excess.

The only thing was—this wasn’t excess. Not to him.

“Never said you didn’t want a ring,” he muttered, unconvinced.

She let out a soft breath of honest laughter. “No, I did not.”

He didn’t look at her. Just placed the ring carefully on the porch rail beside her thigh. His hands gripped the wood like he was bracing for the unexpected, maybe—impact, rejection, he didn’t know.

He frankly didn’t know if she’d pick it up, or walk away from it. Didn’t even know what her silence meant. All he knew was he’d laid it out now. Given it air. And it hurt like hell not to know if it’d be received.

He cleared his throat. “Baby…” His voice scratched at the edge of the words. “I ain’t got nothin’ prepared for you. No speech. No kneelin’, none of that.”

Her smile twitched again. “Joel—”

“No,” he said, quietly insistent. “Lemme get through it.”

She nodded once, solemn.

His gaze drifted past her, toward the window—lit amber from inside, the soft blur of voices and laughter filtering through the glass. Maya’s silhouette flitted across the frame, trailing something sparkly Ellie had tied around her wrist. Maria was leaning against the table, wine in hand, grinning at something Tommy was saying. Sometimes, he didn't know what to do with that kind of softness.

“I spent a long time thinkin’ I’d die alone,” Joel began. “Figured maybe that’s what I earned. For all the shit I’ve done to survive, everyone I let down. I made peace with it. Thought that was it.”

His fingers twitched where they curled around the railing.

“Then you came along,” he said, voice thickening. “And I didn’t know what to do with you. Still don’t, most days. You’re smart, and stubborn, and so damn strong it scares the hell outta me. I watch you with our baby girl, and I think… this is it. This is what the world was supposed to be. What it could have been if things had gone right, and... I saved her.”

He didn’t mean to say it. The words just dropped, like gravity had been holding them in and finally gave out. He blinked hard, the weight of it settling into his chest.

For a breath, he wasn’t on the porch anymore. He was somewhere else—long ago, yet too close. Sarah’s tinny laughter echoing down a hallway, that sunshine voice teasing him over scorched eggs or his taste in music. That drowsy, unfiltered way she used to mumble “You’re such a big softie, Dad” when she caught him watching her sleep after a late night.

He wondered, not for the first time, what she might have said if she could see him now. If she’d even see him past the anger, his bloodied hands, and consider him her father. If she’d appreciate Leela as much as him. If she’d love Maya and Ellie as her own.

He drew in a slow, uneven breath and turned his head, finally looking at Leela—she wasn’t smiling anymore. Just holding still, eyes glinting in the string lights, her hand suspended halfway between her knee and the porch rail like she didn’t trust herself to move.

And in that moment, Joel didn’t see two separate lives. Just one long, brutal road that had somehow led him here, across from a big, white house, and to this family, to her.

“I don’t have much left to offer,” he said. “Just myself. My hands. My time. Whatever years I’ve got left.”

He flicked his eyes down to the ring, then back to her.

“But they’re all yours, Leela, if you want ’em.”

Silence stretched—long, weighted, adoring—demanding nothing but holding everything inside it. The cicadas hummed low in the distance. Wind brushed against the porch screens.

And Joel waited; not like a man expecting yes or no, but like someone who’d finally unshouldered a burden he’d been carrying for miles.

And then—Leela reached for it. A decision she had made before her mind caught up, she picked up where he had left it, and nestled it in her palms, how a nest held a baby bird. Joel watched her thumb stroking over the smooth gold, the uneven grain of the oak, his own hands hanging useless by his sides.

And watched her fingers close around it, gentle as ever.

Then—quietly, with a voice that cracked and held at once—she spoke. “I never thought I’d have anyone to myself. Not where it was safe to want it.”

Her eyes lifted to search his—slow, cautious. And Joel let her look at all of it. The lines, the cracks, the history. The ugly things. The beautiful ones, too, even if he still didn’t know how to hold those proper. If she still wanted him afterwards.

Her gaze softened. “And if that’s what this ring means,” she murmured, barely more than breath, “then…”

She reached again—this time for him.

Her hand slid over his, careful not to drop the ring. She pressed her fingers to his, fitting them into the grooves of his knuckles, as though they were shaped for her.

“Then yes,” she said. “I want it all.”

Joel blinked once, slow, like maybe he’d misheard her. Like the years of grief and failure and blood had finally caught up and were playing tricks on his ears.

That word—yes—cracked him, like a floodgate giving way. Quiet, massive, unstoppable. She was saying yes to all of it.

All the worries he’d carried—how she'd flinch from the shadows of his past, how he’d never be clean enough, soft enough, good enough for her—all of it seemed ridiculous now. Foolish and small compared to the weight of her looking at him like that, like she knew him and still chose him.

He made a sound—half-gasp, half-sob—and his hand moved before he could stop it. Twitched under hers, then closed around it instinctively, like his body had been waiting for this—her—for decades.

His chest roared with nerves, but his fingers were gentle, almost trembling, as he eased the ring onto her ring finger where it would sit for another fifty years. It was nestled askew, a little too big.

“I’ll solder it later,” she said quickly, like it didn’t matter, like she was afraid he’d apologise for it.

How the hell did he get this lucky? He didn’t say a damn thing, didn’t trust his voice not to break.

Instead, Joel's hands went to her waist—and before she could say another word, he lifted her clean off the porch railing.

He laughed, a sound so old it almost startled him. It came from deep in his gut, hopeful and breathless, broken through with joy he didn’t recognise as his own at first.

Leela let out a startled little sound, her arms catching naturally around his neck. Her forehead bumped his as he spun her in a rough circle, boots scraping on the wood, the wind catching the stray wisps of hair around her cheeks.

“Put me down!” she whispered, half-laughing against his throat. “You’re gonna throw your back out.”

“Don’t care,” he muttered, still laughing.

When he set her down again, his hands didn’t move far. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t ask for permission, just leaned in and kissed every piece of her he could find. Her warm cheek. Her closed eyes, lashes damp. The corner of her mouth. Her hairline. Her jaw. Her temple. The shell of her ear.

He didn’t have the words to tell her what this meant. That he hadn’t believed he’d ever get this again—not after everything, not after Sarah, not after all the ruin he carried around like second skin.

“Leela,” he murmured, his voice roughened with more than just emotion—like it hurt to speak and feel so much all at once. He cupped the back of her head, foreheads pressed, and he stayed there, breathing her in.

“Leela Miller,” she corrected.

His brow lifted, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward despite the lump still stuck in his throat. “That right?” he rasped, gravel and wonder all tangled up. “Ain’t too late to run, y’know.”

Leela didn’t budge. “I wouldn’t get too far.”

Joel snickered, mock-considering. “I’d give you a head start. Maybe five steps.”

She hummed, eyes half-lidded, still nestled close. “Ruined it.”

“Then c'mere and fix it,” he muttered, already leaning in; the only thing left in the world was the shape of her mouth and the promise of home in her breath.

But a sharp tap-tap-tap rattled the porch window before he could catch her mouth.

They both jerked, startled.

Four faces pressed against the glass like in a stage play, barely obscured by the parted curtain. Tommy was grinning like a lunatic, one arm flung around Maria’s shoulders. Maria had her hand to her heart, visibly misty-eyed. Ellie had both fists pumped in victory, mouthing something like “Holy shit!” through the pane. And dead centre, propped up in Maria’s arms, was Maya—head tilted, brows furrowed in that serious, confused little way of hers as she squinted at the adults with the kind of scrutiny only a toddler could manage.

Tommy whooped so loud that Joel was sure someone two streets down heard it. “Fina-fuckin’-ally!”

Leela giggled—a rare, bubbling sound—and clapped a hand over her mouth like she could catch it before it escaped. She held up her left hand, fingers splayed, flashing the ring like it might answer Maya’s question.

Her eyes widened, then came her muffled squeal, “Daddy sec-wet!”

Joel rubbed the back of his neck, muttering something inaudible that might have been “Oh, Christ,” but he didn’t look away.

The door flew open, and the whole damn crew poured out.

Boots scuffed hard against wood, and then it was a mess of limbs and hollering. Joel barely had time to register the blur of motion before he was hit from both sides—Tommy barreling into him, and Ellie launching herself at Leela like a skinny linebacker.

“You fucking said yes!” Ellie hollered, clinging to Leela, nearly raising her off the floor. Joel caught a flash of her grinning face as she hooted again, and Leela staggered a little but didn’t stop laughing.

“Look at you,” Tommy barked, dragging Joel into a half-headlock, knuckles grinding affectionately into his scalp. “Didn’t think you had the stones, jackass.”

Joel grunted, wind knocked out of him, but he didn’t push him off. Couldn’t, not when his chest was a mess of noise and heartbeat and something terrifyingly close to joy. So he shook his head, still stunned.

Tommy finally let him go with a slap to his back, and he was still catching his breath when he looked up—

Leela stood a few feet away, partly circled by Maria and Ellie now, Maya cradled between them, his baby girl’s tiny face peeking out over her mother’s shoulder.

What Joel saw was his Leela, everything else out of focus. At the lines of the porch light carved into her cheekbones. At the worn braid that lay across her collarbone. At the place on her throat where her pulse ticked, constant as a metronome.

Someone—maybe Tommy—muttered something about champagne. Ellie snorted and called back, “You think we got champagne? Shit, we’ve got apple cider. Or my moonshine if you wanna blackout during the toast.”

Joel huffed a low breath of a laugh. That sounded more like home.

And what he truthfully felt wasn’t clarity or certainty. He didn’t believe in that shit anymore, not like he used to. This was...

Conviction.

This woman—this stunning woman—was the one who’d shown him there was a future left to want. Who didn’t fix him, because that was never hers to do.

And in a world where most things broke and stayed broken—she was the thing that held.

He stood there a long beat, surrounded by all the noise, the cider being passed around in mismatched mugs, Maya's delighted squeal of wanting some, Ellie already climbing up on the porch rail like she was gearing up for a ridiculous toast, one neither of them would forget—or forgive her for.

But all Joel could fucking do was stare at his wife.

Her dark eyes found his in the chaos, and she smiled, quiet and knowing, like she already understood every word he hadn’t said out loud.

He took a reflexive step toward her—then another—cutting through his folks, without a word, because words would’ve only cheapened it.

She didn’t flinch when he reached his place. She shifted Maya a little higher against her chest and tilted her face toward him, as if to say—Come home, Joel.

So touched her hand first—just a brush of fingers, his open door. Then his palm slid around her neck, callused thumb resting beneath her jaw. Maya blinked up at him, wide-eyed, her curls scattered against Leela’s collar like tiny question marks. Joel reached out again, this time to her back, a whisper of contact. Leela moved just enough, granting him space to hold his daughter.

And this was it.

This was the future now, and he was stepping through the doors—finally, entirely—with his eyes wide open.

X

That same night, Joel found himself dismantling Maya’s crib, the act itself deserving of his utmost reverence.

“What’s Daddy doing?” Leela whispered from the hallway.

“Fixin’,” Maya whispered back.

He didn’t rush. Each screw he loosened felt like the end of a chapter. His palms moved with care—thumb smoothing over the worn wood rail, the one Maya used to chew when she was teething. The teeth marks were still there. Tiny, crescent-shaped reminders. Part of him wanted to leave them. Another part knew he had to start the ball rolling.

The house was quiet—unnaturally so, after all those toasts to forever, the laughter, the clink of mugs—and Maya padded after him like a duckling, barefoot, two fingers picking at her lips in her nervous rut, and her eyes, big and brown like her mama’s, tracked his every move. If she blinked, she would miss something important.

And of course, Joel could see it plain as day, his baby girl was overwhelmed. Way past her bedtime, belly full of Tommy's generously cheese-ed burgers, everyone hugging her mama like they were old friends, slapping his back with words like “Congratulations!” as if she was supposed to know what that spell meant. And now, her room, her safe space, the one thing that never changed, was being taken apart right in front of her?

“She doesn’t get it,” he murmured under his breath as he passed her, ruffling her curls. “I got you, baby girl.”

Hell, Joel wasn’t sure he could wrap his head around it either. One minute, she was a newborn, featherlight, curled along his forearm, breathing those tiny sighs against his neck. Now she was watching him take apart her whole world.

But he kept working. Pulled on his gloves, toolbelt slung low on his hips, and still wearing the button-up he hadn’t changed out of since dinner, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, sweat blooming at the collar. He could’ve waited until morning and let her sleep one more night in the old crib, surrounded by what she knew. But the accomplishment about it—about today—made him press on, and made him want her to have this now. Maybe it was pride, or guilt, or the quiet ache of her having called out to him many times tonight, meaning it like a promise.

Like giving Leela that ring. Or Ellie with that guitar.

Maya deserved her own piece of the day to call her own. A gesture that said: You’re growing up, sweetheart. I see it. I’m here with you.

He dragged the new bed down from his shop, careful not to wake the house. There was absolutely no room for mistakes once he laid out the parts, sorted the screws, set every board down with care. Checked angles twice. Rugged pinewood he’d shaped himself—soft edges, low frame, solid enough to last and hold all the dreams a little girl might grow into.

She stood at the doorway the whole time, little feet planted like she was standing guard, or maybe waiting for permission to step into the future.

“I help, Daddy. See, I do,” she chirped once, already tugging a scrap of sandpaper off the floor.

He let out a soft breath, smiling despite himself. “Not this time, busybee.” Scooped her up, set her gently by the door again. “Don’t want you hurtin’ your pretty fingers.”

Twice more she tried, wandered off, then circled back. Grunting, dragging a bed slat like it weighed a hundred pounds. Each time, Joel had to stop what he was doing and guide her back with a kiss to her temple, even though all he wanted was to let her stay near.

The third time, Leela’s arms wrapped around her from behind, lifting her up.

“C’mon, Maya,” she murmured, voice soft against the crown of Maya’s curls. “Let’s go take a bath.”

Maya whined in protest, feet kicking in midair.

Joel caught her eye and winked. “Go on now. Let Mama fuss over you.”

She pouted, but she went along with Leela.

And then it was just him again.

Alone in the soft hush of the nursery, tightening every last screw with the same hands that once knew only how to break things, pull triggers and crush windpipes. Now they smoothed edges, lined up joints flush, and held things together instead of tearing them apart.

Was that not the point of raising a daughter? To rewrite your story in the margins of hers, not by erasing the past, but by refusing to pass it on.

He sanded off the splinters, double-checked every bolt, all of it a punctuation mark in an unfinished story. Hauled in the mattress from one of the empty, unused guest rooms, a little too big, but she would grow into it. He laid the blankets, pink and green to match her walls, corners tucked, one pillow fluffed and centred. Her favourite starry blanket, spread just so—faded navy with constellations stitched in silver thread.

It wasn’t just a bed for his daughter.

It was a beginning. A place for burrowing, for burying your face after a hard day. For whispered secrets beneath the covers and flashlight adventures. For hiding under when the world felt too loud. For outgrowing, eventually—but not yet. A place where Maya's big dreams could sprawl.

He stood back when it was done, undid his toolbelt and wiped the sweat from his brow. Finally over.

Then came the gallop of footsteps. A shrill squeal that yanked a smile on Joel's face. That fast Maya rhythm of joy in motion.

She came soaring down the hall, freshly pajamaed, her whole little body warm from the bath, curls still dripping. She barreled into the doorway, saw it—and stopped cold.

For half a heartbeat, she just stood there, eyes wide, blinking like she couldn’t quite believe it was real.

Then she launched herself forward, airborne for a good second.

“So biiiig!” she shrieked, arms flung out like she was leaping into the stars themselves. Her little body landed belly-first on the bed, and she kicked her legs so hard the blanket wrinkled under her.

Joel crouched beside her, a grin pulled helplessly across his face. “Like it?”

She giggled—natural, full-bellied joy—rolled over till only her eyes peeked above the blanket, dark and gleaming.

Behind him, soft footsteps trudged forward. He felt Leela before she touched him, slid an arm across his back, and her palm found the place between his shoulder blades that always ached after a long day. Now he could feel the new depression of the ring.

They stood side by side in the doorframe, married now in name and blood and every hard-won mile between.

Joel cleared his throat to tell her, “I didn’t want her feelin’ left out. What with the ring, and the fuss, and all that attention on us.” He glanced at Leela, eyes crinkling. “She’s part of this, too.”

Leela smiled. “Such a good dad.”

Joel shook his head, his heart almost leaping ahead of his body. “Tryin’ every day.”

She turned his hand over and pressed a kiss to the scarred knuckles, and he let her.

“Are you happy?” she asked, eyes suddenly worlds deep.

He did not overthink a thing. He simply nodded and pulled her close by the waist, his hand curling around the dip of her hip.

“Yeah. Piece of cake.”

Not at the least. It wasn’t the building—that part came easy, muscle memory, comfort. No, the hard part was what it implied. The bed, the dreams woven on her blanket, the way her legs already stretched longer than he remembered.

She was growing up. And there’d come a day—not too far off, but someday—when she wouldn’t need him crouched beside her like this. She wouldn’t ask or even think to.

“Daddy.”

Maya, wrapped up tight, her blanket pulled to her nose, was peeking over the edge of the pillow. She beckoned him close with one small finger.

He knelt and leaned in, brows raised, the stiffness in his knees forgotten. “What?”

She cupped her hand to his ear like she was telling a secret meant only for him.

“Stay next to me.”

He hung his head, a laugh escaping his chest. Wrecked, helpless. Then laid a kiss against her forehead. “How’m I supposed to say no to that?”

Leela did not need any other words out there. She only breathed out a sigh, pushed one last kiss to the top of his head, whispering, “Honeymoon in your Maranello later?”

“Be right there, Mrs Miller.”

She smiled—soft, crooked—and twisted her fingers briefly through his, letting them linger just a second longer than needed before she slipped away, the door shunting close behind her.

Soon, Joel kicked off his boots with a grunt, untucking his shirt, one hand steadying himself against the bed frame like an old man—because that’s what he was now, wasn’t he?—and eased himself down onto the mattress with an exaggerated sigh.

Maya giggled immediately.

She climbed over him, a tangle of knees and elbows and warm limbs, and flopped herself down right on his chest. Her head landed just over his heart, curls still damp from her bath, smelling like soap and sleeptime.

“Oof,” Joel grunted, eyes squeezed shut. “Watch them knees, darlin’. Too sharp.”

“You’re loud,” she said, poking his chest once with a tiny finger.

Joel cracked one eye open. “Yeah? What’s loud?”

She poked him again, right over his heartbeat. “This. It’s tryna come out.”

He chuckled, his hand instinctively resting on her back, palm spanning nearly the whole width of her.

Joel blinked, amused. “Is it sayin’ your name?”

“No, sayin’ d-duh, d-duh, d-duh.”

She didn’t quite understand. But maybe she did, in her own way—some simple, three-year-old truth that needed no translation.

“I catch it, Daddy,” she whispered, a promise.

He snorted softly, overwhelmed. “You gonna catch my heart?”

She nodded, solemn. “Mhm. If it falls out. I’ll keep it in my pocket. Fix it for you.”

He smiled through it, blinking past the sting in his eyes. “Don’t think even you could fix that busted old thing.”

“I can!” she insisted, frowning, her brow furrowed in that stubborn, Leela-like way. She believed it—with all the might in her small body.

He swallowed. “If you say so.”

Undeterred, she snuggled in tighter. “An’ if it really won’t start,” she added, mumbling into his shirt, “I’ll just build a shiny new one.”

Mama’s girl—whichever way he looked at it. Joel's breath hitched in his throat; his little girl had no idea what she was doing to him. The way she said it—so certain, like love alone could will a heart back to life.

“Doesn’t work that way, baby,” he murmured, threaded with old grief or maybe it was just love. At this point, he wasn’t sure there was a difference. “Hearts… they don’t come back.”

“Aw, man,” she moaned, clearly displeased with the rules of the universe. But he could feel those fast, tiny gears in her head moving—the way her body stilled, how her breath slowed, how her fingers moved slowly over the fabric of his shirt, like she was tracing the beat beneath it.

Then, gently, he spoke into her hair, the words coming slowly, like they were carved in a place deep inside him.

“You listen to me now, baby girl.”

She was quiet a moment longer, as though something in her knew this wasn’t just a bedtime talk. “Mhm?”

“This world’s gonna ask a lot of you someday,” he went on, rough-edged. “More than it ought to. And I won’t always be here to help you or Mama through it.”

His words weren’t just for her. They were for himself, for Leela, for everything he couldn’t put back the way it was. He knew he wouldn’t always be around—not forever. The thought clawed at him with indelible talons, but it didn’t scare him like it used to. Not if Maya was the one left holding what mattered.

“And Mama…” His voice drifted, caught for a second. His hand cradled her head. “Mama’s got this big, loud heart that feels everything. She feels things real deep, even when she doesn’t say so. So I need you to help me, alright?”

She stirred, just a little, but kept her cheek pressed close to him. “Okay. I help you.”

He kissed her curls. “I need you to look after Mama’s heart. Help her stay soft.”

She blinked up at him, big eyes all confused. “But I’m little.”

“I know,” Joel smiled gently, brushing her hair back. “That’s what makes you special. You see things big people miss.”

Maya thought about that for a second, humming, her nose scrunching. “Like… when she hugs me ‘cause she’s sad?”

Joel let out a soft laugh. “Exactly like that.”

Maya’s little palm slid up his chest and curled into his shirt, right over his heart, like she was trying to hold it still.

He nodded, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You guard it, baby. You be the one who sees her.”

He didn’t say the rest—not out loud. That death was inevitable. That the years would pass, fast and unkind. That he’d already wasted too many of them learning too late how to love this hard. But maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t missed his chance to leave behind what mattered.

Not if Maya remembered. Not if she held it—his heart, Leela’s, the thread between them all—with her fierce little hands.

Soft and sacred, his promise spoke one of her own.

“I will,” Maya murmured. “I see. I see you and Mama. I... take care.”

And it wasn’t just a bare sentence—it was unassailable. It was hers, his daughter's. The way she said it, Joel knew she meant it the way only a child can: with her whole self.

Joel closed his eyes, his arms wrapping fully around her now, one hand spread protectively over her back as though he could shield her from everything—even time. That instinct—the one that had been knotted for years, held in a fist so tight it forgot how to let go—finally eased.

Whatever else came next—whatever stretch he had left, however his story ended—this moment was the limit.

And before long, he let his heart rest.

X

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“”

[preventthefuture]

In 1966, an elderly woman made a record.

[rosalie-starfall]

The ever growing Hahnverse

Crossing Jordan

How to lose a guy in 10 days

Anchorman

Step Brothers

Free Agents

Parks and Recreation

Wanderlust

Afternoon Delight

We're the Millers

She's funny that way

This is where I leave you

Bad Moms

I Love D*ck

Bad Moms Christmas

Transparent

Mrs. Fletcher

Wandavision

Glass Onion

Tiny Beautiful Things

Agatha All Along

The Studio

[joelsrose]

Dark Matter

i haven't written reed before but here we go! i hope yall enjoy xx

warnings: fingering, age gap? (reader is mid 20's), cheating (sorry sue), power-dynamic, semi-public

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

You walked into the lab the same way you always did—quietly, carefully, your notebook hugged to your chest like a shield, pages dog-eared and smudged with graphite, filled with half-solved equations, theoretical scribbles, and tiny margin doodles of molecules and stars.

The click of your heeled boots echoed off the cold, polished floor, a sound that somehow felt too loud in the stillness of the room. The air inside was always a little too cold, like the whole space was suspended in a vacuum—untouched by the warmth of human hands—but you liked it that way. It made you feel sharp, focused. Like anything could happen here. Like everything already had.

It had been exactly seven days since you started your internship under Mr. Richards—or Reed, as he’d insisted you call him on the very first day, his tone polite but firm, eyes flickering to yours with something unreadable when you stammered out “Dr. Richards” instead. The man was brilliant. Obviously. He was also deeply intimidating in the way only truly intelligent people could be—effortlessly so, like he didn’t notice the way the rest of the world bent around his mind.

He wasn’t cruel, not at all, but there was something about him that made your pulse skip whenever he turned to you with a question, something about the way he spoke in low, thoughtful tones, his hands always busy with some piece of machinery or scribbling formulas on the glass board like his thoughts couldn’t be contained by paper.

You’d been selected from a pool of thousands—won the LUMINA International Science Initiative, a fellowship that granted a single spot, once a year, to shadow one of the world’s leading innovators.

You never expected to get it. You’d submitted your proposal last-minute, half-convinced it was too ambitious, too naive. But something about it must’ve caught their attention—maybe your hypothesis on temporal field distortions, maybe the way you phrased it like a love letter to curiosity itself. Either way, it landed you here, standing just inside the threshold of the Baxter Building’s most secured lab, wearing your best skirt and your favorite boots, heart thudding in your chest like a metronome gone mad.

You adjusted your grip on your notebook and cleared your throat softly, the sound swallowed by the lab’s cavernous quiet. “Morning,” you offered, voice smaller than you meant, eyes sweeping the room for him—half-hoping he wasn’t here yet, half-hoping he was.

From behind one of the massive monitors, you heard the gentle clink of metal, followed by a low voice.

“You’re early.”

You turned and there he was, sleeves rolled to his forearms, collarbone peeking where his lab coat had come undone. His hair was tousled, like he’d been up for hours already, running his hands through it between equations. There was graphite smudged on his wrist, and a faint streak of oil down one thumb, and somehow that made him look even more untouchable. He glanced over his shoulder at you, then down at your notebook.

“More scribbles?” he asked, one corner of his mouth lifting—not quite a smile, but close enough to make your chest flutter.

You nodded, holding it out. “A few questions from last night. I kept thinking about the energy dispersion curve in the 5-D field model, and—well. It didn’t make sense that it plateaued. Not at those values.”

He took the notebook, flipping through the pages like he was reading a novel written in his own handwriting, then looked up at you with a sliver of something warmer in his gaze.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I think you might be the first person to ever challenge that curve. Everyone else just accepted it.”

You blinked. “Oh. I—didn’t mean to be... disrespectful or anything.”

“You weren’t.” He looked back at the page, his brow furrowing like he was genuinely considering your notes. “You’re just... asking the right questions.”

And the way he said that—asking the right questions—it made your cheeks heat, made your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag like you were suddenly fifteen again, flustered and awkward and unsure of what to say next, even though you were here because you belonged here, even though you were brilliant in your own quiet way.

He glanced at you again, slower this time, eyes scanning your face like he was watching a theory unfold in real time, and said, “Let’s run it. See if you’re right.” Just like that, like it was nothing, like it didn’t mean the world.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

Hours passed, though you barely noticed them. What started as a single equation quickly unraveled into an entire evening of hypotheses and recalibrations, the two of you moving around each other in this strange, quiet rhythm—typing, adjusting, scribbling, calculating, retrying, failing, fixing, retrying again.

The room had fallen into that kind of sacred stillness where every noise felt sharper—the whir of machines, the scratch of pencils, the occasional creak of the stool beneath you. Every time a result came back wrong, you’d lean in beside him and try again. Every time it came back right, your shoulders would touch, just barely, and you’d both say nothing.

And then it happened again—casual, effortless—Reed stretched.

This time, to grab his phone from across the room without moving from his chair, his arm extending impossibly far and elegant, fingers curling around the device with that same practiced ease, like it was just another part of his body responding to his mind. You watched it happen with that same quiet awe you always did, eyes following the length of his arm as it retracted, as he settled back into himself like it hadn’t been strange at all, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t even the stretch itself, not really—it was the nonchalance, the way he didn’t even think about it. But you did. You thought about it too much.

You were still thinking about it when he glanced at his screen, a quiet frown flickering across his face.

“It’s eight already,” he murmured, thumbing through a text. “We’ve been here all day.”

You blinked, surprised by the time, and then watched as his expression shifted—something soft and faintly guilty tugging at the edge of his mouth as he read whatever had been sent to him.

“Sue made dinner,” he said after a beat, sighing, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand like he hadn’t sat down for a proper meal in days. “Guess I should…”

He trailed off as he stood, the chair sliding back with a scrape, and something in your chest twisted—tight and unexpected. Not sharp enough to hurt, but deep enough to notice.

You weren’t sure if it was jealousy, exactly, but there was something inside you that ached a little at the thought of him leaving. At the thought of him sitting across from someone else, in a warm apartment somewhere above the city, eating food someone else had made for him, laughing over things that had nothing to do with lab results or radiation curves or the way your hands always trembled just slightly when he got too close.

You didn’t realize you were staring until he glanced back at you with one brow arched, curious, amused, his coat slung half over his arm and a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Something wrong?” he asked, voice low and too steady, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear you say it.

“No,” you said quickly, too quickly, the word tripping over itself on your tongue. “No, nothing.”

He looked at you for a long second, long enough that your skin prickled under the weight of it, his eyes steady and a little too knowing, like he could see past your flustered expression and straight into the chaos of your thoughts. Then—he chuckled, soft and brief, like the sound had slipped out before he could stop it, low and warm and close enough to make your pulse stutter.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly, not in disapproval, but something more bemused—like he found you endlessly curious and had all the time in the world to figure you out.

You ducked your head, the heat rising in your cheeks again, blooming in a flush that you tried to suppress with a tight little smile, your fingers worrying the corner of your notebook as though it could ground you, steady you, hide the fact that your heart was now pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears.

Then his voice came again, low and coaxing, that soft velvet drawl of someone deeply used to being the smartest man in the room—“Come on,” he said, “what’s going on in that brilliant mind?”

And you should’ve lied. You should’ve laughed it off, said something safe, something neutral, something clever and unassuming and appropriately scientific. But your brain had been wandering all week—had been drifting there over and over again, uninvited, unwelcome, inappropriate, gnawing at the edges of your curiosity in the quiet moments between experiments.

You’d tried not to think about it, tried not to let your gaze linger when he stretched, tried not to imagine what else could stretch, how far, how much, how deeply.

And somehow—somehow—it slipped out of your mouth before your brain had a chance to intercept it, just a whisper of a thought spoken aloud, soft and breathless and too curious to be innocent.

“Does everything stretch?”

The silence that followed was instant and absolute.

You heard it in the way the machines kept humming but your breath caught.

You felt it in the way Reed’s eyes snapped to yours, too quickly, like he wasn’t expecting that.

And you saw it—oh, you saw it—in the way he froze, the way the lines at the corners of his mouth shifted, lips parting slightly like he was about to speak but couldn’t quite remember how.

Your eyes widened almost immediately, your whole body locking in mortified horror, hands flying up to your face as if that could undo what you’d just said, as if that could pull the words back into your throat and shove them into the void where they belonged.

“Oh my God—I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that, I swear—I swear, it was just—I was talking about your arm, I mean your body—not your—oh God, not your body body, I meant your abilities, like biologically—scientifically—I’m so sorry—”

You were rambling now, barely breathing between the words, voice growing higher and faster with every sentence, and he was still just looking at you, still absolutely silent, like you’d short-circuited him and he was trying not to let it show. His expression hadn’t changed much—but his eyes were different now, darker maybe, or maybe just sharper, like a wire had pulled taut somewhere beneath his usually-calm exterior.

Then—finally—he blinked.

And his mouth twitched.

Not a smirk. Not quite. But close. Very, very close.

“Everything?” he echoed softly, voice rough around the edges like it had dropped an octave without permission.

You wanted to melt through the floor.

“Forget I said anything,” you mumbled, practically squeaked, your hands halfway up your face now, notebook clutched uselessly against your chest like a shield made of paper and shame.

But he didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just looked at you for another long moment, like he was tucking the question away in some private drawer of his mind, like he was considering it—you—carefully.

And then he said, his voice quiet and unreadable. “Some things stretch more than others.”

He said it with the same offhand ease he might’ve used to mention the weather or the results of an equation, as if the words weren’t heavy with meaning, as if they didn’t land like a struck tuning fork in the center of your chest and hum there, low and electric. And then—just like that—he glanced at the time again, slipped his phone into the inside pocket of his coat, his fingers moving with quiet efficiency, and looked toward the door without even a flicker of hesitation in his expression.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, voice smooth and calm, like it had all been nothing—your question, his answer, the unbearable silence that followed—like he hadn’t just reduced you to a trembling, wide-eyed mess with five words and a look you couldn’t quite decipher.

And then he turned and walked out, his footsteps steady and unhurried, as though the entire moment hadn’t happened, as though he hadn’t noticed the way your breath had caught or your lips had parted slightly or the way your fingers had curled around your notebook like you were holding onto it for dear life. The door eased shut behind him with a soft, final click, and the silence that followed felt far too loud, as if the air itself had been holding its breath and now didn’t know what to do with the tension left behind.

You stood there for a moment, completely still, eyes fixed on the door like he might come back—might say something, might clarify or laugh or admit that yes, that had been what you thought it was, that you weren’t imagining the way his gaze had sharpened, the subtle shift in his voice, the pause before he’d answered like he was trying to decide how honest he wanted to be.

But the door stayed shut. The lab was quiet. And your face was burning.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

The next morning, you thought about quitting.

No—worse—you thought about being removed, escorted out of the lab with quiet, professional shame, the faculty committee shaking their heads at the girl who couldn’t keep her thoughts scientific. You’d spent the entire night twisted in sheets and mortification, staring at the ceiling of your tiny dorm room with cheeks that wouldn’t stop burning and hands that kept curling into fists against your pillow, your mind looping the same sentence over and over like a taunt.

Does everything stretch?

It had sounded so much worse in hindsight. In your head, it was a purely biological question—curiosity, theoretical, relevant. But the moment it left your lips, soft and shy and tilted with unintended suggestion, you’d felt the way it landed. The way his eyes had flickered. The way his voice had dropped just a hair lower. The way he’d looked at you after.

And then he walked out like it was nothing.

Which somehow made it worse.

So when you walked into the lab that morning, notebook clutched to your chest like a shield, heart crawling up the back of your throat with every step, you were fully prepared for disaster—for tension, awkwardness, maybe even polite dismissal. But he was already there, of course he was—leaning over one of the central consoles with his sleeves rolled, hair still rumpled from sleep, lips pursed slightly in thought as he ran through some new readout, a mug half-full of black coffee resting near his elbow.

And when he glanced up at you?

Everything was... fine.

He offered you a brief, familiar nod, the same one he always did, and then gestured to a screen without so much as a hint of discomfort, as if the night before had been a dream, as if you hadn’t asked the most humiliating question of your life and then spiraled into a dimension of shame he probably discovered himself.

You blinked, stunned by the ease of it, by the way he moved through the morning without even a trace of tension, without a single flinch. It was—professional. Cordial. Kind.

And strangely, that grounded you.

The day unfolded slowly, then steadily—small victories, clarified hypotheses, new data sets—and your body slowly began to relax into the rhythm you’d started to love, the silent teamwork of minds that trusted each other. And even though he hadn’t said anything beyond the work, even though the stretch of time passed with nothing but research and updates, you caught yourself looking again—watching the way his hands moved, the way he’d lean into the screen, the way he thought so deeply with his whole body, and the way you were beginning to understand him in ways that had nothing to do with science.

It wasn’t until late afternoon, when the sun outside had dipped low enough to cast long gold shadows across the lab floor, that he finally spoke without referencing an equation.

“Sue was asking about you,” he said casually, eyes still on his screen, voice calm as if he didn’t know he’d just sent your stomach tumbling.

You blinked, startled. “Oh?”

He nodded once, the motion subtle. “Think I’ve been talking too much about how smart you are.”

Your breath caught in your throat and then returned all at once in a rush of heat to your face. You looked away, your lips parting slightly as your blush bloomed across your cheeks, creeping down your neck, the words lingering like sunlight on your skin.

“She wants to meet you,” he continued, finally glancing over at you with that steady, unreadable gaze that always made you feel a little exposed, a little unsteady.

“Really?” you asked, blinking up at him, your voice too soft, too unsure. “I—I mean, I’d be honored.”

He chuckled, quiet and amused, and God, it made your heart stutter.

“Tonight?” he asked, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Your lips parted again. “Tonight?” you echoed, because your brain was clearly still catching up.

He tilted his head, expression flickering with something close to amusement. “Unless you’re busy,” he said smoothly. “Or unless you were planning on camping out here all night again, trying to crack the wavefield inversion curve without sleeping or eating—because that does sound like you.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, the sound escaping like a sigh, soft and a little breathless, and he smiled—genuine and rare, the kind that made your knees feel unsteady and your chest warm.

You shook your head, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly too shy to meet his eyes. “No,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not busy.”

“Good,” he said, his smile deepening just slightly. “I’ll see you for dinner then.”

And with that, he turned back to his screen, the moment slipping away like mist, but the warmth of it stayed, curling low and steady in your chest.

You were going to dinner. With Reed Richards. And Sue Storm.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

The Baxter Building stood tall and impossible in the heart of the city, its sleek, glinting frame catching the last of the golden evening light like it had been plucked from some distant future and set gently down in Manhattan.

The security in the lobby had let you through without question, as if they’d been expecting you, as if your name already belonged in the same breath as Reed Richards and Sue Storm, and that thought alone made your stomach twist with something between awe and panic as you stepped into the elevator.

It was silent inside—sterile and smooth, the walls a brushed metal that reflected the softest version of your silhouette back at you, almost dreamlike. You stared at your reflection for a moment, adjusting the bottle of wine you held with both hands, the paper bag crinkling slightly beneath your fingertips.

You’d picked it up on the way here after spending a full thirty minutes in the wine shop pretending to know what pairs with intellectual dinner parties hosted by superheroes. You smoothed the front of your dress—a soft, modest thing that you’d chosen carefully, something that felt like you, but maybe a little prettier, a little more delicate than usual, your lips painted just faintly, enough to make you feel like you were trying without looking like you were trying.

You exhaled slowly, barely noticing the way the elevator glided up without a sound, your heartbeat louder than anything around you. Your thoughts raced, of course they did—what if it was too much? What if you shouldn’t have come? What if he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, that subtle curve of his voice when he said see you at dinner, the glint in his eye, the way his attention had lingered for just a moment too long?

The elevator chimed softly.

The doors opened.

And then— There he was.

Reed stood just inside the threshold, one hand braced casually on the edge of the doorway, the other slipping his phone into his back pocket like he’d only just finished checking something, his sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, collarbone peeking slightly where his top button had been left undone, no tie, no lab coat—just a simple, perfectly tailored shirt that made your brain stutter for half a beat.

His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d run his fingers through it absentmindedly more than once, and there was a tiny streak of ink or maybe graphite on his knuckle that hadn’t been washed off completely.

It was Reed, but not the version of him you’d grown used to seeing in the lab, not the hyper-focused, brilliant blur of intellect you worked beside every day—this Reed looked like he’d been waiting. For you.

His eyes moved over you slowly—once, all the way down and back up again, not rushed, not obvious, but deliberate enough that you felt it everywhere, like heat pressing into the skin of your chest and the backs of your knees, your fingers tightening instinctively around the bottle you were holding.

He didn’t say anything at first, just quirked the corner of his mouth into something halfway between a smirk and a smile, soft but amused, his gaze still lingering just a little too long.

“You clean up well,” he said finally, voice lower than usual, not teasing exactly—more like he was confessing something he hadn’t meant to say aloud.

Your mouth parted slightly, but your voice caught, and when you finally managed to speak, it came out soft and a little breathless. “I—brought wine.”

He glanced down at the bottle, then back at you, his smile deepening just enough to make your heart skip. “Dangerously overqualified,” he murmured, stepping back to let you in. “Smart and thoughtful. Sue’s going to love you.”

You stepped past him into the apartment, the warmth of the space wrapping around you instantly, the scent of dinner and city lights and him curling at the edge of your senses, and even as you tried to focus on your breathing, on your posture, on not tripping in your kitten heels, you could still feel the echo of his eyes on your skin, like he hadn’t really stopped looking.

The apartment unfolded around you like a page in some impossibly curated design magazine, only softer, warmer, more lived-in than anything artificial—clean, modern lines met rich textures, brushed steel softened by warm walnut floors and deep navy accents that glowed golden under the cascade of low, amber-hued lighting.

One entire wall was glass, and beyond it, the Manhattan skyline burned softly against the horizon, city lights just starting to glitter like distant stars, and even the air inside smelled expensive and comforting—like slow-cooked herbs and something faintly sweet.

You were still catching your breath, still clutching the wine like a lifeline, when you heard a voice float in from down the hall—clear, warm, and unmistakably female.

“There she is.”

Sue Storm walked into view like she had been sculpted from light itself—tall and impossibly graceful, wrapped in soft neutral fabrics that draped just right, her golden hair falling in loose waves that framed her face perfectly, her eyes a crystalline blue that held a kind of sharpness you immediately respected.

She was breathtaking, in that way women are when they know who they are, and the moment she looked at you, her whole expression softened with something kind and curious and real.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said with a small smile, her voice smooth like honey stirred into tea, her gaze never once breaking from yours.

“Hi,” you breathed, the word escaping before you could shape it into anything more eloquent. “It’s such an honor to meet you.”

She waved you off with a flick of her manicured fingers, as if the formality embarrassed her. “Please,” she said with a light laugh, stepping closer. “The way my husband talks about you? I’m the one who’s honored.”

And you blushed so hard you felt it in your ears, your whole body warming beneath the soft light, fingers tightening just slightly around the neck of the bottle as you dipped your head in modest disbelief, not quite sure if you should laugh or hide.

Reed, who had stepped away to adjust the music or maybe just give you a moment, said nothing, but you felt the weight of his glance again—the quiet satisfaction in the corners of his mouth like this was exactly what he wanted: you here, now, nervous but luminous, admired and welcomed.

“Come in,” Sue insisted gently, her hand brushing your arm in a way that grounded you immediately. “Dinner’s almost ready. I made way too much food—he said you don’t eat much, but I never trust him when he says that. He’s never once finished a plate himself.”

You smiled, heart still beating a little too fast, and followed her deeper into the space, the sound of your shoes soft against the hardwood, the city glowing quietly beyond the windows as if watching you take your first steps into something bigger than an internship—something warmer, more dangerous, and far more personal.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

Dinner was lovely—elegant but warm, the kind of meal that felt intimate without trying, served at a long polished table that glowed honey-gold under the overhead lights, the city sparkling just beyond the glass like a living mural.

You sat across from them, Reed to your left, Sue across from you, and despite the tight coil of nerves you’d carried into the evening, it was… comfortable.

Sue had a way of making you feel like you belonged, like you weren’t just a guest in the home of two of the most brilliant minds on the planet, but someone worth sitting at their table, someone they genuinely wanted to know.

You found yourself watching them more than you meant to—Sue leaning toward him with quiet laughter, Reed murmuring something back without looking up from his wine glass, the two of them moving in the kind of rhythm that only came from years of intimacy and quiet understanding. And still, as you watched them, something bloomed low and warm in your stomach—not jealousy, exactly, but a kind of quiet ache, a fascination that hummed beneath your skin, a longing that had less to do with their relationship and more to do with him.

You were still chasing the thread of that thought when Sue turned to you again, eyes bright with interest.

“So,” she said, “how did you get interested in all of this?”

You blinked, startled out of your reverie, and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear with a shy smile. “Well,” you began softly, glancing down at your plate before meeting her gaze again, “ever since I was a kid, I just… I always wanted to understand how the world worked. The math, the movement, the rules. I remember watching the stars and thinking—that’s what I want to learn. That’s what I want to be part of.”

Sue offered you a warm smile, nodding in that gentle, encouraging way that made you feel like your words mattered, like they weren’t small or naïve or too eager. “Well,” she said, “it’s always nice seeing young people interested in this kind of work—especially a fellow…” she paused, grinning as she reached for her glass, “…girl genius.”

You laughed softly, cheeks warm, about to reply with something awkward and grateful and probably too modest—when it happened.

You felt it.

Unmistakable.

A hand. Large, warm, and undeniably real, sliding gently across your thigh under the table.

Your heart stopped. Your breath caught somewhere high in your chest, your eyes flickering toward Reed so quickly you barely caught Sue sipping her wine across from you. But he didn’t look at you—not exactly. His gaze remained calm and forward, his profile composed and entirely unreadable as he took a slow sip of his wine and then glanced up at Sue, his hand still resting firmly on your leg.

“She’s brilliant,” he said casually, his voice smooth and even, like he was commenting on the weather, like he wasn’t currently touching you from across the table while sitting next to his wife.

You sat frozen, pulse thundering in your ears, body rigid but electrified, your fingers tightening ever so slightly around the stem of your glass as you tried to focus, to breathe, to not move.

“She corrected me the other day about a flux equation I wrote in ’04,” he continued, eyes finally drifting to meet yours—and holding there, steady and direct, a silent dare written behind his calm expression. “She was right, too.”

Sue laughed, clearly delighted. “Good. God knows someone needs to keep you in check.”

You could barely hear her. Could barely focus on anything except the heat of Reed’s hand, the way it pressed gently into the top of your thigh, just enough to let you know it was real, just enough to make your stomach twist with something hot and shivery and shamefully thrilling.

And then—his hand moved.

Not in that subtle, polite way you might’ve been able to ignore or convince yourself had been some kind of misunderstanding, not a graze or a twitch or something incidental—but deliberate, slow, intentional, his palm sliding higher, slipping beneath the hem of your dress in a single fluid motion that felt so impossibly confident it made your entire body lock up at once.

The heat of his skin against your thigh stole the breath from your lungs, and when his fingers skimmed the delicate edge of your underwear, just barely brushing the fabric, you felt your heart climb straight into your throat and stay there.

You almost choked on your wine.

The glass halted halfway to your lips, your hands trembling just enough for the crystal to click against your teeth, and you let out a strange, stifled sound—half gasp, half cough—your eyes wide, your posture going ramrod straight as you struggled to swallow the panic and arousal crawling up your spine in tandem.

“You alright?” Sue asked gently, glancing up from her plate with concern etched between her brows, the picture of warmth and kindness and everything undeserving of what was happening beneath her dinner table.

“Yes,” you stammered, too quickly, the syllable snapping out of your mouth like it had been fired from a slingshot, your cheeks flushed a deep, telltale red as you nodded a little too hard. “I’m fine. Just—went down the wrong way.”

Across from you, Reed glanced up from his glass at the sound of your voice, his expression calm—no, worse than calm—amused, like he was enjoying watching you fall apart in real time, like he was studying the way you squirmed and flushed and fidgeted with quiet, academic satisfaction. His fingers moved—barely a shift, just enough to press the pad of his thumb along the inside of your thigh, skimming the thin lace of your panties with a featherlight drag that made your vision blur for a moment, your teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek to stop a sound from escaping.

Sue kept talking, mercifully, unaware of the silent war happening beneath the table, and you tried to nod along, tried to pretend you were still following the story she was telling about something at the foundation gala last week, but Reed’s hand was still moving—so slowly, so wickedly gentle, fingers drifting along the edge of the fabric like he was memorizing it, teasing it, learning every soft line of you with nothing more than a ghost of touch and that insufferable, unreadable look in his eyes.

You were blushing so fiercely now you were sure it had reached your chest, heat blooming down your neck like a fever, your knees squeezing together reflexively beneath the table as your breathing turned shallow, chest rising and falling in a way that did not feel casual anymore.

“Are you hot, honey?” Sue asked suddenly, concern returning to her voice, her eyes flickering to your cheeks. “A house full of so-called geniuses and we still haven’t figured out how to fix the aircon properly. I’ll be back—I’ll check the thermostat.”

And before you could answer—before you could find any response at all—she stood, placing her napkin neatly beside her plate and disappearing down the hall with a rustle of fabric and the click of her heels.

The door hadn’t even shut all the way before Reed finally spoke, low and calm and just for you, his fingers still resting against the soft, soaked curve of you beneath your panties.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, voice a dark, honey-dipped whisper that sent shivers straight through your bones. “Don’t stop now.”

“Reed—” you stammered, your voice cracking under the strain of your own name trembling on your lips, barely more than a whisper, a breath caught halfway between panic and disbelief, your thighs squeezing together out of instinct, out of desperation, out of need you didn’t yet know how to name. “What are you—”

He didn’t lean in.

He didn’t move closer.

He didn’t even blink.

He simply sat there, on the opposite side of the table, one elbow resting near his wine glass, the other arm subtly stretched beneath the surface like a quiet secret unraveling in the dark, and his voice, when it came, was soft and low and steady.

“Tell me to stop.”

And as he said it—calm, impossible, infuriatingly composed—you felt it: the cool air against your skin, your panties slipping down your thighs with a slow, torturous grace, peeled away by a hand that wasn’t even near you, stretched from across the table, precise and gentle and unspeakably brazen. The fabric caught just slightly at your knees before his fingers nudged it past, and you sat there frozen, wide-eyed, red-faced, with your dress pooled neatly over your lap and nothing beneath it now but heat and humiliation and the thundering pulse between your legs.

“Reed—” you breathed again, barely able to shape the word, and his gaze met yours in that maddening, quiet way—no urgency, no shame, only that still, measured calm that made your insides tremble, as if he was watching a reaction unfold under glass.

And then—

Sue's heels clicked softly on the polished floor as she entered the room again, moving with that effortless, elegant grace as she crossed behind you and returned to her seat.

“That should fix it,” she said lightly as she sat, her smile warm and unbothered, her tone casual as if nothing had changed in the few moments she’d been gone.

You turned toward her, your face flaming, your smile shaky and paper-thin as you tried to find your voice again, tried to stitch together whatever pieces of yourself hadn’t yet dissolved under Reed’s hand, which now rested high on your bare thigh like it belonged there.

“Thank you,” you managed softly, the words nearly catching on the breath that refused to sit still in your chest, and somehow, impossibly, you held her gaze.

And across from you, Reed Richards—calm, brilliant, monstrous in his control—simply took another sip of wine.

You tried to focus, truly you did—on Sue, on her words, on the soft clinking of silverware and the gentle thrum of jazz somewhere in the background—but all of it became nothing more than a blur of light and noise the moment his fingers moved again, slow and purposeful, the stretch of his arm impossibly seamless beneath the table, as if he could command every tendon, every muscle, with surgical precision.

He didn’t even shift in his seat, didn’t look down, didn’t so much as twitch, and yet—you felt him, truly felt him now, his fingers slipping between your thighs with exquisite control, brushing over your bare, trembling core with a deliberate slowness that made you forget how to hold your breath steady.

And then—he pushed.

Just one finger at first, and it was too much, because it was him, because it was stretched impossibly long and thick, curling up with inhuman ease, reaching deeper than anyone had ever dared, pressing into you like he already knew exactly where to go, what you needed, like he’d studied your anatomy and had all the answers memorized.

Your thighs tightened automatically, knees trembling under the weight of holding in a sound you very nearly let out, and your hands clenched into your lap, the wine glass beside you forgotten, your whole body alight with the unbearable tension of being touched like this—open, pulsing, absolutely undone—and doing nothing about it.

And then—

“Why don’t you explain to Sue what we went over the other day,” Reed said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just buried his finger inside you under the dinner table, as if he wasn’t slowly crooking it up to find that sweet, aching spot that made your stomach twist and your eyes nearly flutter shut.

You froze.

“What?” you whispered, blinking at him.

He offered a slight tilt of his head, his eyes resting on yours with a look of calm expectation—amusement, even—and then shifted his gaze to Sue, who was looking at you with the kindest, most open smile, entirely oblivious.

“The resonance collapse formula,” Reed said helpfully, voice steady. “She corrected one of my assumptions about it earlier this week. She’s sharper than she lets on.”

He curled his finger again.

And it took everything in you not to cry out.

You blinked rapidly, your lips parting around a breath that wasn’t quite a word, trying to remember the theory, the math, the basic principles of language, but all you could feel was the stretch inside you, the thick, gentle press of him moving in slow, unrelenting circles, coaxing you open without haste, without apology, without shame.

“I—” you started, your voice embarrassingly thin, “we—uh, we talked about—about the resonance curve failing at the threshold of—”

He added a second finger.

Your breath caught so hard you coughed, the burn of it tight in your chest, and you reached for your water like it might ground you, like the coolness of the glass could balance out the unbearable heat pulsing between your legs.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Sue asked again, concerned.

You forced a smile, shaking your head quickly, eyes wet with the effort to look normal, to act normal, when Reed’s fingers were pushing deeper now, stretching you in a way that was obscene, careful, perfect, and somehow managing to keep the rhythm slow and steady, barely moving, just enough to make you drip helplessly onto his knuckles under the table while you tried to describe a physics principle with your body unraveling second by second.

“I’m okay,” you managed to whisper, voice too soft, too high.

Reed’s thumb brushed upward. You jolted. He smiled—just slightly.

“You were saying?” he asked gently.

You wanted to cry. Or scream. Or crawl under the table and never come out.

Instead, you looked up, cheeks flushed, throat tight, and murmured, “We adjusted the decay rate curve based on the harmonic threshold failing beyond point-six-three, and—and recalibrated the control conditions to reflect a more dynamic waveform—”

His fingers pressed up, deep, and you gasped—but you made it sound like awe, like wonder.

Sue beamed at you. “That’s amazing.”

You blinked, barely nodding, and Reed—still untouched himself, still seated like a man entirely at ease—just gave you the faintest smile across the table, like he was proud of you. Like you had passed some unspeakable test.

You weren’t sure when it changed—when Reed’s fingers, once so slow and exploratory, shifted their rhythm, no longer teasing but deliberate, their movement suddenly quickening beneath the tablecloth, each stroke firmer, deeper, more precise, curling up into that one devastating place inside you with the kind of methodical expertise that only a man like him could possess.

His thumb pressed again and again against your swollen clit in quiet, unrelenting circles, and it was obscene, unbelievably obscene, because he was still sitting across from you, back straight, shoulders calm, expression thoughtful and polite as Sue continued her story—talking about an ambassador, or a charity gala, or maybe a speech she gave—and you couldn’t hear a single word of it.

Because you were about to come.

Right there. At their dinner table.

Your thighs were trembling beneath the fabric of your dress, your body pulled taut like a string about to snap, nerves alight and burning in every limb, and you could feel it rising, fast and hot, building in your belly like a storm, spreading up through your spine with every practiced motion of his hand—stretched from across the table, long and dexterous and hidden beneath the soft, quiet clink of silverware.

You were soaked, dripping, pulsing around his fingers, and he knew. Of course he knew. He could feel every flutter, every desperate little squeeze your body gave him, and when he looked at you—really looked at you—his eyes burned with a satisfaction so soft it felt like praise.

You tried to hold it back. God, you tried. Your nails dug into the fabric of your skirt, your breathing shallow and uneven, your lashes fluttering as you ducked your head and bit into the back of your hand, trying to hide the sound, trying to bury the moan that threatened to rip itself from your throat. You were right on the edge, hovering there, helpless, when—

DING!

The sound of the oven’s timer rang out sharply through the kitchen, perfectly, cruelly timed—at the exact second you broke apart, your body shuddering around his fingers as the climax hit you so hard and fast you saw stars behind your eyes. You muffled the moan with your hand, trembling violently in your chair as you faked a cough so sharp it made Sue look up, concerned, just as she was standing to go check the dessert.

“Poor thing,” she said sweetly, already halfway out of the room, completely unaware of what had just happened right beneath her nose. “Let me go grab the cobbler—Reed, didn’t I tell you to turn on the vent fan for the oven? It smells like caramelized sugar in here.”

You barely managed to nod, your breath still stuttering in your chest, the taste of your own bitten-down moan lingering in your mouth like smoke, your vision wet and dizzy as you tried to collect yourself—but it was impossible, completely impossible, because Reed was still watching you, still calm, still composed, still seated like nothing had happened at all, as though his fingers hadn’t just coaxed your orgasm from you with the kind of precision that only a man with endless patience and supernatural reach could possess.

And then—he moved.

His hand, the one he had just pulled back from beneath your dress, rose slowly from beneath the table, casual, unhurried, and with the sort of smooth detachment that made your blood run hot all over again. You watched—helpless, horrified, entranced—as he brought his fingers to his mouth, his expression unreadable but his gaze never leaving yours, and then—

He licked them.

Just the tips. Just a quiet, deliberate motion—his tongue flicking out to drag across the pads of his fingers with unbearable slowness, like a man tasting something rare and sacred, like someone who savored knowledge, savored reactions, savored you—and your breath caught so hard it made your throat ache, your hands clenched in your lap, body still trembling beneath the table.

And that was the exact moment Sue walked back in.

The tray in her hands held a golden, bubbling dish still steaming at the edges, a pitcher of vanilla sauce tucked beside it, and she moved with the same easy grace she always had, placing the dish gently in the center of the table as the scent of caramelized fruit and butter filled the space.

“Was the sauce that good?” she asked with a light laugh, glancing over just in time to see her husband finishing his little motion, his fingers slipping from his mouth like it was nothing at all. “You just licked your fingers like you hadn’t eaten in days.”

Your entire body tensed.

Reed—calm, collected, horrifyingly composed—didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He simply tilted his head toward her, then turned back to you, his eyes locking with yours across the table, his gaze heavy with meaning, with memory, with the weight of what he’d just done to you, and said, without a flicker of shame—

“Delicious.”

Your stomach dropped. Your cheeks flamed. You looked away instantly, your eyes darting toward your lap, toward your empty plate, toward anywhere that wasn’t him, your skin hot and crawling with mortification, your thighs pressed tight together under the table, still slick and tender and sensitive as hell, and now—now you had to eat dessert.

With him. With her. With the taste of your orgasm still on his mouth.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

You said your goodbyes to Sue as sweetly and shakily as you could manage, your voice still thin and breathless from the quiet ruin Reed had left you in, the remnants of your orgasm still echoing in your body like a pulse you couldn’t calm, and still—still—you smiled, you nodded, you played the part of the polite, well-mannered girl who had not just come in silence at the dinner table. Sue hugged you lightly at the door, warm and soft and lovely, thanking you for coming and saying how nice it was to meet you, her words kind and sincere, her smile so genuine it made you ache.

“We’ll have to do this again,” she said gently, her voice carrying no suspicion, no awareness, only the comfort of a woman who’d welcomed you into her home and truly meant it.

“It was an honor,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a whisper, eyes lowered, fingers nervously wrapped around the strap of your bag, heart pounding loud and unrelenting in your chest.

Reed appeared behind you then, as if summoned by the rhythm of your exit, and without saying anything, without asking, he moved to walk you out, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back—a simple gesture, one that should’ve been harmless, innocent, but that felt anything but, especially after what those fingers had just done to you beneath a tablecloth in the dim golden light of a family dining room.

The door clicked shut behind the two of you, and the hallway beyond was quiet, cool, and still, a soft hum from the city beyond the glass, but the silence between you buzzed with something thicker, darker, more intimate than you could bear. He said nothing at first, only walked beside you with slow, unhurried steps, like the moment hadn’t already been branded into both your bodies, like he hadn’t watched you fall apart with your hand over your mouth while his wife got dessert.

At the door to the elevator, he stopped, and you turned toward him, still too flustered to meet his eyes, still trying to hold yourself together with trembling fingers and shallow breaths, your lashes lowered as you whispered, “Thank you for… dinner.”

His response came after a pause, his voice smooth, impossibly steady. “You were perfect.”

You froze—eyes flicking up, breath catching—and found him watching you with that same calm, unreadable expression, but there was something beneath it now, something warmer and darker and dangerous, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth that made your knees weaken all over again.

“Good girl,” he added softly, low enough that only you could hear it, and the elevator doors opened behind you with a soft ding, cool air spilling out into the hallway like a breeze that didn’t belong.

You stepped inside on trembling legs, unsure if you remembered how to breathe, and as the doors began to close, you looked back—just once—and there he was, standing exactly as he had before, his hands in his pockets, head tilted ever so slightly, still watching you, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t wait to take apart again.

And when the doors shut fully, sealing you into silence, your hand finally flew to your chest.

Because you had just survived dinner. Barely. And you weren’t sure you’d ever be the same again.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

let me know your thoughtssss

[claraoswalds]

DOCTOR WHO Empire of Death

[fangirlcentral1]

The shirt is making me think of Joel if the outbreak didn't happen. Is this what he'd look like if he didn't experience all that loss?

[andy-15-07]

Infinite Horizons

PAIRING: Reed Richards x reader

WORD COUNT: 1159 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

The Baxter Building hummed with the quiet energy of invention. Fluorescent lights cast a cool glow over the laboratory, where papers, holograms, and whiteboards filled with intricate equations surrounded a single figure.

Reed Richards stood before a towering chalkboard, writing with swift, precise strokes, his mind working at a speed no ordinary person could match. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms dusted with chalk. His dark curls were slightly tousled, and his eyes burned with concentration as he scrawled symbols in a methodical yet fluid rhythm.

You leaned against the doorway, watching him. Admiring him.

There was something about seeing his mind at work that left you breathless. The way his brow furrowed, the way he whispered numbers under his breath, the way his fingers absentmindedly tapped against his chin when he hit a snag in his calculations—it was mesmerizing.

And he hadn’t even noticed you yet.

Smirking, you finally spoke. “You know, Reed, most people don’t spend their Friday nights romancing a chalkboard.”

His hand stilled mid-equation. He turned, his sharp eyes softening the moment they landed on you. “Y/N,” he said, and just like that, the tension in his shoulders eased. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

You stepped forward, arms crossed, head tilted in playful scrutiny. “You were too busy proving the meaning of the universe to notice, Professor Richards.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not quite. Just solving a little problem in quantum instability.”

You raised a brow. “A little problem?”

He turned back to the board and gestured at the dizzying array of symbols. “I’m attempting to stabilize the quantum field distortions in our multiversal gate. Right now, the energy fluctuations are unpredictable. If I can refine the equation, I might be able to prevent spontaneous breaches.”

You stared at the equations, pretending to consider them seriously. “Mmm, yes. Of course. Looks like... numbers.”

Reed laughed—a warm, low sound that made your heart flutter.

“You’re impossible,” he murmured, his fingers brushing over your wrist as he pulled you closer.

“And yet, here you are, madly in love with me,” you teased.

His lips quirked. “Madly.”

Your heart did an embarrassingly giddy flip, but you disguised it with another playful remark. “So, what happens if you don’t solve this equation?”

Reed sighed, running a hand through his curls. “Worst case scenario? Unstable dimensional rifts. Possibly reality imploding. Best case scenario? I get a headache and need coffee.”

You gasped dramatically. “A headache? We’re doomed.”

His eyes twinkled. “Not if you stay here and keep distracting me.”

You smirked but didn’t move away. Instead, you stepped behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek against his back. You felt him exhale, his muscles relaxing under your touch.

“Your brain is my favorite thing,” you murmured. “Well, one of my favorite things.”

His hand covered yours, fingers lacing together. “That’s comforting.”

“What’s the other worst-case scenario?” you asked, tracing lazy circles on the fabric of his shirt.

Reed hesitated, then sighed. “The math isn’t adding up. If I don’t find the missing variable, I can’t stabilize the distortions. Which means—”

“—which means no experimental travel through the multiverse anytime soon,” you finished.

He turned in your arms, facing you fully. “Exactly.”

You studied him for a long moment. “How long have you been at this?”

His silence was telling.

You groaned. “Reed. Have you even eaten today?”

He pressed his lips together in thought. “I had coffee.”

You placed your hands on your hips. “That’s not food.”

He exhaled through his nose, amused. “I was in the zone.”

“You always say that.”

“And it’s always true.”

You rolled your eyes and grabbed his hand. “Come on, genius. You’re taking a break.”

He resisted for half a second before relenting. “Fine,” he murmured. “But only because you’re bossy.”

You smirked. “And because you love me.”

He squeezed your hand. “That too.”

You sat cross-legged on the couch in the lounge, watching Reed as he leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee. The kitchen was bathed in warm, golden light, making him look impossibly soft despite the sharpness of his intellect.

“So,” you started, “what’s the missing variable?”

Reed sighed, rubbing his forehead. “That’s the problem—I don’t know. The math should work, but there’s a fluctuation that keeps throwing it off.”

You tapped your chin. “Couldn’t it be an external factor? Something you haven’t accounted for yet?”

He hummed in thought. “Possibly.”

“Have you considered... I don’t know, the energy signature of whoever’s opening the breaches? Maybe the anomaly isn’t in the math but in the source itself.”

Reed’s eyes widened slightly. “You might be onto something.”

You grinned. “Of course I am. I’m brilliant.”

He smirked, setting his mug down before walking over and placing his hands on either side of your head, trapping you in. “You are. And now, I’m going to need your help.”

Your brows lifted. “My help? In quantum physics?”

Reed grinned. “I need a second set of eyes. Even if they’re skeptical ones.”

You sighed dramatically. “I suppose I could lend my expertise.”

He chuckled and kissed your forehead. “Then let’s get back to work.”

Hours passed as you sat together in the lab, Reed scribbling equations while you sat beside him, offering insights where you could. It was a strange dance—you weren’t a scientist, but Reed valued your perspective. He thrived on discussion, on the challenge of explaining concepts in ways you could understand.

And you? You just loved watching him work. Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, Reed froze.

Your head shot up from where you’d been resting it on your hand. “What? What is it?”

His eyes flickered with realization. “You were right.”

You blinked. “Obviously. But about what?”

He grabbed your shoulders, excitement radiating off him. “The anomaly wasn’t in the equation itself—it was an external force! If I adjust for the unique energy signature of the breaches, the entire system stabilizes!”

You grinned. “I mean, I did suggest that hours ago.”

He shook his head, grinning. “You did. And I was too busy overcomplicating it to listen.”

You leaned closer, whispering, “Say it.

He narrowed his eyes. “Say what?"

“That I was right.”

He sighed dramatically. “Y/N was right.”

You smirked. “And?”

His lips twitched. “And Reed Richards was wrong.”

You gasped. “A historical moment. I need this on record.”

He kissed you before you could gloat further, his lips warm and insistent. You melted into him, savoring the quiet triumph in his touch. When he pulled away, his voice was soft.

“You’re my favorite variable.”

Your heart clenched in the best way. “And you’re my favorite genius.”

Reed exhaled, resting his forehead against yours. “Thank you for keeping me grounded.”

You smiled, fingers brushing through his curls. “And thank you for reaching for the stars.”

And in that moment, with the weight of the universe pressing against him, Reed Richards knew—no equation, no discovery, no multiverse could ever mean more than you.

[missyorkswhore]

I want to be his dumb student

"Oh professor Richards I'm so dumb fuck me over and over until I learn "

[julesispunk]

what do you mean pedro pascal is not my little niche and underground actor anymore and he’s going to star in one of the biggest marvel movies of the last few years and everyone will start to know him and he’s not gonna be mine anymore?

what do you mean????

[starling0rock]

M'SORRY.

NSFW

SUMMARY: You were babysitting Sarah for Joel, as usually, but he came home late and it started to storm. He asked you to stay for dinner by then spilled hot tea on you, so to make it up he uses his mouth and fingers 👄🙏

WARNINGS: Smutt, age gap (not described, but I imagine 20s/40s) cunilingus, fingering, praising, squirting, (idk if this is a warning but reader get tea spilled on her thigh and it burns a bit)

WORD COUNT: 1.7 k

A/N: sweet peas, this is my first one shot, fist Smutt, first time using Tumblr, first everything, k? Please request (if you're able, cuz idk how this singly dangly app works, if you can't do it, just write in the comments🙏🙏) I tried my very best, so enjoy, my lil Joel Miller fuckers💋

Requests that I take:

Pascal and Joel

Sebastian and Bucky

James Hetfield

David Bowie

David Tennant

Johnny Depp

It was late evening, around 11. Mr. Miller still wasn't home so you put Sarah to bed and headed to the kitchen to do some studies. You opened your books and papers, spreading them on the table. The room smelled nice with some coffee, that you made earlier today and some candles that were usually lit for atmosphere. You didn't quite catch the time, that was going fast as you were reading, trying to memories as much as you can, so it started raining and storming outside. You heard as door to the house softly opened with slight creak, and keys being hung on the wall, you turned around to see Mr. Miller that was taking off his boots and hanging a black, damp coat.

"Good evening, Mr. Miller."

"Oh, hey, darling, didn't know you were still here." He said with slightly raspy and quite deep voice.

"Yeah, I didn't want to leave Sarah alone in the house, in case anything happened. But I'm heading home now." You, said as you started to pack your books and papers, and other needed stuff in the backpack.

"Dont worry 'bout it. It's raining, so you can stay, i'll make some dinner, if you don't mind." He offered kindly, as he looked at you with his soft, brown eyes. His arm was on his hip, while he leaned on the counter.

"Mr. Miller, you're being too kind.. it's late, and im sure you would rather go and rest." You answered him politely.

"Now-now, no more 'Mr. Miller' s'just Joel. And I don't mind cooking for a pretty thing, like you." He smiled, his voice was filled with cockiness and teasing.

"Fine, as you say.. Joel." You answered, giving up and chuckling faintly. "What do you have in mind for a dinner?"

"Well.. maybe some cinnamon toasts with tea? How d'ya feel 'bout that, hm?" He asked, preparing a kettle for some tea.

"I don't mind, if anything, I like green tea, two spoons of sugar." You smiled to him.

"Green tea it is." He smiled back and looked at you over his shoulder, then looking back to the kettle. He prepared two mugs, by putting two bags of green tea in each and adding some sugar. When the kettle made sound, telling him the water is boiled, he took it and poured some hot water in the mugs. He turned his body to you, waiting for the tea to be ready.

"How's your day? Was Sarah behaving?" He asked, to fill the silence.

"It was good, thanks. Sarah is really sweet girl, I never have problems with her, today wasn't exception." You confessed

"Oh yeah, she really is, isn't she. She talks a lot about you, seems she really loves you." Joel declared with sweet smile. He looked back at the mugs and added. "Ah, tea is ready."

The man gently took one mug for you, but as soon as he got closer, he slipped on one of Sarahs color pencils and accidentally spilled the hot substance on you. Directly on your lap and abdomen.

"Oh, Ow-Ow-Ow!" You jumped from your seat and the mug broke beneath.

"Shit, darling.. oh are you okay? Be careful, aight? Shh.." He gently wrapped one arm around you, to walk you away from shuttered mug.

"God, I'm really sorry.. let's check if there any burn, okay? M'gonna get you to the couch." He said and led you to the couch, making you to sit.

"I'm so sorry.. does it hurt badly?" He murmured as he kneeled between your legs*

"It's okay.. burns a little." You stated and looked at him. You pulled the wet cloth from your legs, and the one that was on your abdomen.

"Oh, man.. let me check, okay? Just pull your pants down." You blushed at his words, some pervy images flooded your mind, but you tried not to show it, he was righteous man, after all, so you did as he said, slightly moving you hips up, and pulling your sweatpants down. The red stain was clearly visible on your thigh, left from hot liquid, he gently touched it with his finger and you squirmed.

"Poor thing, I'm so sorry.. it'll be alright soon enough, there is nothing serious, alright?" He looked at you, noticing your flushed face. He smirked to himself at such cute sight of you, but didn't moved his hand from your thigh for an inch.

"Mhm." You purred, you couldn't help but notice how strong his arms were and how veiny they are, his fingers were fat and perfect, wondering how full they would make you feel. You noticed him smirking and tried to hide your eyes.

"What's up with that red face, hmm? Is someone enjoying it a little too much?" He teased and moved his hand slightly higher.

"S'nothing." You mumbled, and blushed even more. He looked to the ground.

"Tsk tsk tsk.." Joel chuckled faintly at your reaction.

"Want me to stop, then?" He moved his hand away from your sweet place.

"Mh-mh.." You whined a lil as his hand moved away from the place you wanted it to be.

"Want me to make it up to you, maybe?" He purred leaning his face slightly between your thighs.

"Mhm.." you murmured looking him in the eyes.

"Nah, darling, use your words." He teased even more as his hands were now sliding up and down, and you could feel how calloused they are, and hot on your skin"

"I do.." Words finally came out of your throat. You were shy and embarrassed by such turn in events, but he clearly wasn't. He enjoyed it. He enjoyed seeing you at his mercy.

"Oh baby... Such a poor thing, aren't ya? Mr. Miller spilled hot tea on you, didn't he?etc him make it up to you." He murmured against the sling of your reddened thigh pressing soft kiss to it.

"Bad, bad Mr. Miller." The kisses on your leg grew more open, wet and hungry, your soft gasps only fed his desire. He slowly made his way to your mound. His nose met with the hem of your panties and he slipped the finger under the lacy piece of underwear, teasing soft skin with little hair on it. After you made grumpy noise, he pressed his nose right into your clothed clit, drawing the sweetest moan from you, as his mouth was open on your clothed entrance. He pressed his tounge onto the damp clothing, feeling how you ached and pulsated against it, how much you wanted to feel it inside. Who he was to decline, after such violent event. He quickly pulled your panties aside and instantly covered exposed hole with his warm mouth. You couldnt help, but moan at such action, and burrow your fingers in his, slightly curled, hair.

"Mr. Miller.. please." You begged, and so he pushed his tounge right inside you, tasting you and humming with pleasure. You thighsalmost clenched around his neck and fingers tugged on his curls. He pulled his tounge out only to lick it's way up between your lips, collecting all of your sweet nectar, not wanting any of it to go to waste.

"Such a good girl for me, being all whiny and wet. I bet many boys wanna taste it so bad.. but I'm the only one who did, yeah?" He asked, continuing his maddening sucking on your aching clit. His hand grabbed your thighs, but being careful around the hurt one.

"Y-yeah.." you purr weakly, feeling yourself lost in the ocean of pleasure.

"She is so wet for me, god... I can't help myself." Joel confessed and burried his head deeper into you, one of his hands moves lower to his big, aching bulge, the evidence of his excitement. He palmed himself as he never stopped sucking and feasting on you, like hungry lion that finally find something to eat.

"Fuck, baby...yer s'delicious.." He moaned right into you, his free hand thrust one of his finger inside your core massaging on your walls lightly, while his other hand rubbed himself violently. You couldn't help but moan at his action and feel worshiped, like a goddess.

"J-..Joel..ngah!.." his name slipped from your lips, sending shivers down his spine.

"M'close!" You stated, choking on your words. In response he quickened his movements and fucked you with his fingers, as he wanted the last bits of you, making sure he doesn't have to share with anyone. Just the moment your walls clenched around his fingers, and your fingers grabbed his hair tightly, making sure he doesn't stop, he started to lead you to the complete edge with his fat fdigits hitting all the right spots inside you, curling and moving. When he felt you cumming he instantly removed his fingers, so he could capture more with his mouth, but to his surprise, your legs started to shake vigorously and you squirted all over his face and chest, he was more than happy that it was him, who made you feel like this so he instantly captured your sensetive lips with his and drew all the sweet liquid into his mouth.

"M'sorry.. m'messy" you mumbled closing your eyes with your hand.

"My baby... So sweet for me... You're not messy, nothing to be sorry about." Joel reassured and kissed your puffy vaginal lips again, making out with them sweetly, as you responded with sweet moans. Only when he had enough he moved the cloth of your panties back to its place.

"Such a beautiful girl... Am I forgiven though?.. for spilling the tea on you?" He asked with teasing smirk, leaning his head on your thigh.

"Mhm.. you are.." you smiled to him and he moved away, only to hug you. He gently wiped his mouth with his sleeve and moved you to his lap. He took off your wet t-shirt from tea and his, from your juices, then he pulled you into embrace.

"I'm gonna need to find you some dry clothes.. but not now, 'k?" He ran his hand through your hair, as you burried your face in his neck.

"Mkay.." you responded quietly and snuggled closer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I REALLY DID MY BEST, M SORREY🙏😭

[1999ruth]

“Don't you want to dance, husband?”

- Mrs Afton's a divorce

That's a love story... You don't miss her ghost, do you?

Mrs Afton's wife ( Ballora Lady to ballerinas) by @chloesimaginationthings

Afton's wife in the flashback that is beautiful, my son and daughter left... She has not responded to anything with Mr. Afton to leave and she does not love you, that sad thing has happened 😔💔🩹 I'm not fine a okay okay

Dead a X twitter bye , away back a BlueSky and Instagram to hug 🫂❤️

[millers-girl555]

pedro at the ‘thunderbolts’ premiere!

[fictional-men-enthusiast]

[skyshipper]

"I SAVED HER." PEDRO PASCAL as JOEL MILLER - THE LAST OF US SEASON 2

[abesetacringe]

ok, lied about disappearing, here's a summary of my recent Clara (Mrs. Afton) brainrot because I refuse to stuff her into Ballora in the AU